“Captain Moore’s in England by this time.”
The news left Hornblower unmoved, for it was what he was expecting to hear, but he had to make an answer.
“Indeed, sir?”
“You haven’t heard the news?”
“I’ve heard nothing for a week, sir.”
“Moore captured the Spanish treasure fleet. Where were you?”
“I had an encounter with a French frigate, sir.”
A glance at Hotspur lying hove-to on the Dreadnought’s beam could take in the fished main-yard and the raw patches on her sides.
“You missed a fortune in prize money.”
“So I should think, sir.”
“Six million dollars. The Dons fought, and one of their frigates blew up with all hands before the others surrendered.”
In a ship in action drill and discipline had to be perfect; a moment’s carelessness on the part of a powder boy or a gun loader could lead to disaster. Hornblower’s thoughts on this subject prevented him this time from making even a conversational reply, and Parker went on without waiting for one.
“So it’s war with Spain. The Dons will declare war as soon as they hear the news – they probably have done so already. This squadron is detached from the Channel Fleet to begin the blockade of Cadiz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had better return north after Moore. Report to the Channel Fleet off Ushant for further orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The cold grey eyes betrayed not the least flicker of humanity. A farmer would look at a cow with far more interest than this Admiral looked at a Commander.
“A good journey to you, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The wind was well to the north of west; Hotspur would have to stand far out to weather St Vincent, and farther out still to make sure of weathering Cape Roca. Parker and his ships had a fair wind for Cadiz and although Hornblower gave his orders the moment he reached the deck they were over the horizon almost as soon as Hotspur had hoisted in her boat and had settled down on the starboard tack, close-hauled, to begin the voyage back to Ushant. And as she plunged to the seas that met her starboard bow there was something additional to be heard and felt about her motion. As each wave crest reached her, and she began to put her bows down, there was a sudden dull noise and momentary little shock through the fabric of the ship, to be repeated when she had completed her descent and began to rise again. Twice for every wave this happened, so that ear and mind came to expect it at each rise and fall. It was the fished main-yard, splinted between the two spare studding sail booms. However tightly the trapping was strained that held the joint together, a little play remained, and the ponderous yardarms settled backward and forward with a thump, twice with every wave, until mind and ear grew weary of its ceaseless monotony.
It was on the second day that Bailey provided a moment’s distraction for Hornblower while Hotspur still reached out into the Atlantic to gain her offing.
“This was in the pocket of your nightshirt, sir. I found it when I was going to wash it.”
It was a folded piece of paper with a note written on it, and that note must have been written the evening that Hotspur lay in Cadiz Bay – Bailey clearly did not believe in too frequent washing of nightshirts.
Sir –
The Cabin Stores are short of Capers and Cayenne.
Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir.
Your Humble obedient Servant
J. Doughty.
Hornblower crumpled the paper in his hand. It was painful to be reminded of the Doughty incident. This must be the very last of it.
“Did you read this, Bailey?”
“No, sir. I’m no scholar, sir.”
That was the standard reply of an illiterate in the Royal Navy, but Hornblower was not satisfied until he had taken a glance at the ship’s muster rolls and seen the ‘X’ against Bailey’s name. Most Scotsmen could read and write – it was fortunate that Bailey was an exception.
So Hotspur continued close-hauled, first on the starboard tack and then on the port, carrying sail very tenderly on her wounded main-yard, while she made her way northward over the grey Atlantic until at last she weathered Finisterre and could run two points free straight for Ushant along the hypotenuse of the Bay of Biscay. It snowed on New Year’s Eve just as it had snowed last New Year’s Eve when Hotspur had baulked Bonaparte’s attempted invasion of Ireland. It was raining and bleak, and thick weather closely limited the horizon when Hotspur attained the latitude of Ushant and groped her way slowly forward in search of the Channel Fleet. The Thunderer loomed up in the mist and passed her on to the Majestic, and the Majestic passed her on until the welcome word “Hibernia” came back in reply to Bush’s hail. There was only a small delay while the news of Hotspur’s arrival was conveyed below to the Admiral before the next hail came; Collins’s voice, clearly recognizable despite the speaking-trumpet.