“There goes a boat!” said Montgomery suddenly.
A smart pinnace was shooting out from the direction of the dockyard heading across the channel almost directly away from Nonsuch.
“Russian Imperial colours,” said Bush. “Can anyone see who’s onboard?”
But the pinnace was too far away for any details to be visible by telescope.
“I think I can see gold lace,” said Carlin, doubtfully.
“Much good that is,” said Bush. “A blind man would guess there was gold lace in a Russian navy pinnace at Kronstadt.”
The pinnace passed away into the distance, quartering across the broad channel until her white sail dwindled to a speck.
“Call me if anything happens, if you please, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.
He went off below to his cabin; Brown relieved him of his heavy full-dress coat with the epaulettes, and, once more alone, he began to fidget about the cabin. He opened the case of pistols which Barbara had given him, read the card inside it — the last word he had received from her — and shut the case again. He stepped out into the stern gallery and returned to the cabin. The realization that he was worried annoyed him; he took down Archdeacon Coxe’s travels from the bookshelf and set himself seriously to read the Archdeacon’s intensely wearisome remarks about the condition of Russia, in the endeavour to inform himself more fully about the northern powers. But the words made sheer nonsense to him; he took up the slim volume of Childe Harold instead.
“Bombast and fustian,” he said to himself, flipping through the pages.
He heard six bells strike; it was still no later than eleven in the morning, and he could not possibly dine before two.
He got up from his chair and made himself lie on his cot, shut his eyes and grimly clenched his hands and tried to force himself to doze. He could not possibly go up on deck again and walk up and down, as he wanted to — that would be a public admission that he was restless and nervous. The minutes passed on leaden feet; he felt he had never felt so caged and unhappy before in his life.
Eight bells went, and he heard the watch relieved; it was like an eternity before he heard a bustle on the half-deck outside and someone knocked on the door. Hornblower settled himself in an attitude of complete relaxation on his cot.
“Come in!” he called, and he blinked and peered at the midshipman as if he had just awakened from a sound sleep.
“Boat heading towards us, sir,” said the midshipman.
“I’ll come up,” said Hornblower. “Pass the word for my cox’n.”
Brown helped him into his dress-coat, and he reached the deck while the boat was still some distance off.
“The same pinnace that we saw before, sir,” commented Hurst.
The pinnace came into the wind, and took in her mainsail while the bowman hailed the ship in Russian.
“Where’s Mr Braun?” said Hornblower.
The hail was repeated, and Braun translated.
“He is asking permission to hook on to us, sir. And he says he has a message for you.”
“Tell him to come alongside,” said Hornblower, This dependence upon an interpreter always irritated him.
The boat’s crew was smart, dressed in something like a uniform with blue shirts and white trousers, and in the stern-sheets, ready to mount the side, was an officer in military uniform, frogged across the breast in Hussar fashion. The Hussar came clumsily up the side, and glanced round, saluting the mass of gold lace which awaited him. Then he produced a letter, which he offered with a further explanation in Russian.
“From His Imperial Majesty the Tsar,” translated Braun with a catch in his voice.
Hornblower took the letter; it was addressed in French —
M. LE CHEF D’ESCADRE LE CAPITAINE SIR HORNBLOWER,
VAISSEAU BRITANNIQUE NOONSUCH.
Apparently the Tsar’s secretary, however competent he might be in other ways, was shaky regarding both British titles and spelling. The letter within was written in French as well — it was pleasant to be able to translate without Braun’s assistance.
The Imperial Palace of Peterhof
Grand Marshalate of the Imperial Court
May 30, 1812