“She’s seen her too,” said Bush.
“Wear ship, Captain Bush, if you please. Signal ‘general chase’.”
Nonsuch came round on the other tack, amid the curses of the officers hurled at the men for their slowness. Lotus swung round with her bow pointing straight at Blanchefleur. With the coast of Pomerania ahead, Nonsuch to windward, and Lotus and R.aven on either side, Blanchefleur was hemmed in.
“Raven must be nearly level with her over there, sir,” said Bush, rubbing his hands. “And we’ll pick the bombs up again soon, wherever they got to in the fog.”
“By the deep fourteen!” chanted the leadsman. Hornblower watched the man in the chains, whirling the lead with practised strength, dropping it in far ahead, reading off the depth as the ship passed over the vertical line, and then hauling in ready for a fresh cast. It was tiring work, continuous severe exercise; moreover, the leadsman was bound to wet himself to the skin, hauling in a hundred feet of dripping line. Hornblower knew enough about life below decks to know that the man would have small chance of ever getting his clothes dry again; he could remember as a midshipman in Pellew’s Indefatigable being at the lead that wild night when they went in and destroyed the Droits de l’homme in the Biscay surf. He had been chilled to the bone that night, with fingers so numb as almost to be unable to feel the difference between the markers—the white calico and the leather with a hole in it and all the others. He probably could not heave the lead now if he tried, and he was quite sure he could not remember the arbitrary order of the markers. He hoped Bush would have the humanity and the common sense to see that his leadsmen were relieved at proper intervals, and given special facilities for drying their clothes, but he could not interfere directly in the matter. Bush was personally responsible for the interior economy of the ship and would be quite rightly jealous of any interference; there were crumpled roseleaves in the bed even of a Commodore.
“By the mark ten!” called the leadsman.
“Raven in sight beyond the chase, sir,” reported a midshipman. “Heading to cut her off.”
“Very good,” said Hornblower.
“Rügen in sight, too, sir,” said Bush. “That’s Stubbenkammer, or whatever they call it—a white cliff, anyway.”
Hornblower swung his glass round the horizon; fate was closing in on the Blanchefleur, unless she took refuge in the waters of Swedish Pomerania. And that was clearly what she was intending to do. Bush had the chart spread out before him and was taking bearings on the distant white streak of the Stubbenkammer. Hornblower studied the chart, looked over at the distant ships, and back at the chart again. Stralsund was a fortress—it had stood more than one siege lately. If Blanchefleur got in there she would be safe if the Swedes saw fit to protect her. But the rest of the coast ahead was merely shoals and sandbanks; a couple of bays had water enough for coasting vessels—there were batteries marked in the chart to defend their entrances. Something might be attempted if Blanchefleur ran in one of those—she was probably of light enough draught—but it would be hopeless if she reached Stralsund.
“Signal Lotus,” he said. “’Setcourse to cut chase off from Stralsund’.”
In the course of the interminable war every aid to navigation had disappeared. There was not a buoy left to make the deep-water channel—the Bodden, the chart called it—up to Stralsund. Vickery in the lotus would have to look lively with the lead as he found his way into it.
“By the mark seven!” called the leadsman; Nonsuch was in dangerously shoal water already; Bush was looking anxious.
“Shorten sail, if you please, Captain Bush.”
There was no chance of Nonsuch overhauling Blanchefleur, and if they were going to run aground they might as well do so as gently as possible.
“Chase is hauling her wind, sir,” said Hurst.
So she was; she was clearly giving up the attempt to reach Stralsund. That was thanks to Vickery, who had gone charging with gallant recklessness under full sail through the shoals to head her off.
“Raven’ll have a chance at her if she holds that course long!” said Bush in high excitement.
“Chase is going on the other tack!” said Hurst.
“And a half five!” called the leadsman.
Bush was biting his lips with anxiety; his precious ship was entangling herself among the shoals on a lee shore, and there was only thirty-three feet of water under her now.
“Heave to, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower. There was no reason to run any farther now until they could see what Blanchefleur intended. Nonsuch rounded-to and lay with her port bow breasting the gentle swell. The sun was pleasantly warm.
“What’s happened to Raven?” exclaimed Bush.
The sloop’s foretopmast, with yard and sail and everything, had broken clear off and was hanging down in a frightful tangle among her headsails.
“Aground, sir,” said Hurst, glass to eye.
The force with which she had hit the sand had snapped her topmast clean off.
“She draws eight feet less than us, sir,” said Bush, but all Hornblower’s attention was directed again to Blanchefleur.
Obviously she was finding her way up a channel to the shelter of Hiddensoe. On the chart there was a single sounding marked there, a laconic ‘2½’. Fifteen feet of water, and a battery at the head of the long peninsula. Blanchefleur could reckon herself safe if the Swedes would defend her. On the horizon to windward Hornblower saw the queer topsails of the bomb-ketches; Duncan and Mound, after blundering about in the fog, must have caught sight of Nonsuch while on their way to the rendezvous off Cape Arcona.
“Send the boats to assist Raven, if you please, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hoisting longboat and cutter off their chocks and overside was an evolution calling for a couple of hundred hands. Pipes squealed and the bos’un’s cane stirred up the laggards. The sheaves squeaked in the blocks, bare feet stamped the decks, and even Nonsuch’s massive bulk heeled a little with the transfer of weight. Hornblower betook himself to his telescope again.
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.
“Baron Basse,” he said.
Hornblower bowed.
“Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower, Commodore commanding this squadron.”
Basse was a heavily jowled man with a big hook-nose and a cold grey eye; and it was obvious that he could only guess faintly at what Hornblower said.
“You fight?” he asked, with an effort.
“I am in pursuit of a privateer under French colours,” said Hornblower, and then, realizing the difficulty of making himself understood when he had to pick his words with diplomatic care: “Here, where’s Mr. Braun?”
The interpreter came forward with a brief explanation of himself in Swedish, and Hornblower watched the interplay of glances between the two. They were clearly the deadliest political enemies, meeting here on the comparatively neutral ground of a British man-o’-war. Basse brought out a letter from his breast pocket and passed it to Braun, who glanced at it and handed it to Hornblower.
“That is a letter from the Governor-General of Swedish Pomerania,” he explained, “saying that this gentleman, the Baron Basse, has his full confidence.”
“I understand,” said Hornblower.
Basse was already talking rapidly to Braun.
“He says,” explained Braun, “that he wants to know what you will do.”
“Tell him,” said Hornblower, “that that depends on what the Swedes do. Ask him if Sweden is neutral.”
Obviously the reply was not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Basse offered a lengthy explanation.
“He says that Sweden only wants to be at peace with all the world,” said Braun.
“Tell him that that means neutrality, then, and neutrality has obligations as well as privileges. There is a ship-of-war under French colours there. She must be warned that her presence in Swedish waters can only be tolerated for a limited time, and I must be informed of what the time-limit is.”
Basse’s heavy face showed considerable embarrassment at Braun’s translation of Hornblower’s demand. He worked his hands violently as he made his reply.
“He says he cannot violate the laws of international amity,” said Braun.
“Say that that is exactly what he is doing. That ship cannot be allowed to use a Swedish port as a base of operations. She must be warned to leave, and if she will not, then she must be taken over and a guard put in her to make sure she does not slip away.”
Basse positively wrung his hands as Braun spoke to him, but any reply he was going to make was cut short by Bush’s salute to Hornblower.
“The French flag of truce is alongside, sir. Shall I allow them to send someone on board?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hornblower testily.
The new figure that came in through the entry-port was even more decorative than Basse, although a much smaller man.
Across his blue coat lay the watered red silk ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and its star glittered on his breast. He, too, swept off his hat in an elaborate bow.
“The Count Joseph Dumoulin,” he said, speaking French, “Consul-General in Swedish Pomerania of His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Republic.”
“Captain Hornblower,” said Hornblower. He was suddenly excessively cautious, because his government had never recognized those resounding titles which Dumoulin had just reeled off. In the eyes of King George and his ministers, Napoleon, Emperor of the French, was merely General Bonaparte in his personal capacity, and Chief of the French Government in his official one. More than once British officers had found themselves in serious trouble for putting their names to documents—cartels and the like—which bore even incidental references to the Empire.
“Is there anyone who can speak French?” asked Dumoulin politely, “I regret bitterly my complete inability to speak English.”
“You can address yourself to me, sir,” said Hornblower, “and I should be glad of an explanation of your presence in this ship.”
“You speak admirable French, sir,” said Dumoulin. “Ah, of course, I remember. You are the Captain Hornblower who made the sensational escape from France a year ago. It is a great pleasure to meet a gentleman of such renown.”
He bowed again. It gave Hornblower a queer self-conscious pleasure to find that his reputation had preceded him even into this obscure corner of the Baltic, but it irritated him at the same time, as having nothing to do with the urgent matter in hand.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I am still waiting for an explanation of why I have the honour of this visit.”
“I am here to support M. le Baron in his statement of the belligerent position of Swedish Pomerania.”
Braun interpreted, and Basse’s embarrassment perceptibly increased.
“Boat with English colours alongside, sir,” interrupted Bush.
The man who came on board was immensely fat, and dressed in a sober black civilian suit.
“Hauptmann,” he said, bending himself at the waist; he spoke English with a thick German accent. “His Britannic Majesty’s consular agent at Stralsund.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Hauptmann?” asked Hornblower, trying not to allow himself to grow bewildered.
“I have come,” said Hauptmann—actually what he said was “I haf gome”—“to help explain to you the position here in Swedish Pomerania.”
“I see no need for explanation,” said Hornblower. “If Sweden is neutral, then that privateer must be either forced to leave or taken into custody. If Sweden is a belligerent, then my hands are free and I can take whatever steps I think proper.”
He looked round at his audience. Braun began to translate into Swedish.
“What was it you said, Captain?” asked Dumoulin.
Desperately Hornblower plunged into a French translation, and the curse of Babel descended upon the Nonsuch. Ever
yone tried to speak at once; translation clashed with expostulation. Clearly, what Basse wanted was the best of both worlds, to make both France and England believe Sweden was friendly. What Dumoulin wanted was to make sure that Blanchefleur would be enabled to continue her depredations among British shipping. Hornblower looked at Hauptmann.
“Come with me for a minute, please,” said Hauptmann. He put his fat hand on Hornblower’s shrinking arm and led him across the quarter-deck out of earshot.
“You are a young man,” said Hauptmann, “and I know you naval officers. You are all headstrong. You must be guided by my advice. Do nothing in a hurry, sir. The international situation here is tense, very tense indeed. A false move may mean ruin. An insult to Sweden might mean war, actual war instead of pretending war. You must be careful what you do.”
“I am always careful,” snapped Hornblower, “but do you expect me to allow that privateer to behave as if this were Brest or Toulon?”
Braun came over to them.
“Baron Basse asks me to say to you, sir, that Bonaparte has 200,000 men on the borders of Pomerania. He wants me to say that one cannot offend the master of an army that size.”
“That bears out what I say, Captain,” said Hauptmann.
Here came Dumoulin, and Basse after him—no one would trust any one of his colleagues to be alone with the British captain for a moment. Hornblower’s tactical instinct came to his rescue; the best defensive is a vigorous local offensive. He turned on Hauptmann.
“May I ask, sir, how His Majesty maintains a consular agent in a port whose neutrality is in doubt?”
“It is necessary because of the need for licences to trade.”
“Are you accredited to the Swedish Government by His Majesty?”
“No, sir. I am accredited by His Bavarian Majesty.”
“His Bavarian Majesty?”
“I am a subject of His Bavarian Majesty.”
“Who happens to be at war with His Britannic Majesty,” said Hornblower dryly. The whole tangle of Baltic politics, of hole-and-corner hostilities and neutralities, was utterly beyond unravelling. Hornblower listened to everyone’s pleas and expostulations until he could bear it no longer; his impatience grew at length apparent to his anxious interviewers.
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