Down below he relaxed gratefully on the locker, and sent the cook to knock at the duchess’s cabin door to ask with his compliments if all was well; he heard the duchess’s sharp voice saying that they needed nothing, not even dinner. Hornblower philosophically shrugged his shoulders and ate his dinner with a young man’s appetite. He went on deck again as night closed in upon them; Winyatt had the watch.
“It’s coming up thick, sir,” he said.
So it was. The sun was invisible on the horizon, engulfed in watery mist. It was the price he had to pay for a fair wind, he knew; in the winter months in these latitudes there was always likely to be fog where the cool land breeze reached the Atlantic.
“It’ll be thicker still by morning,” he said gloomily, and revised his night orders, setting a course due west instead of west by north as he originally intended. He wanted to make certain of keeping clear of Cape St Vincent in the event of fog.
That was one of those minute trifles which may affect a man’s whole after life — Hornblower had plenty of time later to reflect on what might have happened had he not ordered that alteration of course. During the night he was often on deck, peering through the increasing mist, but at the time when the crisis came he was down below snatching a little sleep. What woke him was a seaman shaking his shoulder violently.
“Please, sir. Please, sir. Mr Hunter sent me. Please, sir, won’t you come on deck, he says, sir.”
“I’ll come,” said Hornblower, blinking himself awake and rolling out of his cot.
The faintest beginnings of dawn were imparting some slight luminosity to the mist which was close about them. Le Rêve was lurching over an ugly sea with barely enough wind behind her to give her steerage way. Hunter was standing with his back to the wheel in an attitude of tense anxiety.
“Listen!” he said, as Hornblower appeared.
He half‑whispered the word, and in his excitement he omitted the ‘sir’ which was due to his captain — and in his excitement Hornblower did not notice the omission. Hornblower listened. He heard the shipboard noises he could expect — the clattering of the blocks as Le Rêve lurched, the sound of the sea at her bows. Then he heard other shipboard noises. There were other blocks clattering; the sea was breaking beneath other bows.
“There’s a ship close alongside,” said Hornblower.
“Yes, sir,” said Hunter. “And after I sent below for you I heard an order given. And it was in Spanish — some foreign tongue, anyway.”
The tenseness of fear was all about the little ship like the fog.
“Call all hands. Quietly,” said Hornblower.
But as he gave the order he wondered if it would be any use. He could send his men to their stations, he could man and load his four‑pounders, but if that ship out there in the fog was of any force greater than a merchant ship he was in deadly peril. Then he tried to comfort himself — perhaps the ship was some fat Spanish galleon bulging with treasure, and were he to board her boldly she would become his prize and make him rich for life.
“A ‘appy Valentine’s day to you,” said a voice beside him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise. He had actually forgotten the presence of the duchess on board.
“Stop that row!” he whispered furiously at her, and she pulled up abruptly in astonishment. She was bundled up in a cloak and hood against the damp air, and no further detail could be seen of her in the darkness and fog.
“May I hask —” she began.
“Shut up!” whispered Hornblower.
A harsh voice could be heard through the fog, other voices repeating the order, whistles being blown, much noise and bustle.
“That’s Spanish, sir, isn’t it?” whispered Hunter.
“Spanish for certain. Calling the watch. Listen!”
The two double‑strokes of a ship’s bell came to them across the water. Four bells in the morning watch. And instantly from all round them a dozen other bells could be heard, as if echoing the first.