Hornblower shook himself with an effort out of this nightmare, to find that Braun was obviously still in his. The hatred in his eyes, the intensity of his expression were quite startling. And then someone knocked on the cabin door and Braun came out of his dream and slipped instantly into his old attitude of attentive deference.
“Come in,” shouted Hornblower.
It was one of the midshipmen of the watch.
“Mr Montgomery sent me with this signal from Raven, sir.”
He held out the slate; it was scrawled with the words written on it by the signal officer.
Have met Swedish vessel desirous of speaking with Commodore.
“I’ll come on deck,” said Hornblower. “Ask the captain if he’ll be kind enough to come too.”
“The cap’n’s on deck, sir.”
“Very good.”
Bush and Montgomery and half a dozen officers had their glasses trained towards the topsails of the Raven at her station far out on the port beam as the squadron swept up the Baltic. There was still an hour of daylight left.
“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “I’d be obliged if you would have the helm put up and run down towards her.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And signal for the squadron to take up night stations, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Nonsuch heaved her ponderous self about, lying over as she took the wind abeam while the watch hauled aft on the starboard braces.
“There’s a sail just astern of Raven, sir,” said Montgomery. “Looks like a brig. A Swede from the cut of her tops’ls, sir. One of those Baltic traders you see in Leith Roads.”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower.
It would not be long before he heard what the news was. It might well be – it probably would be – something desperately unpleasant. Some new load of responsibility for his shoulders, for certain, even if it told of no actual disaster. He found himself envying Montgomery his simple duties of officer of the watch, with nothing more to do than simply obey orders and keep an eye on the weather, with the blessed obligation of having to refer all important decisions to a superior. Hornblower made himself stand still on the quarter-deck, his hands clasped behind him, as Nonsuch and the brig approached each other, as first the brig’s courses and then her hull came up over the horizon. To the west the sky was a flaming crimson, but twilight lingered on as the brig came up into the wind.
“Captain Bush,” said Hornblower, “will you heave to, if you please? They are putting a boat overside.”
He would not display vulgar curiosity by staring at the boat as it was launched, or by looking down into it as it came alongside; he paced peacefully up and down the quarter-deck in the lovely evening, looking in every direction save towards the boat, while the rest of the officers and the men chattered and stared and speculated. Yet Hornblower, for all his air of sublime indifference, turned to face the entry-port at the exact moment when the visitor was coming in over the side. The first thing Hornblower saw was a fore-and-aft cocked hat with a white plume that seemed familiar, and then under the hat appeared the heavy face and portly form of Baron Basse. He laid the hat across his chest to make his bow just as he had done before.
“Your servant, sir,” said Hornblower, saluting stiffly. He was handicapped by the fact that although he could remember Basse very well, and could have described him to perfection, he did not remember his name. He turned to the midshipman of the watch. “Pass the word for Mr Braun.”
The Swedish gentleman was saying something, but what it was Hornblower could not imagine.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Hornblower, and Basse repeated what he said, with no more success at conveying his meaning. He began once more laboriously, but cut himself short when he saw Hornblower distractedly looking away from him towards the entry-port. Hornblower was doing his best to be polite, but he could see a bearskin headdress coming in at the entry-port, and that was too intriguing a sight for him possibly to withstand its attraction. A big bearskin cap with a red plume, a bristling red moustache, a scarlet tunic, a red sash, a profusion of gold lace, blue pantaloons with a red stripe, high boots, a sword whose golden hilt glowed strangely in the fading light; that was the uniform of the Guards, surely. The wearer of the uniform was undersized for a guardsman, but he certainly knew his ceremonial; his hand was at the salute to the quarter-deck as he came in through the entry-port, and then he strode forward on short legs and brought his heels together in a smart Guards salute to Hornblower.