“Sir?”
“I’m not speaking to you, damn you,” said Hornblower, his restraint at an end.
Hornblower was fond of jam, but of all the possible varieties he liked blackcurrant least. It was a poor last best. Well, it would have to do; he bit at the iron-hard biscuit.
“Don’t knock at the door when you’re serving a meal,” he said to Grimes.
“No, sir. I won’t sir. Not any more, sir.”
Grimes’s hand holding the coffeepot was shaking, and when Hornblower looked up he could see that his lips were trembling too. He was about to ask sharply what was the matter, but he suppressed the question as the answer became apparent to him. It was physical fear that was affecting Grimes. A word from Hornblower could have Grimes bound to a grating at the gangway, there to have the flesh flogged from the bones of his writhing body. There were captains in the navy who would give just that order when served with such a breakfast. There would never be a time when more things went wrong than this.
There was a knocking at the door.
“Come in!”
Grimes shrank against the bulkhead to avoid falling out through the door as it opened.
“Message from Mr Young, sir,” said Orrock. “Wind’s veering again.”
“I’ll come,” said Hornblower.
Grimes cowered against the bulkhead as he pushed his way out; Hornblower emerged on to the quarter-deck. Six dozen eggs, and half of them bad. Two pounds of coffee – far less than a month’s supply if he drank coffee every day. Blackcurrant jam, and not much even of that. Those were the thoughts coursing through his mind as he walked past the sentry, and then they were expunged by the blessed air from the sea, and the instant approach of professional problems.
Prowse was peering out to port through his telescope; it was almost full daylight, and the haze had dissipated with the rain.
“Black Stones broad on the port-beam, sir,” reported Prowse. “You can see the breakers sometimes.”
“Excellent,” said Hornblower. At least his breakfast troubles had kept him from fretting during these final minutes before entering on to a decisive day. In fact he had actually to pause for several seconds to collect his thoughts before issuing the orders that would develop the plans already matured in his fevered mind.
“Do you have good eyesight, Mr Orrock?”
“Well, sir -”
“Have you or haven’t you?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“Then take a glass and get aloft. See what you can see of the shipping as we pass the entrance to the roadstead. Consult with the look-out.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Good morning, Mr Bush. Call the hands.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Not for the first time Hornblower was reminded of the centurion in the New Testament who illustrated his authority by saying: ‘I say to one, come, and he cometh, and to another, go, and he goeth.’ The Royal Navy and the Roman Army were identical in discipline.
“Now, Mr Prowse. How far is the horizon now?”
“Two miles, sir. Perhaps three miles,” answered Prowse, looking round and collecting his thoughts after being taken by surprise by the question.
“Four miles, I should think,” said Hornblower.
“Maybe, sir,” admitted Prowse.
“Sun’s rising. Air’s clearing. It’ll be ten miles soon. Wind’s north of west. We’ll go down to the Parquette.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr Bush, get the topgallants in, if you please. And the courses. Tops’ls and jib’s all we need.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
That way they would attract less notice; also they would, by moving more slowly, have longer for observation as they crossed the passage that led into Brest.
“Sunset on a clear day,” said Hornblower to Prowse, “would be a better moment. Then we could look in with the sun behind us.”
“Yes, sir. You’re right, sir,” answered Prowse. There was a gleam of appreciation in his melancholy face as he said this; he knew, of course, that the Goulet lay almost east and west, but he had not made any deductions or plans on that basis.
“But we’re here. We have this chance. Wind and weather serve us now. It may be days before we have another opportunity.”
“Yes, sir,” said Prowse.