“That’s no-man’s-land between the two forces, I fancy,” he said. “The Russians must be holding the village as an outwork on the left bank of the river.”
“Couldn’t all those fires be French fires, sir?” asked Mound. “Or Russian fires?”
“No,” said Hornblower. “Soldiers don’t bivouac if they can billet in villages with roofs over their heads. If two armies weren’t in presence they’d all be comfortably asleep in the cottagers’ beds and barns.”
There was a long pause while Mound digested this.
“Two fathoms, sir,” he said, at length. “I’d like to bear up, if I may.”
“Very good. Carry on. Keep as close inshore as you think proper.”
The Harvey came round with the wind abeam, half a dozen hands hauling lustily on the mainsheet. There was the moon, rising round and red over the land; the dome of the church was silhouetted against it. A sharp cry came from the forward lookout.
“Boat ahead! Fine on the port bow, sir. Pulling oars.”
“Catch that boat if you can, Mr Mound,” said Hornblower.
“Aye aye, sir. Starboard two points! Clear away the gig. Boat’s crew stand by!”
They could see the dim shape of the boat not far ahead; they could even see the splashes of the oars. It occurred to Hornblower that the rowers could not be men of much skill, and whoever was in charge was not very quick in the uptake if he wanted to avoid capture; he should have headed instantly for shoal water if he wanted to avoid capture, while as it was he tried to pit oars against sails — a hopeless endeavour even with that light breeze blowing. It was several minutes before they turned for the shore, and during that time their lead was greatly reduced.
“Hard-a-lee,” roared Mound. “Away, gig!”
Harvey came into the wind, and as she lost her way the gig dropped into the water with the boat’s crew falling into it.
“I want prisoners!” roared Hornblower at the departing boat.
“Aye aye, sir,” came the reply as the oars tore the water.
Under the impulse of the skilled oarsmen the gig rapidly was overtaking the strange boat; they could see the distance narrowing as the two boats disappeared in the faint light. Then they saw the orange-red flashes of half a dozen pistol-shots, and the faint reports reached them over the water directly after.
“Let’s hope they’re not Russans, sir,” said Mound.
The possibility had occurred to Hornblower as well, and he was nervous and uncomfortable, but he spoke bluffly —
“Russians wouldn’t run away. They wouldn’t expect to find Frenchmen at sea.”
Soon the two boats, rowing slowly, emerged from the gloom.
“We’ve got ’em all, sir,” said a voice in reply to Mound’s hail.
Five prisoners were thrust up onto the deck of the Harvey, one of them groaning with a pistol bullet through his arm. Someone produced a lantern and shone it on them, and Hornblower heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that the star which glittered on the breast of the leader was the Legion of Honour.
“I would like to know monsieur’s name and rank,” he said, politely, in French.
“Jussey, chef de bataillon du corps de Génie des armées de l’Empéreur.”
A major of engineers; quite an important capture. Hornblower bowed and presented himself, his mind working rapidly on the problem of how to induce the major to say all he knew.
“I regret very much the necessity of taking M. le chef de bataillon prisoner,” he said. “Especially at the beginning of such a promising campaign. But good fortune may allow me the opportunity of arranging a cartel of exchange at an early date. I presume M. le chef de bataillon has friends in the French Army whom he would like informed of what has happened to him? I will take the opportunity of the first flag of truce to do so.”
“The Marshal Duke of Tarentum would be glad to hear,” said Jussey, brightening a little. “I am on his staff.”
The Marshal Duke of Tarentum was Macdonald, the local French commander-in-chief — son of a Scottish exile who had fled after the Young Pretender’s rebellion — so that it seemed likely that Jussey was the chief engineer, a bigger catch than Hornblower had hoped for.