“It’s more important than a formula for fattening chickens, sir,” he said, and then, with a bright further inspiration he shifted the responsibility. “I would not like to disclose my operations without a direct order.”
His sensibilities, keyed to the highest pitch, detected sympathy in Cornwallis’s reaction.
“I’m sure there’s no need, Hornblower,” said Cornwallis, turning back to the others. Now, before he turned, was it true that the eyelid of his left eye, nearest to Hornblower, flickered a trifle? Was it? Hornblower could not be sure.
As the conversation reverted to a discussion of future operations Hornblower’s sense, almost telepathic, became aware of something else in the past atmosphere which called up hot resentment in his mind. These fighting officers, these captains of ships of the line, were content to leave the dirty details of the gathering of intelligence to a junior, to someone hardly worthy of their lofty notice. They would not sully their aristocratic white hands; if the insignificant Commander of an insignificant sloop chose to do the work they would leave it to him in tolerant contempt.
Now the contempt was in no way one-sided. Fighting captains had their place in the scheme of things, but only an insignificant place, and anyone could be a fighting captain, even if he had to learn to swallow down the heart from his mouth and master the tensions that set his limbs a-tremble. Hornblower was experiencing symptoms not unlike these at this moment, when he was in no danger at all. Vintage port and a good dinner, thoughts of Maria and resentment against the captains, combined within him in a witches’ brew that threatened to boil over. Luckily the bubbling mixture happened to distil off a succession of ideas, first one and then another. They linked themselves in a logical chain. Hornblower, along with his agitation, could feel the flush of blood under his skin that foretold the development of a plan, in the same way that the witch in Macbeth could tell the approach of something wicked by the pricking in her thumbs. Soon the plan was mature, complete, and Hornblower was left calm and clearheaded after his spiritual convulsion; it was like the clearness of head that follows the crisis of an attack of fever – possibly that was exactly what it was.
The plan called for a dark night, and for half-flood an hour before dawn; nature would supply those sooner or later, following her immutable laws. It called for some good fortune, and it would call for resolution and promptitude of action, but those were accessory ingredients in every plan. It included possibilities of disaster, but was there ever a plan that did not? It also called for the services of a man who spoke perfect French, and Hornblower, measuring his abilities with a cold eye, knew that he was not that man. The penniless noble French refugee who in Hornblower’s boyhood had instructed him, with fair success, in French and Deportment (and, totally unsuccessfully, in Music and Dancing), had never managed to confer a good accent upon his tone-deaf pupil. His grammar and his construction were excellent, but no one would ever mistake him for a Frenchman.
Hornblower had reached every necessary decision by the time the party began to break up, and he made it his business to take his stand, casually, beside Collins at the moment the Admiral’s barge was called.
“Is there anyone in the Channel Fleet who speaks perfect French, sir?” he asked.
“You speak French yourself,” replied Collins.
“Not well enough for what I have in mind, sir,” said Hornblower, more struck by the extent of Collins’ knowledge than flattered. “I might find a use for a man who speaks French exactly like a Frenchman.”
“There’s Côtard,” said Collins, meditatively rubbing his chin. “Lieutenant in the Marlborough. He’s a Guernsey-man. Speaks French like a native – always spoke it as a child, I believe. What do you want him to do?”
“Admiral’s barge coming alongside, sir,” reported a breathless messenger to Pellew.
“Hardly time to tell you now, sir,” said Hornblower. “I can submit a plan to Sir Edward. But it’ll be no use without someone speaking perfect French.”
The assembled company was now filing to the gangway; Collins, in accordance with naval etiquette, would have to go down the side into the barge ahead of Cornwallis.