An hour before dawn Hornblower came out on deck, as he had done every two hours during the night – and every two hours during all the preceding nights as well. It had been a clear night and it was still clear now.
“Wind nor’east by north, sir,” reported Prowse. “St Vincent bearing due north about five leagues.”
A moderate breeze; all sail to the royals could be carried, although the Hotspur was under topsails, stealing along close-hauled on the port tack. Hornblower trained his telescope over the starboard beam, due south, in the direction where Medusa should be, next in line; Hotspur, as befitted her small importance, was the northernmost ship, at the point where it was least likely for the flota to appear. It was not quite light enough yet for Medusa to be visible.
“Mr Foreman, get aloft, if you please, with your signal book.”
Of course every officer and man in Hotspur must be puzzled about this daily routine, this constant surveillance of a single stretch of water. Ingenious minds might even guess the true objective of the squadron. That could not be helped.
“There she is, sir!” said Prowse. “Beating sou’ by west. We’re a little ahead of station.”
“Back the mizzen tops’l, if you please.”
They might be as much as a couple of miles ahead of station – not too unsatisfactory after a long night. It was easy enough to drop back to regain the exact bearing, due north from Medusa.
“Deck, there!” Foreman was hailing from the main-topmast-head. “Medusa’s signalling. ‘Commodore to all ships’.”
Medusa was relaying the signal from Indefatigable out of sight to the southward.
“Wear ship,” went on Foreman. “Course west. Topsails.”
“Mr Cheeseman, kindly acknowledge.”
Cheeseman was the second signal officer, learning his trade as Foreman’s deputy. “Send the hands to the braces, Mr Prowse.”
It must be a gratifying experience for Moore to manoeuvre a line of ships sixty miles long by sending up and hauling down flags.
“Deck!” There was a different tone in Foreman’s voice, not the tone of matter of fact routine. “Sail in sight on the port bow, nearly to windward, sir. Coming down before the wind, fast.”
Hotspur was still waiting for Medusa’s signal to come down to indicate the exact moment to wear.
“What do you make of her, Mr Foreman?”
“She’s a ship of war, sir. She’s a frigate. She looks French to me, sir. She might be the Félicité, sir.”
She might well be the Félicité, coming out from Cadiz. By now word could easily have reached Cadiz regarding the British cordon out at sea. Félicité would come out; she could warn, and divert, the flota, if she could get past the British line. Or she could hang about on the horizon until the flota should appear, and then interfere with the negotiations. Bonaparte could make great play in the Moniteur regarding the heroic French navy coming to the aid of an oppressed neutral fleet. And Félicité’s presence might have great weight in the scale should it come to a fight; a large French frigate and four large Spanish ones against one large British frigate, three small ones, and a sloop.
“I’ll get aloft and have a look at her myself, sir.” This was Bush, in the right place at the right time as usual. He ran up the ratlines with the agility of any seaman.
“Signal’s down, sir!” yelled Foreman.
Hotspur should put up her helm at this moment, for all five ships to wear together.
“No, Mr Prowse. We’ll wait.”
On the horizon Medusa wore round. Now she was before the wind, increasing her distance rapidly from Hotspur on the opposite course.
“That’s Félicité for certain, sir!” called Bush.
“Thank you, Mr Bush. Kindly come down at once. Drummer! Beat to quarters. Clear for action. Mr Cheeseman, send this signal. ‘Have sighted French frigate to windward’.”
“Aye aye, sir. Medusa’s going out of sight fast.”
“Hoist it, anyway.”
Bush had descended like lightning, to exchange glances for one moment with Hornblower before hurrying off to supervise clearing for action. For that moment there was an inquiring look in his eye. He alone in the ship beside Hornblower knew the objective of the British squadron. If Hotspur was parted from the other ships when the flota should be sighted she would lose her share of the prize money. But prize money was only one factor; the flota was a primary objective. Hotspur would disregard Medusa’s signals and turn aside from the objective at her peril – at Hornblower’s peril. And Bush knew, too, the disparity of force between Hotspur and Félicité. A battle broadside to broadside could only end with half Hotspur’s crew dead and the other half prisoners of war.