Everything was very peaceful. Forward a party of seamen under the sailmaker’s supervision were overhauling a mainsail for repair. In the waist another party was dragging a ‘bear’ up and down the deck — a huge coir mat weighted down with sand which could scrub the planking more effectively than holystones could do. On the quarter-deck the sailing-master was holding a class in navigation, his mates and the midshipmen standing round him in a semicircle, their sextants in their hands. Hornblower walked near enough to hear one of the midshipmen, a mere child whose voice had not broken, piping up a reply to the question just shot at him.
“The parallax of an object is measured by an arc of a vertical circle intercepted between a line extended from the centre of the earth and a line — and a line — a line —”
The midshipman suddenly became conscious of the awful proximity of the Commodore. His voice quavered and died away. So far he had been quoting Node’s Epitome of Navigation with word-perfect exactitude. It was young Gerard, nephew of the second lieutenant of the Sutherland, whom Bush had taken into his ship for the sake of his uncle, still languishing in a French prison. The sailing-master’s brows drew together in a frown.
“Come, come, Mr Gerard,” he said.
Hornblower had a sudden mental picture of young Gerard bent over the breech of a gun while a lithe cane taught him at least the necessity of knowing Norie’s Epitome by heart. He intervened in hurried pity.
“‘Between a line extended from the centre of the earth’,” he said, over Gerard’s shoulder, “‘and a line extended from the eye of the observer, through the centre of the object.’ Is that correct, Mr Tooth?”
“Quite correct, sir,” said the sailing-master.
“I think Mr Gerard knew it all the time. Didn’t you, youngster?”
“Y — yes, sir.”
“I thought so. I was just your age when I learned that same passage.”
Hornblower resumed his walk, hoping that he had saved Gerard’s skinny posterior from punishment. A sudden scurrying by the midshipman of the watch to grab slate and pencil told him that one of the squadron was making a signal, and two minutes later the midshipman saluted him, message in hand.
“Lotus to Commodore. Land in sight bearing South.”
That would be Pitraga Cape, the southern headland of the entrance to the Gulf of Riga.
“Reply ‘Heave to and await Commodore’,” said Hornblower.
If the weather were not so thick the island of Oesel ought to be just in sight to the northward from the masthead. They were just passing the threshold of a new adventure. Some seventy miles ahead, at the bottom of the gulf, lay Riga, presumably even now being assailed by the armies of Bonaparte. With this mere pretence of a wind it would be a couple of days before he reached there. The fact that they were entering Russian waters again was making not the least ripple on the placid surface of the ship’s life. Everything was progressing as before, yet Hornblower felt in his bones that many of the men now entering the Gulf of Riga would never come out from it, even if any should. Even with this hot sun blazing down upon him, under this radiant sky, Hornblower felt a sudden chill of foreboding which it was hard to throw off. He himself — it was curious to think that his dead body might be buried in Russia, of all places.
Someone — the Russians, or the Swedes, or the Finns — had buoyed effectively the channel that wound its way through the treacherous shallows of the Gulf of Finland. Even though the squadron had to anchor for the night a slight freshening and veering of the wind enabled them to ascend the whole gulf by the evening of the next day. They picked up a pilot at noon, a bearded individual who wore sea-boots and a heavy jacket even on this blazing day. He proved to be an Englishman, Carker by name, who had not set eyes on his native land for twenty-four years. He blinked at Hornblower like an owl when the latter began to fire questions at him regarding the progress of the war. Yes, some cavalry patrols of French and Prussians had shown themselves advancing towards Riga. The last news of the main campaign was of desperate fighting round Smolensk, and everyone was expecting Bonaparte to be beaten there. The town was preparing itself for a siege, he believed — at least, there were plenty of soldiers there, when he had left in his cutter yesterday, and there had been proclamations calling on the people to fight to the last, but no one could imagine the French making a serious attack on the place.