Hornblower was throwing discretion to the winds; he was determined on a good breakfast. And those winds to which he had thrown discretion suddenly asserted themselves. With hardly a warning puff there was a sudden gust which almost took Hotspur aback, and with it, while Hotspur paid off and recovered herself, there came driving rain, an April shower, icy cold. Hornblower shook off Grimes the first time he appeared to report that breakfast was ready, and only went off with him on his second appearance, after Hotspur was steady on her course again. With the weather clearing and daylight growing there was little time he could spare.
“I’ll be on deck again in ten minutes, Mr. Young,” he said.
The chart-room was a minute compartment beside his cabin—cabin, chart-room, and the captain’s pantry and head occupied the whole space of the Hotspur’s tiny poop. Hornblower squeezed himself into the chair at the little table.
“Sir,” said Grimes. “You didn’t come when breakfast was ready.”
Here were the eggs. The rim of the whites was black; the yolks were obviously hard.
“Very well,” growled Hornblower. He could not blame Grimes for that.
“Coffee, sir?” said Grimes. With the chart-room door shut he was wedged against it hardly able to move. He poured from a jug into a cup, and Hornblower sipped. It was only just hot enough to drink, which meant that it was not hot enough, and it was muddy.
“See that it’s hotter than this another time,” said Hornblower. “And you’ll have to strain it better than this.”
“Yes, sir.” Grimes’ voice seemed to come from a great distance. The man could hardly whisper. “Sir—”
Hornblower looked up at him; Grimes was cold with fright.
“What is it?”
“I kept these to show you, sir.” Grimes produced a pan containing a bloody and stinking mess. “The first two eggs was bad, sir. I didn’t want you to think—”
“Very well.” Grimes was afraid in case he should be accused of stealing them. “Take the damned things away.”
Now was it not exactly like Mrs Mason to buy eggs for him of which half were bad? Hornblower ate his unpleasant eggs—even these two, although not exactly bad, were flavoured—while reconciling himself with the prospect of making up for it all with the jam. He spread a biscuit with the precious butter, and here was the jam. Blackcurrant! Of all the misguided purchases! Grimes, squeezing back into the chart-room, positively jumped as Hornblower let out the oath that had been seeking an outlet for several minutes.
“Sir?”
“I’m not speaking to you, damn you,” said Hornblower, his restraint at an end.
Hornblower was fond of jam, but of all the possible varieties he liked blackcurrant least. It was a poor last best. Well, it would have to do; he bit at the iron-hard biscuit.
“Don’t knock at the door when you’re serving a meal,” he said to Grimes.
“No, sir. I won’t sir. Not any more, sir.”
Grimes’s hand holding the coffeepot was shaking, and when Hornblower looked up he could see that his lips were trembling too. He was about to ask sharply what was the matter, but he suppressed the question as the answer became apparent to him. It was physical fear that was affecting Grimes. A word from Hornblower could have Grimes bound to a grating at the gangway, there to have the flesh flogged from the bones of his writhing body. There were captains in the navy who would give just that order when served with such a breakfast. There would never be a time when more things went wrong than this.
There was a knocking at the door.
“Come in!”
Grimes shrank against the bulkhead to avoid falling out through the door as it opened.
“Message from Mr. Young, sir,” said Orrock. “Wind’s veering again.”
“I’ll come,” said Hornblower.
Grimes cowered against the bulkhead as he pushed his way out; Hornblower emerged on to the quarter-deck. Six dozen eggs, and half of them bad. Two pounds of coffee—far less than a month’s supply if he drank coffee every day. Blackcurrant jam, and not much even of that. Those were the thoughts coursing through his mind as he walked past the sentry, and then they were expunged by the blessed air from the sea, and the instant approach of professional problems.
Prowse was peering out to port through his telescope; it was almost full daylight, and the haze had dissipated with the rain.
“Black Stones broad on the port-beam, sir,” reported Prowse. “You can see the breakers sometimes.”
“Excellent,” said Hornblower. At least his breakfast troubles had kept him from fretting during these final minutes before entering on to a decisive day. In fact he had actually to pause for several seconds to collect his thoughts before issuing the orders that would develop the plans already matured in his fevered mind.
“Do you have good eyesight, Mr. Orrock?”
“Well, sir—”
“Have you or haven’t you?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“Then take a glass and get aloft. See what you can see of the shipping as we pass the entrance to the roadstead. Consult with the look-out.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bush. Call the hands.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Not for the first time Hornblower was reminded of the centurion in the New Testament who illustrated his authority by saying: ‘I say to one, come, and he cometh, and to another, go, and he goeth.’ The Royal Navy and the Roman Army were identical in discipline.
“Now, Mr. Prowse. How far is the horizon now?”
“Two miles, sir. Perhaps three miles,” answered Prowse, looking round and collecting his thoughts after being taken by surprise by the question.
“Four miles, I should think,” said Hornblower.
“Maybe, sir,” admitted Prowse.
“Sun’s rising. Air’s clearing. It’ll be ten miles soon. Wind’s north of west. We’ll go down to the Parquette.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr. Bush, get the topgallants in, if you please. And the courses. Tops’ls and jib’s all we need.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
That way they would attract less notice; also they would, by moving more slowly, have longer for observation as they crossed the passage that led into Brest.
“Sunset on a clear day,” said Hornblower to Prowse, “would be a better moment. Then we could look in with the sun behind us.”
“Yes, sir. You’re right, sir,” answered Prowse. There was a gleam of appreciation in his melancholy face as he said this; he knew, of course, that the Goulet lay almost east and west, but he had not made any deductions or plans on that basis.
“But we’re here. We have this chance. Wind and weather serve us now. It may be days before we have another opportunity.”
“Yes, sir,” said Prowse.
“Course east by south, Mr. Prowse.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hotspur crept along. The day was cloudy but clear, and the horizon was extending every minute. There was the mainland of France, Pointe St. Mathieu—Point Matthew—in plain view. From there the land trended away out of sight again.
“Land on the lee bow!” yelled Orrock from the foretopmast-head.
“That’ll he the other headland, sir,” said Prowse.
“Toulinguet,” agreed Hornblower and then he corrected his pronunciation of ‘Toolingwette’. For months or years to come he might be beating about this coast, and he wanted no chance of misunderstanding with any of his officers when he gave orders.
Between those two headlands the Atlantic broke in through the wild Breton coast and reached deep inland to form the roadstead of Brest.
“Can you make out the channel yet, Mr. Orrock?” yelled Hornblower.
“Not yet, sir. At least, not very well.”
A ship of war—a King’s ship—approaching a foreign coast was under a handicap on this sort of mission in peacetime. She could not enter into foreign territorial waters (except under stress of weather) without
permission previously asked and obtained; she certainly could not trespass within the limits of a foreign naval base without occasioning a series of angry notes between the respective governments.
“We must keep out of long cannon shot of the shore,” said Hornblower.
“Yes, sir. Oh yes, of course, sir,” agreed Prowse.
The second more hearty agreement was called forth when Prowse realized the implications of what Hornblower was saying. Nations asserted sovereignty over all the waters that could he dominated by their artillery, even if there was no cannon mounted at any particular point. In fact international law was hardening into a convention fixing an arbitrary limit of three miles.
“Deck!” yelled Orrock. “I can see masts now. Can just see ‘em.”
“Count all you can see, very carefully, Mr. Orrock.”
Orrock went on with his report. He had an experienced sailor beside him at the masthead, but Hornblower, listening, had no intention of trusting entirely to their observation, and Bush was fuming with impatience.
“Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. “I’ll be wearing ship in fifteen minutes. Would you be so kind as to take a glass to the mizzen topmast-head? You’ll have a good chance of seeing all that Orrock’s seeing. Please take notes.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush.
He was at the mizzen shrouds in a moment. Soon he was running up the ratlines at a speed that would have been a credit to any young seaman.
“That makes twelve of the line, sir,” yelled Orrock. “No topmasts hoisted. No yards crossed.”
The seaman beside him interrupted his report.
“Breakers on the lee bow!”
“That’s the Parquette,” said Hornblower.
The Black Stones on the one side, the Parquette on the other, and, farther up, the Little Girls in the middle, marked off the passage into Brest. On a clear day like this, with a gentle wind, they were no menace, but lives by the hundred had been lost on them during storms. Prowse was pacing restlessly back and forward to the binnacle taking bearings. Hornblower was carefully gauging the direction of the wind. If the French squadron had no ship of the line ready for sea there was no need to take risks. A shift in the wind might soon find Hotspur embayed on a lee shore. He swept his glass round the wild coast that had grown up round his horizon.
“Very well, Mr. Prowse. We’ll wear ship now, while we can still weather the Parquette.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Priowse’s relief was obvious. His business was to keep the ship out of danger, and he clearly preferred a wide margin of safety. Hornblower looked around at the officer of the watch.
“Mr. Poole! Wear the ship, if you please.”
The pipes shrilled and the orders were passed. Hands went to the braces as the helm was put up while Hornblower scanned the shore warily.
“Steady as you go!”
Hotspur settled sweetly on her new course. Hornblower was growing intimate with her ways, like a bridegroom learning about his bride. No, that was an unlucky simile, to be discarded instantly. He hoped that he and Hotspur were better suited to each other than he and Maria. And he must think about something else.
“Mr. Bush! Mr. Orrock! You will please come down when you are sure you will see nothing more useful.”
The ship was alive with a new atmosphere; Hornblower was sensitively aware of it as the hands went about their duties. Everyone on board was conscious that they were bearding Boney in his den, that they were boldly looking into the principal naval base of France, proclaiming the fact that England was ready to meet any challenge at sea. High adventure was looming up in the near future. Hornblower had the gratifying feeling, that during these past days he had tempered a weapon ready for his hand, ship and ship’s company ready for any exploit, like a swordsman knowing well the weight and balance of his sword before entering upon a duel.
Orrock appeared, touching his hat, and Hornblower listened to his report. It was fortunate that Bush in the mizzentop still had a view up the Goulet and had not descended; reports should be made independently, each officer out of the hearing of the other, but it would have been tactless to ask Bush to stand aside. Bush did not descend for several more minutes; he had methodically taken notes with paper and pencil, but Orrock could hardly be blamed for not having done so. The thirteen or fourteen ships of the line at anchor in the Roads were none of them ready for sea and three of them were missing at least one mast each. There were six frigates, three with their topmasts sent up and one with her yards crossed and sails furled.
“That will be the Loire,” commented Hornblower to Bush.
“You know about her, sir?” asked Bush.
“I know she’s there,” answered Hornblower. He would gladly have explained further, but Bush was going on with his report, and Hornblower was content to have something more added to his reputation for omniscience.
On the other hand, there was considerable activity in the roadstead. Bush had seen lighters and tenders moving about, and believed he had identified a sheer hulk, a vessel rigged solely for the purpose of putting new masts into large ships.
“Thank you, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. “That is excellent. We must look in like this every day if possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Constant observations would increase their information in geometrical progression—ships changing anchorage, ships sending up topmasts, ships setting up their rigging. The changes would be more significant than anything that could be deduced from a single inspection.
“Now let’s find some more fishing boats,” went on Hornblower.
“Yes, sir.”
Bush trained his glass out towards the Parquette, whose sullen black rocks, crowned by a navigation beacon, seemed to rise and fall as the Atlantic swell surged round them.
“There’s one in the lee of the reef there, sir,” said Bush.
“What’s he doing there?”
“Lobster pots, sir,” reported Bush. “Getting in his catch, I should say, sir.”
“Indeed?”
Twice in his life Hornblower had eaten lobster, both occasions being during those bleak bitter days when under the compulsion of hunger and cold he had acted as a professional gambler in the Long Rooms. Wealthy men there had called for supper, and had tossed him an invitation. It was a shock to realize that it was only a fortnight ago that that horrible period in his life had ended.
“I think,” said Hornblower, slowly, “I should like lobster for my supper tonight. Mr. Poole! Let her edge down a little towards the reef. Mr. Bush, I would be obliged if you would clear away the quarter-boat ready for launching.”
The contrast between these days and those was quite fantastic. These were golden April days; a strange limbo between peace and war. They were busy days, during which Hornblower had friendly chats with fishing boats’ captains and dispensed gold pieces in exchange for a small portion of their catch. He could drill his crew and he could take advantage of those exercises to learn all he could about the behaviour of the Hotspur. He could peep up the Goulet and measure the preparation of the French fleet for sea. He could study this Gulf of Iroise—the approaches to Brest, in other words—with its tides and its currents. By observing the traffic there he could obtain an insight into the difficulties of the French naval authorities in Brest.
Brittany was a poor province, neither productive nor well-populated, at the extremity of France, and by land the communications between Brest and the rest of the country were most inferior. There were no navigable rivers, no canals. The enormously ponderous materials to equip a fleet could never be brought to Brest by road. The artillery for a first-rate weighed two hundred tons; guns and anchors and shot could only be brought by sea from the foundries in Belgium round to the ships in Brest. The mainmast of a first-rate was a hundred feet long and three feet thick; only ships could transport those, in fact only ships specially equipped.
To man the fleet that lay idle in Brest would call for twenty thousand men. The seamen—what seaman there
were—would have to march hundreds of miles from the merchant ports of Le Havre and Marseille if they were not sent round by sea. Twenty thousand men needed food and clothing, and highly specialized food and clothing moreover. The flour to make biscuit, the cattle and pigs and the salt to salt them down, and the barrel-staves in which to store them—where were they to come from? And provisioning was no day-to-day, hand-to-mouth operation, either. Before going to sea the ships would need rations for a hundred days—two million rations to be accumulated over and above daily consumption. Coasting vessels by the hundred were needed—Hornblower observed a constant trickle of them heading into Brest, rounding Ushant from the north and the Pointe du Raz from the south. If war should come—when war should come—it would be the business of the Royal Navy to cut off this traffic. More particularly it would be the business of the light craft to do this—it would be Hotspur’s business. The more he knew about all these conditions the better.
These were the thoughts that occupied Hornblower’s mind as Hotspur stood in once more past the Parquette for a fresh look into Brest. The wind was south-easterly this afternoon, and Hotspur was running free—creeping along under topsails—with her look-outs posted at her mastheads in the fresh morning sunshine. From foremast and mizzenmast came two successive hails.
“Deck! There’s a ship coming down the channel!”
“She’s a frigate, sir!” That was Bush supplementing Cheeseman’s report.
“Very well,” hailed Hornblower in return. Maybe the appearance of the frigate had nothing to do with his own evolutions in the Iroise, but the contrary was much more likely. He glanced round the ship; the hands were engaged in the routine of holystoning the decks, but he could effect a transformation in five minutes. He could clear for action or he could set all sail at a moment’s notice.
“Steady as you go,” he growled at the quartermaster. “Mr. Cargill, we’ll hoist our colours, if you please.”
“There she is, sir,” said Prowse. The glass showed a frigate’s topgallant sails; she was reaching down the Goulet with a fair wind, on a course that would intersect Hotspur’s some miles ahead.
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