But at least he had come into Gibraltar Bay after dawn and he was leaving before nightfall. He could not be accused of wasting any time. They had rounded the Rock; Hornblower looked into the binnacle and up at the commission pendant blowing out from the masthead.
“Full and bye,” he ordered.
“Full and bye, sir,” echoed the quartermaster at the wheel.
A keen gust of wind came blowing down out of the Sierra de Ronda, laying the Atropos over as the trimmed yards braced the sails to catch it. Over she lay; a short steep wave came after them, the remnants of an Atlantic roller that had survived its passage through the Gut. Atropos lifted her stern to it, heaving jerkily in this unnatural opposition of wind and wave. Spray burst under her counter, and spray burst round her bows as she plunged. She plunged again in the choppy sea. She was only a little ship, the smallest three-masted vessel in the service, the smallest that could merit a captain to command her. The lofty frigates, the massive seventy-fours, could condescend to her. Hornblower looked round him at the wintry Mediterranean, at the fresh clouds obscuring the sinking sun. The waves could toss his ship about, the winds could heel her over, but standing there, braced on the quarter-deck, he was master of them. Exultation surged within him as his ship hurried forward into the unknown.
The exultation even remained when he quitted the deck and descended into the cabin. Here the prospect was cheerless in the extreme. He had mortified his flesh after he had come on board his ship at Deptford. His conscience had nagged at him for the scanty hours he had wasted with his wife and children; and he had never left his ship again for a moment after he had reported her ready for sea. No farewell to Maria lying in childbed, no last parting from little Horatio and little Maria. And no purchase of cabin equipment. The furniture about him was what the ship’s carpenter had made for him, canvas chairs, a rough-and-ready table, a cot whose frame was strung with cordage to support a coarse canvas mattress stuffed with straw. A canvas pillow, straw-filled, to support his head; coarse Navy blankets to cover his skinny body. There was no carpet on the deck under his feet; the light came from a swinging and odorous ship’s lantern. A shelf with a hole in it supported a tin wash-basin; on the bulkhead above it hung the scrap of polished steel mirror from Hornblower’s meagre canvas dressing-roll. The most substantial articles present were the two sea chests in the corners; apart from them a monk’s cell could hardly have been more bare.
But there was no self-pity in Hornblower’s mind as he crouched under the low deck beams unhooking his stock preparatory to going to bed. He expected little from this world, and he could lead an inner life of the mind that could render him oblivious to discomfort. And he had saved a good deal of money by not furnishing his cabin, money which would pay the midwife’s fee, the long bill at the “George”, and the fare for the carrier’s cart which would convey Maria and the children to lodge with her mother at Southsea. He was thinking about them—they must be well on their way now—as he drew the clammy blankets over himself and rested his cheek on the rough pillow. Then he had to forget Maria and the children as he reminded himself that as the Atropos’ junction with the fleet was so imminent he must exercise the midshipmen and the signal ratings in signalling. He must devote a good many hours to that, and there would not be much time to spare, for the creaking of the timbers, the heave of the ship, told him that the wind was holding steady.
The wind continued to hold fair. It was at noon on the sixth day that the lookout hailed the deck.
“Sail ho! Dead to loo’ard.”
“Bear down on her, Mr. Jones, if you please. Mr. Smiley! Take a glass and see what you make of her.”
This was the second of the rendezvous which Collingwood had named in his orders. Yesterday’s had been barren, off Cape Carbomara. Not a sail had been sighted since leaving Gibraltar. Collingwood’s frigates had swept the sea clear of French and Spanish shipping, and the British Levant convoy was not due for another month. And no one could guess what was going on in Italy at this moment.
“Captain, sir! She’s a frigate. One of ours.”
“Very well. Signal midshipman! Be ready with the private signal and our number.”
Thank Heaven for all the signalling exercise he had been giving during the last few days.
“Captain, sir! I can see mastheads beyond her. Looks like a fleet.”
“Very well, Mr. Jones, I’ll have the gunner make ready to salute the flag, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was the Mediterranean Fleet, a score of ships of the line, moving slowly in two columns over the blue sea under a blue sky.
“Frigate’s Maenad, 28, sir.”
“Very well.”
Reaching out like the tentacles of a sea monster, the scouting frigates lay far ahead of the main body of the fleet, four of them, with a fifth far to windward whence most likely would appear ships hostile or friendly. The air was clear; Hornblower on the quarter-deck with his glass to his eye could see the double column of topsails of ships of the line, close hauled, every ship exactly the same distance astern of her predecessor. He could see the vice-admiral’s flag at the foremast of the leader of the weather line.
“Mr. Carslake! Have the mail-bags ready for sending off.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
His own packet of despatches for Collingwood was handy in his cabin.
“Signal midshipman! Can’t you see the flagship’s making a signal?”
“Yes, sir, but the flags are blowing straight away from us. I can’t make them out.”
“What do you think the repeating frigate’s for? Use your eyes.”
“General signal, sir. Number 41. That is ‘tack’, sir.”
“Very well.”
As Atropos had not yet officially joined the Mediterranean squadron a general signal could not apply to her. Down came the signal from the flagship’s yardarm; that was the executive moment. Round came the flagship’s yards; round came the yards of the scouting frigates, and of the leader of the lee column. One by one, at precise intervals, the succeeding ships in the columns came round in order; Hornblower could see the momentary backing and filling of the mizzen-topsails which maintained the ships so exactly spaced. It was significant that the drill was being carried out under all plain sail, and not merely under the “fighting sails”. There was something thrilling in the sight of this perfection of drill; but at the same time something a little disturbing. Hornblower found himself wondering, with a qualm of doubt, if he would be able to maintain Atropos so exactly in station now that the time had come to join the fleet.
The manoeuvre was completed now on; its new tack the fleet was steadily plunging forward over the blue sea. There was more bunting fluttering at the flagship’s yardarm.
“General signal, sir. ‘Hands to dinner.’ ”
“Very well.”
Hornblower felt a bubbling of excitement within him as he stood and watched. The next signal would surely be for him.
“Our number, sir! Flag to Atropos. Take station to windward of me at two cables’ lengths.”
“Very well. Acknowledge.”
There were eyes turned upon him everywhere on deck. This was the moment of trial. He had to come down past the screening frigates, cross ahead of what was now the weather column, and come to the wind at the right moment and at the right distance. And the whole fleet would be watching the little ship. First he had to estimate how far the flagship would progress towards his starboard hand while he was running down to her. But there was nothing for it but to try; there was some faint comfort in being an officer in a fighting service where an order was something that must be obeyed.
“Quartermaster! Port a little. Meet her. Steady as you go! Keep her at that! Mr. Jones!”
“Aye aye, sir.”
No need for an order to Jones. He was more anxious—at least more apparently anxious—than Hornblower was. He had the hands at the braces trimming the yards already. Hornblower looked up at yards and commission pendant to
assure himself that the bracing was exact. They had left the Maenad behind already; here they were passing Amphion, one of the central frigates in the screen. Hornblower could see her lying over as she thrashed to windward, the spray flying from her bows. He turned back to look at the flagship, nearly hull up, at least two of her three rows of checkered gunports visible.
“Port a little! Steady!”
He resented having to give that additional order; he wished he could have headed straight for his station with no alteration of course. The leading ship—she wore a rear admiral’s flag—of the weather column was now nearly on his port beam. Four cables’ length was the distance between the two columns, but as his station was to windward of the flagship, nearly on her starboard beam, he would be by no means between the two ships, nor equidistant from them. He juggled in his mind with the scalene triangle that could be drawn connecting Atropos with the two flagships.
“Mr. Jones! Clue up the mizzen tops’l.” Now Atropos would have a reserve of speed that he could call for if necessary. He was glad that he had subjected his crew to ceaseless sail drill ever since leaving Dept-ford. “Stand by the mizzen tops’l sheets.”
The reduction in the after-sail would make Atropos a little slower in coming to the wind; he must bear it in mind. They were fast approaching their station. His eye darted from one column of ships to the other; he could see all the starboard sides of one and all the port sides of the other. It might be useful to take sextant angles, but he would rather trust his eye in a trigonometrical problem as uncomplicated as this. His judgment told him this must be the moment. The bows were pointing at the flagship’s jib-boom.
“Port your helm,” he ordered. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the little ship’s response would be delayed. Perhaps— He had to keep his voice steady. “Bring her to the wind.”
The wheel spun over. There was a nervous second or two. Then he felt the heel of the ship alter under his feet; and he saw the flagship come round on Atropos’ port beam, and he knew Atropos was turning.
“Steady!”
The yards were braced up; strong arms were hauling on the tacks. A moment or two while Atropos regained the small amount of way she had lost through her turn; but even making allowance for that he could see that the flagship was slowly head-reaching on her.
“Mr. Jones! Sheet home the mizzen tops’l.”
With the mizzen topsail drawing full they would head-reach in turn upon the flagship.
“Keep the hands at the braces there!”
Occasionally spilling the wind from the mizzen topsail would enable Atropos to keep her speed equal to the flagship’s. Hornblower felt the wind on his neck; he looked up at the pendant and at the flagship. He was exactly to windward of her, and there was two cables’ lengths between them.
“Mr. Jones! You may begin the salute.”
Fifteen guns for a vice-admiral, a minute and a quarter to fire them. That might be long enough for him to regain his composure, and for his heart to resume its normal rate of beating. Now they were part of the Mediterranean Fleet, the tiniest, most insignificant part of it. Hornblower looked down the massive lines of ships ploughing along behind them, three-deckers, two-deckers, ships of a hundred guns and ships of seventy-four, the ships which had fought at Trafalgar, the roar of whose cannons had dashed from Bonaparte’s lips the heady cup of world domination. On the invisibly distant Mediterranean shores that encompassed them armies might march, kings might be set up and kings might be pulled down; but it was these ships which in the end would decide the destiny of the world, as long as the men who sailed them retained their skill, as long as they remained ready to endure danger and hardship, as long as the government at home remained resolute and unafraid.
“Our number, sir! Flag to Atropos. ‘Welcome.’ ”
“Reply to Flag. ‘Respectful greetings.’ ”
Eager hands worked vigorously on the signal halliards.
“Signal ‘Atropos to Flag. Have aboard dispatches and letters for fleet’.”
“Flagship acknowledges, sir.”
“Flagship’s signalling again,” announced Still; from a point of vantage on the weather side he could see through his glass enough of the flagship’s quarter-deck, despite the fact that she was heeling away from him, to make out that signal ratings were bending fresh flags on the halliards. The dark lumps soared up to the flagship’s yardarm and broke into gaily-coloured bunting.
“General signal. ‘Heave to on the starboard tack.’ ”
“Acknowledge, Mr. Jones! Clue up the courses.”
Hornblower watched the hands at the clue-garnets and buntlines, the hands at the tacks and sheets.
“Signal’s down, sir.”
Hornblower had already seen the first movement of descent.
“Back the mizzen tops’l. Let her come up.”
Atropos rode easily, just meeting the waves with her bow, as the sharp struggle with the wind changed to yielding acquiescence, like a girl’s resistance giving way in her lover’s arms. But this was no time for that sort of sentimental simile—here was another long signal from the flagship.
“General signal. ‘Send to’—our number, sir—‘for letters.’ ”
“Mr. Carslake! Have those mail-bags on deck at once. You’ll have a boat from every ship in the fleet alongside.”
It was at least a month—it might well be two—since any letters had reached the Fleet from England. Not a newspaper, not a word. Possibly some of the ships present had not yet seen the accounts in the press of the victory they had won at Trafalgar four months before. Atropos had brought a respite from the dreadful isolation in which a fleet at sea habitually lived. Boats would be hastening as fast as sail or oar could drive them to collect the pitifully lean mail-bags.
Another signal.
“Our number, sir. ‘Flag to Atropos. Come and report’ ”
“Call away my gig.”
He was wearing the shabbier of his two coats. There was just time, when he ran below to get the packets of dispatches, to change his coat, to pass a comb through his hair, and twitch his neckcloth into position. He was back on deck just as his gig touched the water. Lusty work at the oars carried him round to the flagship. A chair dangled at her side, now almost lipped as a wave rose at it, now high above the water as the wave passed on. He had to watch carefully for his chance; as it was there was an uncomfortable moment when he hung by his arms as the gig went away from under him. But he managed to seat himself, and he felt the chair soar swiftly upwards as the hands above hauled on the tackle. The pipes shrilled as his head reached the level of the main-deck and the chair was swung in. He stepped aboard with his hand to the brim of his hat.
The deck was as white as paper, as white as the gloves and the shirts of the sideboys. Gold leaf gleamed in the sun, the most elaborate Turks’ heads adorned the ropework. The King’s own yacht could not be smarter than the quarter-deck of the Ocean—that was what could be done in the flagship of a victorious admiral. It was as well to remember that Collingwood’s previous flagship, the Royal Sovereign, had been pounded into a mastless hulk, with four hundred dead and wounded on board her, at Trafalgar. The lieutenant of the watch, his telescope quite dazzling with polished brass and pipe-clayed twine, wore spotless and un-wrinkled white trousers; the buttons on his well-fitting coat winked in the sunshine. It occurred to Hornblower that to be always as smart as that, in a ship additionally crowded by the presence of an admiral and his staff, could be by no means easy. Service in a flagship might be the quick way to promotion, but there were many crumpled petals in the bed of roses. The flag captain, Rotherham—Hornblower knew his name; it had appeared in a hundred newspaper accounts of Trafalgar—and the flag lieutenant were equally smart as they made him welcome.
“His Lordship is awaiting you below, sir,” said the flag lieutenant. “Will you come this way?”
Collingwood shook hands with him in the great cabin below. He was a large man, stoop-shouldered, with a pleasant smile. He eagerly took the pac
kets Hornblower offered him, glancing at the superscriptions. One he kept in his hands, the others he gave to his secretary. He remembered his manners as he was about to break the seal.
“Please sit down, captain. Harkness, a glass of Madeira for Captain Hornblower. Or there is some Marsala that I can recommend, sir. Please forgive me for a moment. You will understand when I tell you these are letters from my wife.”
It was an upholstered chair in which Hornblower sat; under his feet was a thick carpet; there were a couple of pictures in gilt frames on the bulkheads; silver lamps hung by silver chains from the deck-beams. Looking round him while Collingwood eagerly skimmed through his letters, Hornblower thought of all this being hurriedly bundled away when the Ocean cleared for action. But what held his attention most was two long boxes against the great stern windows. They were filled with earth and were planted with flowers—hyacinths and daffodils, blooming and lovely. The scent of the hyacinths reached Hornblower’s nostrils where he sat. There was something fantastically charming about them here at sea.
“I’ve been successful with my bulbs this year,” said Collingwood, putting his letters in his pocket and following Hornblower’s glance. He walked over and tilted up a daffodil bloom with sensitive fingers, looking down into its open face. “They are beautiful, aren’t they? Soon the daffodils will be flowering in England—some time, perhaps, I’ll see them again. Meanwhile these help to keep me contented. It is three years since I last set foot on land.”
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