“Very well, Mr. Freeman,” said Hornblower, drawling the words so as to convey the impression that he felt perfectly at home here in the middle of a hostile harbour. “You may hoist out the boats. Maintops’l aback!”
The shore authorities would be watching the brig’s movements by what little light was left. If the Porta Coeli did anything unexpected, they would wonder idly what unknown condition on board had caused the harbourmaster’s representative — now gagged and bound under hatches — to change his plans. The Porta Coeli’s motion died away; the sheaves squealed as the boats dropped into the water, and the picked crews tumbled down into them. Hornblower leaned over the side.
“Remember men, don’t fire a shot!”
The oars splashed as the boats pulled over to the Indiaman. It was practically dark by now; Hornblower could hardly follow the boats to the Indiaman’s side fifty yards away, and he could see nothing of the men as they swarmed up her side. Faintly he heard some startled exclamations, and then one loud cry; that might puzzle the people on shore, but would not put them on their guard. Here were the boats returning, each pulled by the two men detailed for the work. The tackles were hooked on and the boats swayed up; as the sheaves squealed again Hornblower heard a crunching sound from the Indiaman, and a dull thump or two — the hand detailed to cut the cable was doing his work, and had actually remembered to carry the axe with him when he went up the ship’s side. Hornblower felt the satisfaction of a job well done; his careful instruction of the boarding-party in the afternoon, his methodical allocation of duties to each individual man, and his reiteration of his orders until everyone thoroughly understood the part he had to play were bearing fruit.
Against the misty sky he saw the Indiaman’s topsails changing shape; the men allotted to the task were sheeting them home. Thank God for a few prime seamen who, arriving in darkness in a strange ship, could find their way to the right places and lay their hands on the right lines without confusion. Hornblower saw the Indiaman’s yards come round; in the darkness he could just see a black blur detach itself from her side, the lighter, cut adrift and floating away.
“You can square away, Mr. Freeman, if you please,” he said. “The Indiaman will follow us out.”
The Porta Coeli gathered way and headed for the southeastern exit of the harbour, the Indiaman close at her stern. For several long seconds there was no sign of any interest being taken in these movements. Then came a hail, apparently from the cutter which had brought the officials aboard. It was so long since Hornblower had heard or spoken French that he could not understand the words used.
“Comment?” he yelled back through the speaking-trumpet.
An irascible voice asked him again what in the name of the devil he thought he was doing.
“Anchorage — mumble — current — mumble — tide,” yelled Hornblower in reply.
This time the unknown in the cutter invoked the name of God instead of that of the devil.
“Who in God’s name is that?”
“Mumble mumble mumble,” bellowed Hornblower back again, and quietly to the helmsman, “Bring her slowly round to port.”
Carrying on a conversation with the French authorities while taking a vessel down an involved channel — however well he had memorised the latter on the chart — taxed his resources.
“Heave-to!” yelled the voice.
“Pardon, Captain,” yelled Hornblower back. “Mumble — anchor-cable — mumble — impossible.”
Another loud hail from the cutter, full of menace.
“Steady as you go,” cried Hornblower to the helmsman. “Mr. Freeman, a hand at the lead, if you please.”
He knew there was no chance of gaining any more precious seconds; by the time the leadsman was calling the depths and revealing the brig’s design of evasion the shore authorities would be fully alert. A pinpoint of light stabbed the thin mist and the sound of a musket-shot came over the water; the cutter was taking the quickest method of attracting the attention of the shore batteries.