It was the first day that reefed topsails could be set that he reached his decision.
“Mr Prowse, I’d be obliged if you would set a course to close Naiad so that she can read our signals.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower, standing on the quarter-deck in the eternal, infernal wind, hated Prowse for darting that inquiring glance at him. Of course the wardroom had discussed his problem. Of course they knew of the shortage of drinking water; of course they knew that Wallis had discovered three cases of sore gums – the earliest symptoms of scurvy in a navy that had overcome scurvy except in special conditions. Of course they had wondered about when their captain would yield to circumstances. Perhaps they had made bets on the date. The problem, the decision, had been his and not theirs.
Hotspur clawed her way over the tossing sea to the point on Naiad’s lee bow when the signal flags would blow out at right angles to the line of sight.
“Mr Foreman! Signal to Naiad, if you please. ‘Request permission to return to port’.”
“Request permission to return to port. Aye aye, sir.”
Naiad was the only ship of the Inshore Squadron – of the Channel Fleet – in sight, and her captain was therefore senior officer on the station. Every captain was senior to the captain of the Hotspur.
“Naiad acknowledges, sir,” reported Foreman, and then, after ten seconds’ wait “Naiad to Hotspur, sir ‘Interrogative’.”
Somehow it might have been more politely put. Chambers of the Naiad might have signalled ‘Kindly give reasons for request,’ or something like that. But the single interrogative hoist was convenient and rapid. Hornblower framed his next signal equally tersely.
“Hotspur to Naiad. ‘Eight days water’.”
Hornblower watched the reply soar up Naiad’s signal halliards. It was not the affirmative; if it was permission, it was a qualified permission.
“Naiad to Hotspur, sir. ‘Remain four more days’.”
“Thank you, Mr Foreman.”
Hornblower tried to keep all expression out of his voice and his face.
“I’ll wager he has two months’ water on board, sir,” said Bush, angrily.
“I hope he has, Mr Bush.”
They were seventy leagues from Tor Bay; two days’ sailing with a fair wind. There was no margin for misfortune. If at the end of four days the wind should shift easterly, as was perfectly possible, they could not reach Tor Bay in a week or even more; the water-hoys might come down-channel, but might easily not find them at once, and then it was not unlikely that the sea would be too rough for boat work. There was an actual possibility that the crew of the Hotspur might die of thirst. It had not been easy for Hornblower to make his request; he had no desire to be thought one of those captains whose sole desire was to return to port, and he had waited to the last sensible moment. Chambers saw the problem differently, as a man well might do as regards the possible misfortune of other people. This was an easy way of demonstrating his resolution and firmness. An easy way, a comfortable way, a cheap way.
“Send this signal, if you please, Mr Foreman. ‘Thank you. Am returning to station. Good-bye.’ Mr Prowse, we can bear away when that signal is acknowledged. Mr Bush, from today the water ration is reduced. One between two.”
Two quarts of water a day for all purposes – and such water – to men living on salted food, was far below the minimum for health. It meant sickness as well as discomfort, but the reduction also meant that the last drop of water would not be drunk until sixteen days had passed.
Captain Chambers had not foreseen the future weather, and perhaps he could not be blamed for that, seeing that on the fourth day after the exchange of signals the westerly wind worked up again, unbelievably, into the fourth tempest of that gale-ridden autumn. It was towards the end of the afternoon watch that Hornblower was called on deck again to give his permission for the reefed topsails to be got in and the storm staysail set once more. Significantly it was growing dark already; the days of the equinox when the sun set at six o’clock were long past, and, equally significantly, that roaring westerly gale now had a chilling quality about it. It was cold; not freezing, not icy, but cold, searchingly cold. Hornblower tried to pace the unstable deck in an endeavour to keep his circulation going; he grew warm, not because of his walking, but because the physical labour of keeping his feet was great enough for the purpose. Hotspur was leaping like a deer beneath him, and from down below, too, came the dreary sound of the pumps at work.