Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “There she is, sir! One point before the starboard beam!”

  “Very well!”

  With the moderation of the squall it was just possible to carry on a conversation with the masthead from the deck.

  “She’s there all right, sir,” said Bush, training his glass.

  As Hotspur lifted to a wave Hornblower saw her topsails, not very plainly. They were braced sharp round, presenting only their edge to his telescope. Hotspur was at least four miles to windward of her.

  “Look! She’s going about, sir!”

  The topsails were broadening into oblongs; they wavered for a moment, and then settled down; they were braced round now parallel to the Hotspur’s topsails; the two ships were now on the same tack.

  “She went about the moment she was sure who we were, sir. She’s still playing hide-and-seek with us.”

  “Hide-and-seek? Mr. Bush, I believe we are at war.”

  It was hard to make that momentous statement in the quiet conversational tone that a man of iron nerve would employ; Hornblower did his best. Bush had no such inhibitions. He stared at Hornblower and whistled. But he could follow now the same lines of thought as Hornblower had already traced.

  “I think you’re right, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower said that spitefully, to his instant regret. It was not fair to make Bush pay for the tensions his captain had been experiencing; nor was it in accord with Hornblower’s ideal of imperturbability to reveal that such tensions had existed. It was well that the next order to be given would most certainly distract Bush from any hurt he might feel.

  “I think you had better send the hands to quarters, Mr. Bush. Clear for action, but don’t run out the guns.”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  Bush’s grin revealed his instant excitement. Now he was bellowing his orders. The pipes were twittering through the ship. The marine drummer came scrambling up from below. He was a child of no more than twelve, and his equipment was all higgledy-piggledy. He made not only a slap-dash gesture of coming to attention on the quarter-deck, he quite omitted the formal drill of raising the drumsticks high before he began to beat the long roll, so anxious was he to begin.

  Prowse approached; as acting-master his station in battle was on the quarter-deck beside his captain.

  “She’s broad on the starboard beam now, sir,” he said, looking over at the Loire. “She took a long time to go about. That’s what you’d expect.”

  One of the factors that had entered into Hornblower’s calculations was the fact that Hotspur would be quicker in stays than the Loire. Bush came up, touching his hat.

  “Ship cleared for action, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bush.”

  Now here was navy life epitomized in these few minutes. A moment of decision, of bustle, and excitement, and then—settle down to a long wait again. The two ships were thrashing along close-hauled, four miles apart. Hotspur almost dead to windward of the Loire. Those four miles, that direction of the wind, conferred immunity upon Hotspur. As long as she could preserve that distance she was safe. If she could not—if some accident occurred—then the Loire’s forty eighteen-pounders would make short work of her. She could fight for honour, but with no hope of victory. Clearing for action was hardly more than a gesture; men would die, men would be horribly mutilated, but the result would be the same as if Hotspur had tamely surrendered.

  “Who’s at the wheel?” asked Prowse of nobody in particular, and he walked over to supervise the steering—perhaps his thoughts were running along those same lines.

  The boatswain came rolling aft; as the warrant officer charged with the general supervision of sails and rigging he had no particular station in action, and was justified in moving about. But he was being very formal at the moment. He took off his hat to Bush, instead of merely touching it, and stood holding it, his pigtail thumping his shoulders in the gale. He must be asking permission to speak.

  “Sir,” said Bush. “Mr. Wise is asking on behalf of the hands, sir. Are we at war?”

  Yes? Or no?

  “The Frogs know, and we don’t—yet, Mr. Wise.” There was no harm in a captain admitting ignorance when the reason for it should be perfectly clear as soon as the hands had time to consider the matter, as they would have. This might be the time to make a resplendent speech, but second thoughts assured Hornblower it was not. Yet Hornblower’s instinct told him that the situation demanded something more than his last bald sentence.

  “Any man in this ship who thinks there’s a different way of doing his duty in peacetime is likely to have his back scratched, Mr. Wise. Say that to the hands.”

  That was sufficient for the occasion; Prowse was back again, squinting up at the rigging and gauging the behaviour of the ship.

  “Do you think she could carry the main-topmast stays’l, sir?”

  That was a question with many implications, but there was only one answer.

  “No,” said Hornblower.

  That staysail might probably give Hotspur a little more speed through the water. But it would lay her over very considerably, which along the additional area exposed to the wind would increase her leeway by an appreciable proportion. Hornblower had seen Hotspur in dry dock, knew the lines of the turn of her bilge, and could estimate the maximum angle at which she could retain her grip on the water. Those two factors would balance out, and there was a third one to turn the scale—any increase in the amount of canvas exposed would increase the chances of something carrying away. A disaster, petty or great, from the parting of a line to the loss of a topmast, would thrust Hotspur haplessly within range of the enemy’s guns.

  “If the wind moderates that’s the first extra canvas I’ll set,” went on Hornblower to modify the brusqueness of his refusal, and he added, “Take note of how that ships bears from us.”

  “I’ve done that, sir,” answered Prowse; a good mark to Prowse.

  “Mr. Bush! You may dismiss the watch below.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  This chase—this race—might continue for hours, even for days, and there was no purpose in fatiguing all hands prematurely. The gale developed a new gust within itself, hurling rain and spray across the deck; the Loire faded from sight again as he looked at her, while the Hotspur plunged and tossed like a toy boat as she battled against wind and wave.

  “I wonder how many hands are sea-sick over there?” said Hornblower. He uttered that distasteful word in the same way that a man might tease a sore tooth.

  “A good few, I dare say, sir,” answered Bush in a completely neutral tone.

  “Call me when she’s in sight again,” said Hornblower. “Call me in any case of need, of course.”

  He said these words with enormous dignity. Then it was an exhausting physical exercise to struggle aft again back into his cabin; his dizziness exaggerated the leaping of the deck under his feet, and the swing of his cot as he sank groaning across it. It was Bush himself who roused him later on.

  “Weather’s clearing, sir,” came Bush’s voice through the cabin door, over the clamour of the storm.

  “Very well. I’ll come.”

  A shadowy shape was already visible to starboard when he came out, and soon the Loire was revealed sharply as the air cleared. There she was, lying steeply over, yards braced up, her gun ports plain enough to be counted when she rose level again, spray bursting in clouds over her weather bow, and then, as she lay over again, a momentary glimpse, pinky-brown, of her copper bottom. Hornblower’s eye told him something that Prowse and Bush put simultaneously into words.

  “She’s head-reaching on us!” said Bush.

  “She’s a full point for’rard of the beam now,” said Prowse.

  The Loire was going faster through the water than Hotspur, gaining in the race to that extent. Everyone knew that French ship designers were cleverer than English ones; French ships were usually faster. But in this particular case it might mean tragedy. But there was worse news than this.

  “I
think, sir,” said Bush, slowly, as if each word caused him pain, “she’s weathering on us, too.”

  Bush meant that the Loire was not yielding to the same extent as the Hotspur to the thrust of the wind down to leeward; relatively Hotspur was drifting down upon the Loire, closer to her guns. Hornblower, with a twinge of apprehension, knew that he was right. It would only be a question of time, if the present weather conditions persisted, before the Loire could open her ports and commence fire. So the simplest way of keeping out of trouble was denied him. If Hotspur had been the faster and the more weatherly of the two he could have maintained any distance he chose. His first line of defence was broken through.

  “It’s not to be wondered at,” he said. He tried to speak coldly, or nonchalantly, determined to maintain his dignity as captain. “She’s twice our size.”

  Size was important when clawing to windward. The same waves battered against small ships as against big ones, but they would push the small ships farther to leeward; moreover the keels of big ships reached down farther below the surface, farther below the turbulence, and maintained a better hold in the more tranquil water.

  The three telescopes, as of one mind, trained out towards the Loire.

  “She’s luffing up a little,” said Bush.

  Hornblower could see the Loire’s topsails shiver momentarily. She was sacrificing some of her headway to gain a few yards to windward; having superior speed through the water she could afford to do so.

  “Yes. We’ve drawn level with her again,” said Prowse.

  That French captain knew his business. Mathematically, the best course to take when trying to close on a ship to windward was to keep the ship being chased right in the wind’s eye, and that was where the Hotspur now found herself again, relative to the Loire, while the latter, resuming her former course, closehauled, was twenty or thirty yards nearer to her in the direction of the wind. A gain of twenty or thirty yards, repeated often enough, and added to the steady gain resulting from being the more weatherly ship, would eventually close the gap.

  The three telescopes came down from the three eyes, and Hornblower met the gaze of his two subordinates. They were looking to him to make the next move in this crisis.

  “Call all hands, if you please, Mr. Bush. I shall put the ship about.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Here was a moment of danger. If Hotspur were mishandled she was lost. If she missed stays—as she once had done with Cargill handling her—she would lie dead in the water for minutes, sagging down to leeward with the Loire coming up fast upon her, while in this gale the sails might thrash themselves to ribbons leaving her more helpless still, even if nothing more vital carried away. The operation must be carried out to perfection. Cargill by coincidence was officer of the watch. He could be given the task. So might Bush, or Prowse. But Hornblower knew perfectly well that he could not tolerate the thought of anyone other than himself bearing the responsibility, whether in his own eyes or in those of the ship’s company.

  “I’m going to put the ship about, Mr. Cargill,” he said, and that fixed the responsibility irrevocably.

  He walked over the wheel, and stared round him. He felt the tension, he felt the beating of his heart, and noticed with momentary astonishment that this was pleasurable, that he was enjoying this moment of danger. Then he forced himself to forget everything except the handling of the ship. The hands were at their stations; every eye was on him. The gale shrieked past his ears as he planted his feet firmly and watched the approaching seas. This was the moment.

  “Handsomely, now,” he growled to the hands at the wheel. “Put your wheel down.”

  There was a brief interval before Hotspur answered. Now her bow was turning.

  “Helm’s alee!” shouted Hornblower.

  Headsail sheets and bowlines were handled, with Hornblower watching the behaviour of the ship like a tiger stalking its prey.

  “Tacks and sheets!” and then turning back to the wheel. “Now! Hard over!”

  She was coming rapidly into the wind.

  “Mains’l haul!” The hands were keyed up with the excitement of the moment. Bowlines and braces were cast off and the yards came ponderously round at the exact moment that Hotspur was pointing directly into the wind.

  “Now! Meet her! Hard over!” snapped Hornblower to the wheel. Hotspur was turning fast, and still carrying so much way that the rudder could bite effectively, checking the swing before she could turn too far.

  “Haul off all!”

  The thing was done; Hotspur had gone from one tack to the other without the unnecessary loss of a second or a yard, thrashing along now with her starboard bow butting into the waves. But there was no time to feel relief or pleasure; Hornblower hurried to the port quarter to train his glass on the Loire. She was tacking naturally; the mathematics of the theory of the pursuit to windward demanded that the pursuer should tack at the same moment as the pursued. But she was bound to be a little late; her first inkling that Hotspur was about to tack would be when she saw her fore-topsail shiver, and even if Loire had all hands at their stations for going about the Hotspur would have two minutes’ grace. And she was far slower in stays. Even now, when Hotspur was settled on the new tack with every inch of sail drawing, the Loire’s fore-topsail was still shivering, her bows were still turning. The longer she took to go about the more distance she would lose in the race to windward.

  “We’ve weathered on her, sir,” said Prowse, watching through his glass. “Now we’re head reaching on her.”

  Hotspur had won back some of her precious lead, and Hornblower’s second line of defence was proving at least stronger than his first.

  “Take the bearing again,” ordered Hornblower.

  Once settled on the new tack the Loire’s natural advantages asserted themselves once more. She showed her extra speed and extra weatherliness; she drew up again from Hotspur’s quarter to her beam; then she could luff up briefly and gain a little more to windward on the Hotspur. The minutes passed like seconds, an hour like a minute, as the Hotspur plunged along, with every man braced on the heeling deck and the wind shrieking.

  “Time to go about again, sir?” asked Bush, tentatively and greatly daring, but the theoretically correct moment was passing.

  “We’ll wait a little longer,” said Hornblower. “We’ll wait for that squall.”

  It was hurtling down wind upon them, and as it reached them the world was blotted out with driving rain. Hornblower turned from the hammock netting over which he was peering and climbed up the steep deck to the wheel. He took the speaking-trumpet.

  “Stand by to go about.”

  In the gusts that were blowing the crew could hardly hear what he said, but every eye was on him, everyone was alert, and, drilled as they were, they could not mistake his orders. It was a tricky business to tack while the squall prevailed, because the gusts were liable to veer a point or two, unpredictably. But the Hotspur was so handy—as long as the manoeuvre was well timed—that she had a good deal to spare for emergencies. The slight change in the wind’s direction which threatened to take her aback was defeated because she still had sufficient steerage way and command to keep her swinging. The gust died away and the blinding chilly rain ceased while the hands were trimming all sharp, and the last of the squall drove off to leeward, still hiding the Loire from view.

  “That’s done him!” said Bush with satisfaction. He was revelling in the mental picture of the Loire still thrashing along on the one tack while the Hotspur was comfortably on the other and the gap between the two ships widening rapidly.

  They watched the squall travelling over the foam-flecked grey water, shrieking towards France. Then in the thickness they saw a more solid nucleus take shape; they saw it grow sharper in outline.

  “God—” exclaimed Bush; he was too disconcerted, too dumb founded, to finish the oath. For there was Loire emerging from the squall, comfortably on the same tack as Hotspur, plunging along in her relentless pursuit with the distance in n
o way diminished.

  “That’s a trick we won’t try a second time,” said Hornblower. He was forcing a smile, tight-lipped.

  The French captain was no fool, evidently. He had observed the Hotspur delaying past the best moment for tacking, he had seen the squall engulfing her, and had anticipated her action. He must have tacked at the very same moment. In consequence he had lost little while tacking, and that little had been regained by the time the two ships were in sight of each other once more. Certainly he was a dangerous enemy. He must be one of the more able captains that the French navy possessed. There were several who had distinguished themselves in the last war; true, in consequence of the over-powering British naval strength, most of them had ended the war as prisoners, but the Peace of Amiens had set them free.

  Hornblower turned away from Bush and Prowse and tried to pace the heeling deck, to think out all the implications. This was a dangerous situation, as dangerous as the worst he had envisaged. Inexorably wind and wave were forcing Hotspur closer to the Loire. Even as he tried to pace the deck he felt her shudder and lurch, out of the rhythm of her usual pitch and roll. That was the ‘rogue wave’, generated by some unusual combination of wind and water, thumping against Hotspur’s weather side like a battering ram. Every few seconds rogue waves made themselves felt, checking Hotspur’s way and pushing her bodily to leeward; Loire was encountering exactly similar rogue waves, but with her greater size she was not so susceptible to their influence. They played their part along with the other forces of nature in closing the gap between the two ships.

  Supposing he were compelled to fight a close action? No, he had gone through that before. He had a good ship and well-trained crew, but on this tossing sea that advantage would be largely discounted by the fact that the Loire provided a steadier gun platform. Odds of four to one in weight of metal were greater than it was advisable to risk. Momentarily Hornblower saw himself appearing in the written history of the future. He might have the distinction of being the first British captain in the present war to fall a victim of the French navy. What a distinction! Then even in the cold gale blowing round him he could feel the blood hot under his skin as he pictured the action. Horrors presented themselves in endless succession to the crack of doom like the kings in Macbeth. He thought of death. He thought of being a prisoner of war; he had experienced that already in Spain and only by a miracle he had achieved release. The last war had gone on for ten years; this one might do the same. Ten years in prison! Ten years during which his brother officers would be gaining fame, distinguishing themselves, making fortunes in prize money while he would fret himself to pieces in prison, emerging at the end a cranky eccentric, forgotten by all his world—forgotten even by Maria, he fancied. He would rather die, just as he would rather die than be mutilated; or so he thought (he told himself brutally) until the choice should be more imminently presented to him. Then he might well flinch, for he did not want to die. He tried to tell himself that he was not afraid of death, that he merely regretted the prospect of missing all the interesting and amusing things that life held in store for him, and then he found himself sneering at himself for not facing the horrid truth that he was afraid.