Lord Hornblower. C. S. Forester

“That’s the Indiaman, sir. At anchor. And there’s a lighter beside her. O’ course, they wouldn’t unload her at the quay. Not here, sir. They’d put her cargo into lighters an’ barges, and send ’em up the river, to Rouen and Paris. O’ course they would. I ought to ha’ thought o’ that before.” Hornblower had already thought of it. His glass was sweeping the defences of the town; the forts of Ste. Adresse and Tourneville on the steep cliff above the town; the twin lighthouses on Cape de la Hève — which for a dozen years had not shown a light — the batteries on the low ground beside the old jetty. These last would be the great danger to the enterprise; he hoped that the big forts above would not know of what was going on down below in time to open fire.

“There’s a lot of shipping farther in, sir,” went on Freeman. “Might even be ships of the line. They haven’t their yards crossed. I’ve never been in as close as this before.”

Hornblower turned to look at the western sky. Night was fast falling, and the thick weather on the horizon showed no signs of clearing. He wanted light enough to find his way, and darkness enough to cover him on his way out.

“Here’s the pilot lugger standing out, sir,” said Freeman. “They’ll think we’re Flame all right.”

“Very good, Mr. Freeman. Set the men to cheering at the ship’s side. Secure the pilot when he comes on board. I’ll con her in.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was just the sort of order to suit the temperament of British seamen. They entered whole-heartedly into the spirit of the thing, yelling like lunatics along the bulwarks, waving their hats, dancing exuberantly, just as one would expect of a horde of mutineers. The Porta Coeli backed her main-topsail, the lugger surged alongside, and the pilot swung himself into the mainchains.

“Lee braces!” roared Hornblower, the maintopsail caught the wind again, the wheel went over, and the Porta Coeli stood into the harbour, while Freeman put his shoulder between the pilot’s shoulderblades and shot him neatly down the hatchway where two men were waiting to seize and pinion him.

“Pilot secured, sir,” he reported.

He, too, was obviously carried away by the excitement of the moment, infected even by the din the hands were making; his pose of amused irony had completely disappeared.

“Starboard a little,” said Hornblower to the helmsman. “Meet her! Steady as you go!”

It would be the last word in ignominy if all their high hopes were to come to an end on the sandbanks guarding the entrance. Hornblower wondered if he would ever feel cool again.

“A cutter standing out to us, sir,” reported Freeman. That might be a committee of welcome, or orders telling them where to berth — both at once, probably.

“Set the hands to cheering again,” ordered Hornblower. “Have the boarding-party secured as they come on board.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

They were nearing the big Indiaman; she lay, her sails loose, swinging to a single anchor. There was a lighter beside her, but obviously little enough had been done so far towards unloading her. In the fading light Hornblower could just make out a dozen of her seamen standing at the ship’s side gazing curiously at them. Hornblower backed the maintopsail again, and the cutter came alongside, and half a dozen officials climbed onto the Porta Coeli’s deck. Their uniforms proclaimed their connection with the navy, the army, and the customs service, and they advanced slowly towards Hornblower, looking curiously about them as they did so. Hornblower was giving the orders that got the Porta Coeli under way again, and as she drew away from the cutter in the gathering darkness he wore her round and headed her for the Indiaman. Cutlasses suddenly gleamed about the new arrivals.

“Make a sound and you’re dead men,” said Freeman.

Somebody made a sound, beginning to protest volubly. A seaman brought a pistol butt down on his head and the protests ended abruptly as the protester clattered on the deck. The others were hustled down the hatchway, too dazed and startled to speak.