“Aye aye, sir. Smith has the watch. Hornblower has the middle — I expect he has turned in until he’s called.”
Buckland was as weary as anyone in the ship — wearier than most, it seemed likely. The thought of Hornblower stretched at ease in his cot while his superiors sat up fretting wrought Buckland up to a pitch of decision that he might not otherwise have reached, determining him to act at once instead of waiting till the morrow.
“Pass the word for him,” he ordered.
Hornblower came into the cabin with commendable promptitude, his hair tousled and his clothes obviously hastily thrown on. He threw a nervous glance round the cabin as he entered; obviously he suffered from not unreasonable doubts as to why he had been summoned thus into the presence of his superiors.
“What plan is this I’ve been hearing about?” asked Buckland. “You had some suggestion for storming the fort, I understand, Mr Hornblower.”
Hornblower did not answer immediately; he was marshalling his arguments and reconsidering his first plan in the light of the new situation — Bush could see that it was hardly fair that Hornblower should be called upon to state his plan now that the Renown had made one attempt and had failed after sacrificing the initial advantage of surprise. But Bush could see that he was reordering his ideas.
“I thought a landing might have more chance, sir,” he said. “But that was before the Dons knew there was a ship of the line in the neighbourhood.”
“And now you don’t think so?”
Buckland’s tone was a mixture of relief and disappointment — relief that he might not have to reach any further decisions, and disappointment that some easy way of gaining success was not being put forward. But Hornblower had had time now to sort out his ideas, and to think about times and distances. That showed in his face.
“I think something might well be tried, sir, as long as it was tried at once.”
“At once?” This was night, the crew were weary, and Buckland’s tone showed surprise at the suggestion of immediate activity. “You don’t mean tonight?”
“Tonight might be the best time, sir. The Dons have seen us driven off with our tail between our legs — excuse me, sir, but that’s how it’ll look to them, at least. The last they saw of us was beating out of Samaná Bay at sunset. They’ll be pleased with themselves. You know how they are, sir. An attack at dawn from another quarter, overland, would be the last thing they’d expect.”
That sounded like sense to Bush, and he made a small approving noise, the most he would venture towards making a contribution to the debate.
“How would you make this attack, Mr Hornblower?” asked Buckland.
Hornblower had his ideas in order now; the weariness disappeared and there was a glow of enthusiasm in his face.
“The wind’s fair for Scotchman’s Bay, sir. We could be back there in less than two hours — before midnight. By the time we arrive we can have the landing party told off and prepared. A hundred seamen and the marines. There’s a good landing beach there — we saw it yesterday. The country inland must be marshy, before the hills of the peninsula start again, but we can land on the peninsula side of the marsh. I marked the place yesterday, sir.”
“Well?”
Hornblower swallowed the realisation that it was possible for a man not to be able to continue from that point with a single leap of his imagination.
“The landing party can make their way up to the crest without difficulty, sir. There’s no question of losing their way — the sea one side and Samaná Bay on the other. They can move forward along the crest. At dawn they can rush the fort. What with the marsh and the cliffs the Dons’ll keep a poor lookout on that side, I fancy, sir.”
“You make it sound very easy, Mr Hornblower. But — a hundred and eighty men?”
“Enough, I think, sir.”
“What makes you think so?”
“There were six guns firing at us from the fort, sir. Ninety men at most — sixty more likely. Ammunition party; men to heat the furnaces. A hundred and fifty men altogether; perhaps as few as a hundred.”