Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

Some time after the misery had in part subsided he was summoned by a thundering at the door.

“What is it?”

“Lookout’s hailing from the masthead, sir. Mr Bush is calling him down.”

“I’ll come.”

Hornblower emerged just in time to see the look-out transfer himself to the backstay and come sliding all the way down the deck.

“Mr Cargill,” said Bush. “Send another hand aloft to take his place.”

Bush turned to Hornblower.

“I couldn’t hear what this man was saying, sir, thanks to the winds so I called him down. Well, what d’you have to say?”

The look-out stood cap in hand, a little abashed at confronting the officers.

“Don’t rightly know if it’s important, sir. But during that last clear spell I caught a glimpse of the French frigate.”

“Where away?” demanded Hornblower; at the last moment before he spoke he had managed to modify his originally intended brusqueness. There was nothing to be gained and something to be lost by bullying this man.

“Two points on the lee bow, sir. She was hull-down but I could see her tops’ls, sir. I know ’em.”

Since the incident of the passing honours Hotspur had frequently sighted the Loire at various points in the Iroise channel – it had been a little like a game of hide-and-seek.

“What was her course?”

“She was close-hauled, sir, under double-reefed tops’ls, on the starboard-tack, sir.”

“You were quite right to report her. Get back to your post now. Keep that other man aloft with you.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The man turned away and Hornblower gazed out to sea. Thick weather had closed round them again, and the horizon was close in. Was there anything odd about the Loire’s coming out and braving the gale? She might well wish to drill her men in heavy weather. No; he had to be honest in his thinking, and that was a rather un-French notion. There was a very marked tendency in the French navy to conserve material in a miserly fashion.

Hornblower became aware that Bush was standing beside him waiting for him to speak.

“What do you think, Mr Bush?”

“I expect she anchored last night in Berthon Bay, sir.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Bush was referring to Bertheaume Bay, just on the seaward side of the Goulet, where it was just possible to ride to a long cable with the wind anywhere to the north of west. And if she lay there she would be in touch with the shore. She could receive news and orders sent overland from Brest, ten miles away. She might have heard of a declaration of war. She might be hoping to take Hotspur by surprise, and he must act on that assumption. In that case the safest thing to do would be to put the ship about. Heading south on the starboard-tack he would have plenty of sea room, would be in no danger from a lee shore, and would be so far ahead of the Loire as to be able to laugh at pursuit. But – this was like Hamlet’s soliloquy, at the point where Hamlet says ‘There’s the rub’ – he would be far from his post when Cornwallis should arrive, absent perhaps for days. No, this was a case where he must risk his ship. Hotspur was only a trifle in the clash of two enormous navies. She was important to him personally, but the information she had gleaned was a hundred times more important than her fabric to Cornwallis.

“We’ll hold our course, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower.

“She was two points on our lee bow, sir,” said Bush. “We ought to be well to windward of her when we meet.”

Hornblower had already made that calculation; if the result had been different he would have put Hotspur about five minutes ago and would have been racing for safety.

“Clearing again a little, sir,” commented Bush, looking about him, and at that very moment the masthead yelled again.

“There she is, sir! One point before the starboard beam!”

“Very well!”

With the moderation of the squall it was just possible to carry on a conversation with the masthead from the deck.

“She’s there all right, sir,” said Bush, training his glass

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