The beginning of that sentence was clumsy, he knew, but he could not translate ‘Get in your catch;’ but the prospect of British navy rum he knew would be alluring – and he was a little proud of l’amitié des nations. What was the French for ‘dinghy?’ Chaloupe, he fancied. He expanded on his invitations and someone in the fishing-boat waved in assent before bending to the business of getting in the catch. With the last of it on board two of the four men scrambled into the dinghy that lay alongside the Deux Frères; it was nearly as big as the fishing-boat itself, as was to be expected when she had to lay out the seine. Two oars stoutly handled brought the dinghy rapidly towards Hotspur.
“I’ll entertain the captain in my cabin,” said Hornblower. “Mr Bush, see that the other man is taken forward and well looked after. See he has a drink.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
A line over the side brought up two big buckets of fish, and these were followed by two blue-jerseyed men who scrambled up easily enough despite their sea-boots.
“A great pleasure, captain,” said Hornblower in the waist to greet him. “Please come with me.”
The captain looked curiously about him as he was led up to the quarter-deck and aft to the cabin. He sat down cautiously in the only chair while Hornblower perched on the cot. The blue jersey and trousers were spangled with fish scales – the cabin would smell of fish for a week. Hewitt brought rum and water, and Hornblower poured two generous glasses; the captain sipped appreciatively.
“Has your fishing been successful?” asked Hornblower, politely.
He listened while the captain told him, in his almost unintelligible Breton French, about the smallness of the profits to be earned in the pilchard fishery. The conversation drifted on. It was an easy transition from the pleasure of peace to the possibilities of war – two seamen could hardly meet without that prospect being discussed.
“I suppose they make great efforts to man the ships of war?”
The captain shrugged.
“Certainly.”
The shrug told much more than the word.
“It marches very slowly, I imagine,” said Hornblower, and he captain nodded.
“But of course the ships are ready to take the sea?”
Hornblower had no idea of how to say ‘laid-up in ordinary’ in French, and so he had to ask the question in the opposite sense.
“Oh, no,” said the captain. He went on to express his contempt for the French naval authorities. There was not a single ship of the line ready for service. Of course not.
“Let me refill your glass, captain,” said Hornblower. “I suppose the frigates receive the first supplies of men?”
Such supplies as there were, perhaps. The Breton captain was not sure. Of course there was – Hornblower had more than a moment’s difficulty at this point. Then he understood. The frigate Loire had been made ready for sea last week (it was the Breton pronunciation of that name which had most puzzled Hornblower) for service in Far Eastern waters, but with the usual idiocy of the naval command had now been stripped of most of her trained men to provide nuclei for the other ships. The Breton captain, whose capacity for rum was quite startling, did nothing to conceal either the smouldering Breton resentment against the atheist regime now ruling France or the contempt of a professional user of the sea for the blundering policies of the Republican Navy. Hornblower had only to nurse his glass and listen, his faculties at full stretch to catch all the implications of a conversation in a foreign language. When at last the captain rose to say good-bye there was a good deal of truth in what Hornblower said, haltingly, about his regrets at the termination of the visit.
“Yet perhaps even if war should come, captain, we may still meet again. As I expect you know, the Royal Navy of Great Britain does not make war on fishing vessels. I shall always be glad to buy some of your catch.”
The Frenchman was looking at him keenly now, perhaps because the subject of payment was arising. This was a most important moment, calling for accurate judgement. How much? What to say?