The Commodore. C. S. Forester

Brown, the good servant, was already in the cabin — God only knew how he had picked up the warning — with a lighted lantern to hang on the deck beam above, and he had trousers and coat ready for Hornblower to pull over his nightshirt. Hornblower rushed up to the dark quarter-deck, cannoning into another hurrying figure as he did so.

“Damn your eyes,” said the figure, in Bush’s voice, and then, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

The ship was alive with the twittering of the pipes as the hands were summoned from their hammocks, and the main-deck resounded with the drumming of bare feet. Montgomery, officer of the watch, was at the starboard rail.

“Raven sent up a rocket, sir, two minutes back. Bearin’ sou’-by-east.”

“Wind’s west-by-north,” decided Bush, looking down into the tiny light of the binnacle.

A westerly wind and a dark blustery night; ideal conditions for Macdonald to try and push a force across the river mouth. He had twenty big river barges, into which he could cram 5,000 men and a few guns; if he once managed to push a force of that size across the river the Russian position would be hopelessly turned. On the other hand, if he were to lose a force of that size — 5,000 men killed or drowned or prisoners — it would be a staggering blow which might well give him pause and so gain time for the Russians. A fortified position, in the final analysis, was only a means of gaining time. Hornblower hoped most passionately that the French flotilla had been allowed to thrust its head well into the noose before Cole in the Raven gave the alarm.

A shout from the mast-head claimed his attention.

“Gunfire to loo’ard, sir!”

From the deck they could just see a pinpoint of flame stab the darkness far to the westward, and then another one.

“That’s too far to the west’ard,” said Hornblower to Bush.

“I’m afraid it is, sir.”

At anchor on the very edge of the shoals in that direction was the Raven; it was her light draught that had dictated her position there. Vickery in Lotus guarded the other bank of the river, while Nonsuch perforce still lay anchored in the fairway. All the armed boats of the squadron were rowing guard in the mouth of the river — a navy cutter with a three-pounder could be counted on to deal with a river barge, even if the latter did carry 300 soldiers. But from the direction of the gunfire it looked as if Vickery had given the alarm prematurely. Another gun flashed to leeward; the wind prevented them from hearing the sound of it.

“Call my barge,” ordered Hornblower. He felt he could not stay here in useless suspense.

The boat pushed off from the Nonsuch, the men tugging at the oars to move the boat in the teeth of the wind. Brown, in the darkness beside Hornblower, felt his captain’s restlessness and anxiety.

“Pull, you b—!” he shouted at the rowers. The boat crawled forward over the tossing water, with Brown standing in the sternsheets with his hand on the tiller.

“‘Nother gun, sir. Right ahead,” he reported to Hornblower.

“Very good.”

A tedious quarter of an hour followed, while the boat lurched and pitched over the steep little waves, and the hands slaved away at the oars. The wash of the seas overside and the groaning of the oars against the thole-pins made a monotonous accompaniment to Hornblower’s racing thoughts.

“There’s a whole lot o’ guns firin’ now, sir,” reported Brown.

“I can see them,” replied Hornblower. The darkness was pierced by shot after shot; it was evident that the guard-boats were all clustered round a single victim. “There’s Raven, sir. Shall I make for her?”

“No. Steer for the firing.”

The dark shape of the sloop was just visible ahead; Brown put his helm over a little to lay the barge on a course that would take her past the sloop at a cable’s length distance, heading for the gunfire. They had drawn up abeam of the sloop when there came a flash and a roar from her side, and a shot howled close overhead.

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