All was well. Hotspur had gone in and come out again. The coasters from the south had received a lesson they would not forget for a long time. And now it was apparent that the night was not so dark; it was not a question of eyes becoming habituated to the darkness, but something more definite than that. Faces were now a blur of white, visible across the deck. Looking aft Hornblower could see the low hills of Quelern standing out in dark relief against a lighter sky, and while he watched a grain of silver became visible over their summits. He had actually forgotten until this moment that the moon was due to rise now; that had been one of the factors he had pointed out in his letter to Pellew. The gibbous moon rose above the hilltops and shone serenely down upon the Gulf. The topgallant masts were being sent up, topsails were being set, staysails got in.
“What’s that noise?” asked Hornblower, referring to a dull thumping somewhere forward.
“Carpenter plugging a shot hole, sir,” explained Bush. “That last coaster holed us just above the waterline on the starboard side right forward.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well.”
His questions and his formal termination of the conversation were the result of one more effort of will.
“I can trust you not to lose your way now, Mr Bush,” he said. He could not help being jocular, although he knew it sounded a false note. The hands at the braces were backing the main-topsail, and Hotspur could lie hove-to in peace and quiet. “You may set the ordinary watches, Mr Bush. And see that I am called at eight bells in the middle watch.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There were four and a half hours of peace and quiet ahead of him. He yearned with all his weary mind and body for rest – for oblivion, rather than rest. An hour after dawn, at the latest, Pellew could expect him to send in his report on the events of the evening, and it would take an hour to compose it. And he must take the opportunity to write to Maria so that the letter could be sent to Tonnant along with the report and so have a chance to reach the outside world. It would take him longer to write to Maria than to Pellew. That reminded him of something else. He had to make one more effort.
“Oh, Mr Bush!”
“Sir?”
‘I’ll be sending a boat to Tonnant during the morning watch. If any officer – or if any of the men – wish to send letters that will be their opportunity.’
“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
In his cabin he faced one further effort to pull off his shoes, but the arrival of Grimes saved him the trouble. Grimes took off his shoes, eased him out of his coat, unfastened his neckcloth. Hornblower allowed him to do it; he was too weary even to be self-conscious. For one moment he luxuriated in allowing his weary feet free play in his stockings, but then he fell spreadeagled on to his cot, half-prone, half on his side, his head on his arms, and Grimes covered him up and left him.
That was not the most sensible attitude to adopt, as he discovered when Grimes shook him awake. He ached in every joint, it seemed, while to dash cold sea water on his face did little enough to clear his head. He had to struggle out of the after-effects of a long period of strain as other men had to struggle out of the after-effects of a drinking bout. But he had recovered sufficiently to move his left-handed pen when he sat down and began his report.
‘Sir,
In obedience to your instructions, dated the 16th instant, I proceeded on the afternoon of the 18th . . .’
He had to leave the last paragraph until the coming of daylight should reveal what he should write in it, and he laid the letter aside and took another sheet. He had to bite the end of his pen before he could even write the salutation in this second letter, and when he had written ‘My dear Wife’ he had to bite it again before he could continue. It was something of a relief to have Grimes enter at last.