“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, carry on.”
Prowse was standing close by, straining to hear all this. His long face was longer than ever, it seemed.
“Is it the gale that’s making your ears flap, Mr Prowse?” snapped Hornblower, in no mood to spare anyone; he regretted the words as soon as they were said, but now there was no time to compensate for them.
Loire was dead to leeward, and beyond her was Ushant. They had opened up the Bay of Lampoul on Ushant’s seaward side, and now were beginning to close it again. The moment had come; no, better to wait another minute. The scream of a cannon-ball and a simultaneous crash. There was a gaping hole in the weather side bulwark; the shot had crossed the heeling deck and smashed its way through from within outwards. A seaman at the gun there was looking stupidly at his left arm where the blood was beginning to flow from a splinter wound.
“Stand by to go about!” yelled Hornblower.
Now for it. He had to fool the French captain, who had already proved he was no fool.
“Keep your glass on the Frenchman, Mr Prowse. Tell me just what he’s doing. Quartermaster, a little lee helm. Just a little. Handsomely. Helm’s alee!”
The fore-topsail shivered. Now every moment was precious, and yet he must delay so as to induce the Frenchman to commit himself.
“His helm’s alee, sir! He’s coming round.”
This would be the moment – actually it was just past the moment – when the Frenchman would expect him to tack to avoid the gunfire, and the Frenchman would try to tack as nearly simultaneously as possible.
“Now, quartermaster. Hard down. Tacks and sheets!”
Hotspur was coming to the wind. Despite the brief delay she was still well under command.
“Mr Bush!”
On the weather side they opened the gun-ports, and the straining gun crews dragged the guns up the slope A rogue wave slapping against the side came in through the ports and flooded the deck knee deep in water; but the Frenchman must see those gun muzzles run out on the port side.
“He’s coming about, sir!” reported Prowse. “He’s casting off the braces!”
He must make quite sure.
“Mainsail haul!”
This was the danger point.
“He’s past the wind’s eye, sir. His foretops’ls coming round.”
“Ava-a-ast!”
The surprised crew stopped dead as Hornblower screamed into the speaking-trumpet.
“Brace all back again! Jump to it! Quartermaster! Hard-a-port! Mr Cargill!”
Hornblower waved his hand, and the jib rushed up the stay. With its tremendous leverage on the bowsprit the jib, given a chance, would turn the ship back irresistibly. Cargill and his men were hauling it out to port by main force. There was just enough of an angle for the wind to act upon it in the right direction. Was there? Yes! Hotspur was swinging back again, gallantly ignoring her apparent mistreatment and the wave that she met bows-on which burst over her forecastle. She was swinging, more and more rapidly, Cargill and his men hauling down the jib that had played so great a part in the operation.
“Braces, there! She’s coming before the wind. Stand by! Quartermaster, meet her as she swings. Mr Bush!”
The guns’ crews flung themselves on the tackles and ran the guns in again. It was a pleasure to see Bush restraining their excitement and making certain that they were secure. The ports slammed shut and the crews raced over to the starboard side. He could see the Loire now that Hotspur had completed her turn, but Prowse was still reporting, as his order dictated.
“She’s in irons, sir. She’s all a-back.”
That was the very thing Hornblower had hoped for. He had believed it likely that he would be able to effect his escape to leeward, perhaps after an exchange of broadsides; this present situation had appeared possible but too good to materialize. The Loire was hanging helpless in the wind. Her captain had noted Hotspur’s manoeuvre just too late. Instead of going round on the other tack, getting his ship under command, and then tacking once more in pursuit, he had tried to follow Hotspur’s example and revert to his previous course. But with an unskilled crew and without a carefully prepared plan the improvisation had failed disastrously. While Hornblower watched he saw Loire yaw off the wind and then swing back again, refusing obstinately, like a frightened horse, to do the sensible thing. And Hotspur, dead before the wind, was rushing down upon her. Hornblower measured the dwindling gap with a calculating eye all the keener for his excited condition.