Blanchefleur had found herself a curious anchorage. She lay between the main island of Rügen and the long narrow strip of Hiddensoe; the latter was more of a sandspit than an island, a thread of sand-dunes emerging from the yellow shallows. In fact Blanchefleur’s spars were still in plain sight against the background of the low mud cliffs of Rügen; it was only her hull which was concealed by the dunes of Hiddensoe lying like a long curving breakwater in front of her. On one end of Hiddensoe was a battery – Hornblower could see the silhouettes of the guns, black against the green of the grass-grown embrasures – which covered one entrance to the tiny roadstead ; at the other end the breaking waves showed that there was not water enough even for a ship’s longboat to pass. The squadron had succeeded in cutting off the privateer’s escape into Stralsund, but it seemed as if she were just as safe where she was now, with miles of shoals all round her and a battery to protect her; any attempt to cut her out must be made by the ship’s boats, rowing in plain view for miles through the shallows, then through a narrow channel under the guns of the battery, and finally bringing out the prize under the same guns and over the unknown shoals. That was not a tempting prospect; he could land marines on the seaward front of Hiddensoe and try to storm the battery by brute force, but the attempt would be inviting a bloody repulse if there were no surprise to cover the assaulting party. Besides, the battery’s garrison would be Swedes, and he did not want to shed Swedish blood – Sweden was only a nominal enemy, but any vigorous action on his part might easily make her an active one. Hornblower remembered the paragraphs of his instructions which bore on this very point
As if in echo to his thoughts the signal midshipman saluted with a new report.
“Signal from Lotus, sir.”
Hornblower read the message written in crude capitals on the slate.
“Flags of truce coming out from Stralsund. Have allowed them to pass.”
“Acknowledge,” said Hornblower.
What the devil did that mean? One flag of truce he could expect, but Vickery was reporting two at least. He swung his glass over to where Vickery had very sensibly anchored Lotus, right between Blanchefleur’s refuge and any possible succour from Stralsund. There were one – two – three – small sails heading straight for the Nonsuch, having just rounded Lotus. They were all of them of the queer Baltic rig, like Dutchmen with a foreign flavour – rounded bows and lee-boards and big gaff-mainsails. Close-hauled, with the white water creaming under their blunt bows and the spray flying in sheets even in this moderate breeze, they were clearly being sailed for all they were worth, as if it were a race.
“What in God’s name?” said Bush, training his glass on them.
It might be a ruse to gain time. Hornblower looked round again at the spars of Blanchefleur above the sandspit. She had furled everything and was riding at anchor.
“White above yellow and blue, sir,” said Bush, still watching the approaching boats. “That’s Swedish colours under a flag of truce.”
Hornblower turned his glass on the leader and confirmed Bush’s decision.
“The next one, sir -” Bush laughed apologetically at his own innocence, “I know it’s strange, sir, but it looks just like the British ens’n under a flag of truce.”
It was hard to believe; and it was easy to make a mistake in identifying a small boat’s flag at that distance. But Hornblower’s glass seemed to show the same thing.
“What do you make of that second boat, Mr Hurst?”
“British colours under white, sir,” said Hurst without hesitation.
The third boat was some long way astern, and her colours were not so easy to make out.
“French, I think, sir,” said Hurst, but the leading boat was approaching fast now.
It was a tall portly gentleman who was swung up on to the deck in the bos’un’s chair, clinging to his cocked hat. He wore a blue coat with gold buttons and epaulettes, and he hitched his sword and his stock into position before laying the hat – a fore-and-aft one with a white plume and a Swedish cockade – across his chest in a sweeping bow.