Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “The semaphore’s been signalling, sir,” he reported. “Two long messages at fifteen minutes past four and four-thirty. Two short ones at—there they go again, sir.”

  The long gaunt arms of the semaphore were jerkingly swinging out and up and back again.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bush.” It was sufficient to know that the semaphore had been busy. Hornblower took the glass and trained it out to seaward. The Inshore Squadron was sharply silhouetted against the clear sky; the sun, just down on the horizon, was still so bright that he could not look towards it at all, but the squadron was well to the northward of it.

  “Tonnant’s signalling again, sir, but it’s a ninety-one signal,” reported Foreman.

  “Thank you.”

  It had been agreed that all flag-signals from Tonnant preceded by the numerals ninety-one should be disregarded; Tonnant was only making them to deceive the French on Petit Minou into thinking some violent action was being planned by the inshore squadron.

  “There goes Naiad, sir,” said Bush.

  Under easy sail the frigate was creeping northward from her station to the south where she had been watching over Carnaret Bay, heading to join the big ships and the Doris. The sun was now touching the sea; small variations in the water content of the nearly clear air were causing strange freaks of refraction, so that the reddening disc was lightly out of shape as it sank.

  “They’re heaving the long boat up out of its chocks, sir,” commented Bush.

  “Yes.”

  The sun was half-way down in the sea, the remaining half pulled by refraction into twice its normal length. There was still plenty of light for an observer with a good glass on Petit Minou—and undoubtedly there was one—to pick out the preparations going on on the Doris’s deck and in the big ships. The sun had gone. Above where it had sunk a small sliver of cloud shone brilliantly gold and then turned to pink as he looked. Twilight was closing in on them.

  “Send the hands to the braces, if you please, Mr. Bush. Fill the main-tops’l and lay her on the starboard tack.”

  “Starboard tack. Aye aye, sir.”

  Hotspur crept northward through the growing night, following after Doris, heading towards the big ships and Point Matthew.

  “There goes the semaphore again, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was just light enough in the darkening sky to see the telegraphic arms silhouetted against it, as they spun round, signalling the latest move on the part of the British, this concentration towards the north—this relaxing of the hold of the British navy on the passages of the south.

  “Only just keep her going,” said Hornblower to the quartermasters at the helm. “Don’t let the Frogs see what we’re up to.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hornblower was feeling nervous; he did not want to leave the Toulinguet Passage too far behind him. He turned his glass towards the inshore squadron. Now there was a strip of red sky along the horizon behind it—the last light of day—and against it the sails of the ships of the line stood out in startling black. The red was fading rapidly, and above it Venus could be seen; Pellew over there was holding on to the last possible moment. Pellew was not only a man of iron nerve; he was a man who never underestimated his enemy. At last; the rectangles of the silhouetted topsails shortened, hesitated, and lengthened again.

  “Inshore Squadron’s hauled its wind, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Already the topsails were out of sight with the complete fading of the sky. Pellew had timed the move perfectly. A Frenchman on Petit Minou could not help but think that Pellew, looking towards the night-covered east, had thought that his ships were now invisible, and had come to the wind without realizing that the move could still be seen by an observer looking towards the west. Hornblower stared round him. His eyes were aching, so that with his hands on the hammock netting he closed his eyes to rest them. Never had a minute seemed so long as that one. Then he opened them again. The light was all gone. Venus was shining where once the sun had shone. The figures about him were almost invisible. Now one or two of the brighter stars could be seen, and Hotspur must be lost to sight, to that unknown observer on Petit Minou. He gulped, braced himself, and plunged into action.

  “Take in the tops’ls and topgallants!”

  Hands rushed aloft. In the gentle night the vibration of the shrouds as fifty men ran up the ratlines could be distinctly heard.

  “Now, Mr. Bush, wear the ship, if you please. Course sou’ by west.”

  “Sou’ by west, sir.”

  Soon it was time for the next order.

  “Send the topgallant masts down!”

  This was the time when drill and practice revealed their value. In the dark night what had once been a mere toilsome exercise was performed without a hitch.

  “Set the fore and main topmast stays’ls. Get the fores’l in.”

  Hornblower walked over to the binnacle.

  “How does she handle under this sail?”

  There was a pause while the almost invisible figure at the wheel spun it tentatively this way and that. “Well enough, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Hornblower had altered the silhouette of the Hotspur as entirely as he could. With only her fore and aft sails and her main course set, and her topgallant masts sent down, even an experienced seaman on this dark night would have to look twice or thrice to recognize what he saw. Hornblower peered at the chart in the faint light of the binnacle. He concentrated on it, to find the effort unnecessary. For two days now he had been studying it and memorizing this particular section; it was fixed in his mind and it seemed as if he would be able to visualize it to his dying day—which might be today. He looked up, to find, as he expected, that exposure to that faint light had temporarily made his eyes quite blind in the darkness. He would not do it again.

  “Mr. Prowse! You can keep your eye on the chart from now on when you think it necessary. Mr. Bush! Choose the best two hands you know with the lead and send them aft to me.” When the two dark figures reported Hornblower gave them curt orders. “Get into the main chains on each side. I don’t want you to make a sound more than you can help. Don’t make a cast unless I order it. Haul your lines in and then let ‘em out to four fathoms. We’re making three knots through the water, and when the flood starts we’ll be making next to nothing over the ground. Keep your fingers on your lines and pass the word quietly about what you feel. I’ll station hands to pass the word. Understand?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Four bells struck to mark the end of the second dog watch.

  “Mr. Bush, that’s the last time I want the bell to strike. Now you may clear for action. No, wait a moment, if you please. I want the guns loaded with two rounds of shot each and run out. Have the coigns in and the guns at extreme depression. And as soon as the men are at their quarters I don’t want to hear another sound. Not a word, not a whisper. The man who drops a hand-spike on the deck will get two dozen. Not the slightest sound.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Very well, Mr. Bush. Carry on.”

  There was a roar and a rattle as the hands went to their quarters, as the gun-ports opened and the guns were run out. Then silence closed in upon the ship. Everything was ready, from the gunner down in the magazine to the look-out in the foretop, as the Hotspur reached silently down to the southward with the wind one point abaft the beam.

  “One bell in the first watch, sir,” whispered Prowse, turning the sand-glass by the binnacle. An hour ago the flood tide had started to make. In another half-hour the clustered coasters to the southward, huddled under the shelter of the batteries at Camaret, would be casting off; no, they would be doing that at this moment, for there should be just enough water for them. They would be sweeping and hedging out, to run with the flood up the dangerous Toulinguet Passage, round the point and up the Goulet. They would hope to reach the Little Girls and safety, as the tide carried them into Brest Roads where the provisions and the cordage and the
canvas with which they were laden were so eagerly awaited by the French fleet. To the north, back at the Petit Minou, Hornblower could imagine the bustle and the excitement. The movements of the Inshore Squadron must have been noted. Sharp eyes on the French shore had told anxious minds of the insufficiently concealed preparations for a concentration of force and a heavy blow. Four ships of the line and two big frigates could muster a landing force—even without drawing on the main fleet—of a thousand men or more. There were probably twice as many French infantry and artillery-men along the coast there, but, spread out along five miles, they were vulnerable to a sharp attack launched at an unexpected point on a dark night. There was a large accumulation of coasting vessels there as well, sheltering under the batteries on the far side of Cape Matthew. They had crept from battery to battery for hundreds of miles—spending weeks in doing so—and now were huddled in the little creeks and bays waiting for a chance to complete the last and most dangerous run into Brest. The menacing approach of the inshore squadron would make them nervous in case the British meditated some new attack, a cutting-out expedition, or fireships, or bombvessels, or even these newfangled rockets. But at least this concentration of the British strength to the north left the south unwatched, as the signal station of Petit Minou would report. The coasters round Camaret—chasse-marees, tide-chasers—would be able to take advantage of the tide run through the horribly dangerous Toulinguet Passage up into the Goulet. Hornblower was hoping, in fact he was confident, that Hotspur had not been seen to turn back to stop this bolt hole. She drew six feet of water less than any frigate, hardly more than the big chasse-marees, and were she boldly handled her arrival among the rocks and shoals of Toulinguet would be totally unexpected.

  “Two bells, sir,” whispered Prowse. This was the moment when the tide would be running at its fastest, a four knot tide, rising a full thirty feet, racing up through Toulinguet Passage and round the Council Rocks into the Goulet. The hands were behaving well; only twice had restless individuals started skylarking in the darkness, to be instantly suppressed by stern mutterings from the petty officers.

  “Touching bottom to starboard, sir,” came a whisper from the gangway, and instantly afterwards, “Touching bottom to port.”

  The hands at the leads had twenty-four feet of line out between the leads and the surface of the water, but with the ship moving gently in this fashion even the heavy leads trailed behind to some extent. There must be some sixteen feet only—five feet to spare.

  “Pass the word. What bottom do you feel?”

  In ten seconds the answer came back. “Sandy bottom, sir.”

  “That must be well off Council Rocks, sir,” whispered Prowse.

  “Yes. Quartermaster, one point to starboard.”

  Hornblower stared through the night-glass. There was the shadowy shore-line just visible. Yes, and there was a gleam of white, the gentlest of surfs breaking on Council Rocks. A whisper from the gangway.

  “Rocky bottom now, sir, shoaling a little.”

  “Very well.”

  On the starboard bow he could see faint whiteness too. That was the surf on all the wild tangle of rocks and shoals outside the Passage—Corbin, Trepieds, and so on. The tiny night breeze was still holding steady.

  “Pass the word. What bottom?”

  The question awaited an answer for some time, as the chain of communication broke down and the answer had to be repeated. At last it came.

  “Rocky bottom, sir. But we’re hardly moving over the ground.”

  So Hotspur was now stemming the rising tide, hanging suspended in the darkness, less than a yard of water under her keel, the tide rushing past her, the wind thrusting her into it. Hornblower worked out problems in his head.

  “Quartermaster, two points to port.”

  It called for nice calculation, for now Hotspur was braced sharp up—twice the staysails had flapped in warning—and there was leeway to be allowed for as Hotspur crept crabwise across the tide.

  “Mr. Bush, go for’ard to the port side main chains and come back to report.”

  What a lovely night it was, with this balmy air sighing through the rigging, the stars shining and the gentle sound of the surf.

  “We’re moving over the ground, sir,” whispered Bush. “Rocky bottom, and the port side lead’s under the ship.”

  Hotspur’s crabwise motion would produce that effect.

  “Three bells, sir,” reported Prowse.

  There would be water enough now for the coasters to negotiate the shoals off Rougaste and to have entered into the channel. It could not be long now, for the tide flowed for no more than four and a half hours and the coasters could not afford to waste time—or so he had calculated when he had made his suggestion to Pellew, for this moonless night with the tide making at this particular moment. But it might of course all end in a ridiculous fiasco, even if Hotspur did not touch on one of the menacing rocks that beset her course.

  “Look, sir! Look!” whispered Bush urgently. “One point before the beam!”

  Yes. A shadowy shape, a darker nucleus on the dark surface. More than that; the splash of a sweep at work. More than that; other dark shapes beyond. There had been fifty coasters, by the last intelligence, at Camaret, and the chances were they would try the run all together.

  “Get down to the starboard battery, Mr. Bush. Warn the guns’ crews. Wait for my order, and then make every shot tell.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Despite the precautions he had taken, Hotspur would be far more visible than the coasters; she should have been observed from them by now; except that the Frenchmen would be preoccupied with their problems of navigation. Ah! There was a yell from the nearest coaster, a whole series of hails and shouts and warnings.

  “Open fire, Mr. Bush!”

  A red glare in the darkness, an ear-splitting bang, the smell of powder smoke. Another glare, another bang. Hornblower fumbled for the speaking-trumpet, ready to make himself heard through the firing. But Bush was behaving admirably, and the gunners were keeping their heads, with the guns going off singly as the captains made sure of their targets. With the guns depressed the two round-shot hurtling from each would sweep the smooth surface of the sea. Hornblower thought he could hear shrieks from the stricken coasters, but the guns were firing at only the briefest intervals. The gentle wind swept the smoke along the ship, clouds of it billowing in dark waves round Hornblower. He leaned out to keep clear of it. The din was continuous now, as guns fired, as the carriage-trucks rumbled over the deck, as gun-captains bellowed orders. The flash of a gun illuminated something close overside—a sinking coaster, deck level with the water. Her frail side must have been beaten in by half a dozen round-shot. A yell from the main chains cut through the din.

  “Here’s one of ‘em coming aboard!”

  Some desperate swimmer had reached the Hotspur; Hornblower could leave Bush to deal with prisoners of that sort. There were more dark shapes to starboard, more targets presenting themselves. The mass of the coasters was being hurried along by the three-knot tide which Hotspur was stemming by the aid of the wind. Tug at their sweeps as they might, the French crews could not possibly counter the tide. They could not turn back; to turn aside was possible—but on one side were the Council Rocks, on the other were Corbin and Trepieds and the whole tangle of reefs roundabout them. Hotspur was having experiences like those of Gulliver; she was a giant compared with these Lilliputian coasters after having been a dwarf in her encounter with the Brobdingnagian Loire.

  Fine on the port bow Hornblower caught sight of half a dozen pin-points of fire. That would be the battery on Toulinguet, two thousand yards away. At that range they were welcome to try their luck, firing at Hotspur’s gun flashes. Hotspur, still travelling slowly over the ground, was a moving target, and the French would be disturbed in their aim through fear of hitting the coasters. Night-firing in those conditions was a waste of powder and shot. Foreman was yelling, wild with excitement, to the crew of the quarter-deck carronade.


  “She’s aground! Drop it—dead ‘un!”

  Hornblower swung round to look; the coaster there was undoubtedly on the rocks and consequently not worth firing at. He mentally gave a mark of approval to Foreman, who despite his youth and his excitement was keeping his head, even though he made use of the vocabulary of the rat-killing pit.

  “Four bells, sir,” reported Prowse amid the wild din. That was an abrupt reminder to Hornblower that he must keep his head, too. It was hard to think and to calculate, harder still to recall his visualization of the chart, and yet he had to do so. He realized that Hotspur could have nothing to spare over on the landward side.

  “Wear the ship—Mr. Prowse,” he said; he remembered just too late to use the formal address completely naturally. “Get her over on the port tack.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Prowse seized the speaking-trumpet and somewhere in the darkness disciplined men hurried to sheets and braces. As Hotspur swung about another dark shape came down at her from the channel.

  “Je me rends! Je me rends!” a voice was shouting from it.

  Someone in that coaster was trying to surrender before Hotspur’s broadside could blow her out of the water. She actually bumped against the side as the current took her round, and then she was free—her surrender had been premature, for now she was past Hotspur and vanishing in the farther darkness.

  “Main chains, there,” yelled Hornblower. “Take a cast of the lead.”

  “Two fathoms!” came the answering cry. There was only six inches under Hotspur’s keel, but now she was drawing away from the perils on one side and approaching those on the other.

  “Man the port-side guns! Keep the lead going on the starboard!”

  Hotspur was steady on her new course as another unhappy coaster loomed up. In the momentary stillness Hornblower could hear Bush’s voice as he called the port-side guns’ crews to attention, and then came the crash of the firing. The smoke billowed round, and through the clouds came the cry of the leadsman.