“Stop that, Finch!” said Hornblower irritably; turning, he had caught sight of him peering up at the maintop and at this moment of tension Finch’s delusions annoyed him.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Finch, resuming his duties.
But a moment later Hornblower heard Finch whispering to himself.
“Mr Bracegirdle’s there,” whispered Finch, “an’ Oldroyd’s there, an’ all those others. But He’s there too, so He is.”
“Hands wear ship!” came the shouted order from the deck below.
The old Indefatigable was spinning round on her heel, the yards groaning as the braces swung them round. The French ship had made a bold attempt to rake her enemy as she clawed up to her, but Pellew’s prompt handling defeated the plan. Now the ships were broadside to broadside, running free before the wind at long cannon shot.
“Just look at ‘im!” roared Douglas, one of the musket men in the top. “Twenty guns a side. Looks brave enough, doesn’t he?”
Standing beside Douglas Hornblower could look down on the Frenchman’s deck, her guns run out with the guns’ crews clustering round them, officers in white breeches and blue coats walking up and down, the spray flying from her bows as she drove headlong before the wind.
“She’ll look braver still when we take her into Plymouth Sound,” said the seaman on the far side of Hornblower.
The Indefatigable was slightly the faster ship; an occasional touch of starboard helm was working her in closer to the enemy, into decisive range, without allowing the Frenchman to headreach upon her. Hornblower was impressed by the silence on both sides; he had always understood that the French were likely to open fire at long range and to squander ineffectively the first carefully loaded broadside.
“When’s he goin’ to fire?” asked Douglas, echoing Hornblower’s thoughts.
“In his own good time,” piped Finch.
The gap of tossing water between the two ships was growing narrower. Hornblower swung the swivel gun round and looked along the sights. He could aim well enough at the Frenchman’s quarter‑deck, but it was much too long a range for a bag of musket balls — in any case he dared not open fire until Pellew gave permission.
“Them’s the men for us!” said Douglas, pointing to the Frenchman’s mizzen‑top.
It looked as if there were soldiers up there, judging by the blue uniforms and the crossbelts; the French often eked out their scanty crews of trained seamen by shipping soldiers; in the British Navy the marines were never employed aloft. The French soldiers saw the gesture and shook their fists, and a young officer among them drew his sword and brandished it over his head. With the ships parallel to each other like this the French mizzen‑top would be Hornblower’s particular objective should he decide on trying to silence the firing there instead of sweeping the quarter‑deck. He gazed curiously at the men it was his duty to kill. So interested was he that the bang of a cannon took him by surprise; before he could look down the rest of the Frenchman’s broadside had gone off in straggling fashion, and a moment later the Indefatigable lurched as all her guns went off together. The wind blew the smoke forward, so that in the mizzen‑top they were not troubled by it at all. Hornblower’s glance showed him dead men flung about on the Indefatigable’s deck, dead men falling on the Frenchman’s deck. Still the range was too great — very long musket shot, his eye told him.
“They’re shootin’ at us, sir,” said Herbert.
“Let ’em,” said Hornblower.
No musket fired from a heaving masthead at that range could possibly score a hit; that was obvious — so obvious that even Hornblower, madly excited as he was, could not help but be aware of it, and his certainty was apparent in his tone. It was interesting to see how the two calm words steadied the men. Down below the guns were roaring away continuously, and the ships were nearing each other fast.
“Open fire now, men!” said Hornblower. “Finch!”
He stared down the short length of the swivel gun. In the coarse V of the notch on the muzzle he could see the Frenchman’s wheel, the two quartermasters standing behind it, the two officers beside it. He jerked the lanyard. A tenth of a second’s delay, and then the gun roared out. He was conscious, before the smoke whirled round him, of the firing quill, blown from the touchhole, flying past his temple. Finch was already sponging out the gun. The musket balls must have spread badly; only one of the helmsmen was down and someone else was already running to take his place. At that moment the whole top lurched frightfully; Hornblower felt it but he could not explain it. There was too much happening at once. The solid timbers under his feet jarred him as he stood — perhaps a shot had hit the mizzen‑mast. Finch was ramming in the cartridge; something struck the breech of the gun a heavy blow and left a bright splash of metal there — a musket bullet from the Frenchman’s mizzen‑top. Hornblower tried to keep his head; he took out another sharpened quill and coaxed it down into the touchhole. It had to be done purposefully and yet gently; a quill broken off in the touchhole was likely to be a maddening nuisance. He felt the point of the quill pierce the cartridge; Finch rammed home the wad on top of the musket balls. A bullet struck the barricade beside him as Hornblower trained the gun down, but he gave it no thought. Surely the top was swaying more even than the heavy sea justified? No matter. He had a clear shot at the enemy’s quarterdeck. He tugged at the lanyard. He saw men fall. He actually saw the spokes of the wheel spin round as it was left untended. Then the two ships came together with a shattering crash and his world dissolved into chaos compared with which what had gone before was orderly.