Mr Midshipman Hornblower by C. S. Forester

“Backing westerly a little, sir,” said Matthews, who had been copying his movements.

“That’s so,” agreed Hornblower, hurriedly going through in his mind his recent lessons in boxing the compass. His course to weather Ushant was nor’-east by north, he knew, and the boat close hauled would not lie closer than eight points off the wind — he had lain-to to the sea-anchor all night because the wind had been coming from too far north to enable him to steer for England. But now the wind had backed. Eight points from nor’-east by north was nor’-west by west, and the wind was even more westerly than that. Close hauled he could weather Ushant and even have a margin for contingencies, to keep him clear of the lee shore, which the seamanship books and his own common sense told him was so dangerous.

“We’ll make sail, Matthews,” he said; his hand was still grasping the biscuit which his rebellious stomach refused to accept.

“Aye aye, sir.”

A shout to the Frenchmen crowded in the bows drew their attention; in the circumstances it hardly needed Hornblower’s halting French to direct them to carry out the obvious task of getting in the sea-anchor. But it was not too easy, with the boat so crowded and hardly a foot of freeboard. The mast was already stepped, and the lug sail bent ready to hoist. Two Frenchmen, balancing precariously, tailed onto the halliard and the sail rose up the mast.

“Hunter, take the sheet,” said Hornblower. “Matthews, take the tiller. Keep her close hauled on the port tack.”

“Close hauled on the port tack, sir.”

The French captain had watched the proceedings with intense interest from his seat amidships. He had not understood the last, decisive order, but he grasped its meaning quickly enough when the boat came round and steadied on the port tack, heading for England. He stood up, spluttering angry protests.

“The wind is fair for Bordeaux,” he said, gesticulating with clenched fists. “We could be there by to-morrow. Why do we go north?”

“We go to England,” said Hornblower.

“But — but — it will take us a week! A week even if the wind stays fair. This boat — it is too crowded. We cannot endure a storm. It is madness.”

Hornblower had guessed at the moment the captain stood up what he was going to say, and he hardly bothered to translate the expostulations to himself. He was too tired and too seasick to enter into an argument in a foreign language. He ignored the captain. Not for anything on earth would he turn the boat’s head towards France. His naval career had only just begun, and even if it were to be blighted on account of the loss of the Marie Galante he had no intention of rotting for years in a French prison.

“Sir!” said the French captain.

The mate who shared the captain’s thwart was protesting too, and now they turned to their crew behind them and told them what was going on. An angry movement stirred the crowd.

“Sir!” said the captain again. “I insist that you head towards Bordeaux.”

He showed signs of advancing upon them; one of the crew behind him began to pull the boat-hook clear, and it would be a dangerous weapon. Hornblower pulled one of the pistols from his belt and pointed it at the captain, who, with the muzzle four feet from his breast, fell back before the gesture. Without taking his eyes off him Hornblower took a second pistol with his left hand.

“Take this, Matthews,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Matthews, obeying; and then, after a respectful pause, “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but hadn’t you better cock your pistol, sir?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, exasperated at his own forgetfulness.

He drew the hammer back with a click, and the menacing sound made more acute still the French captain’s sense of his own danger, with a cocked and loaded pistol pointed at his stomach in a heaving boat. He waved his hands desperately.

“Please,” he said, “point it some other way, sir.”

He drew farther back, huddling against the men behind him.

“Hey, avast there, you,” shouted Matthews loudly — a French sailor was trying to let go the halliard unobserved.

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