It was what Hornblower had been hoping for; it was for this reason that he had laid his course so as to be on this spot at this moment. All the seaboard of Catalonia, as far south as Barcelona and beyond, was in the hands of the French, and a tumultuous French army—the ‘Account of the Present War in Spain’ estimated it at nearly eighty thousand men—was endeavouring to extend its conquests southwards and inland.
But they had Spanish roads to contend against as well as Spanish armies. To supply an army eight thousand strong, and a large civilian population as well, was impossible by land over the Pyrenean passes, even though Gerona had surrendered last December after a heroic defence. Food and siege materials and ammunition had to be sent by sea, in small craft which crept along the coast, from shore battery to shore battery, through the lagoons and the shallows of the coast of the Gulf of Lions, past the rocky capes of Spain, as far as Barcelona.
Since Cochrane’s recall, this traffic had met with hardly any interference from the British in the Mediterranean. When Hornblower first reached his rendezvous off Palamos Point he had been careful to disappear again over the horizon immediately, so as to give no warning of the approach of a British squadron. He had hoped that the French might grow careless. With the wind nearly in the east, and Cape Creux running out almost directly eastwards, there was a chance that some supply ship or other, compelled to stand far out from the land to weather the point, might be caught at dawn out of range of the shore batteries, having neglected to make this dangerous passage at night. And so it had proved.
“Hoist the colours, Mr. Gerard,” said Hornblower. “And call all hands.”
“The brig has wore, sir,” hailed the lookout. “She’s running before the wind.”
“Head so as to cut her off, Mr. Gerard. Set stu’ns’ls both sides.”
Before the wind, and with only the lightest of breezes blowing, was the Sutherland’s best point of sailing, as might be expected of her shallow build and clumsy beam. In these ideal conditions she might easily have the heels of a deep-laden coasting brig.
“Deck, there!” hailed the lookout. “The brig’s come to the wind again, sir. She’s on her old course.”
That was something very strange. If the chase had been a ship of the line, she might have been challenging battle. But a mere brig, even a brig of war, would be expected to fly to the shelter of the shore batteries. Possibly she might be an English brig.
“Here, Savage. Take your glass and tell me what you can see.”
Savage dashed up the main rigging at the word.
“Quite right, sir. She’s closehauled again on the starboard tack. We’ll pass her to leeward on this course. She’s wearing French national colours, sir. And she’s signalling now, sir. Can’t read the flags yet, sir, and she’s nearly dead to leeward, now.”
What the devil was the brig up to? She had settled her own fate by standing to windward again; if she had dashed for the land the moment she had sighted the Sutherland she might possibly have escaped. Now she was a certain capture—but why was the French brig signalling to a British ship of the line? Hornblower sprang up on to the rail; from there he could see the brig’s topsails over the horizon, as she held her windward course.
“I can read the signal now, sir. MV.”
“What the devil does MV mean?” snapped Hornblower to Vincent, and then regretted that he had said it. A look would have done as well.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Vincent, turning the pages of the signal book. “It’s not in the code.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” said Bush. “We’re coming up to her fast. Hullo! She’s wearing round again. She’s come before the wind. But it’s no use now, Mongseer. You’re ours. A handsome bit of prize money there for us, my lads.”
The excited chatter of the quarterdeck reached Hornblower’s ears to be unheard. This last attempt at flight on the Frenchman’s part had explained his previous movements. Bush, Gerard, Vincent, Crystal, were all too careless to have thought about it, too excited at the prospect of prize money. Hornblower could guess now what had happened. At first sight of the Sutherland, the brig had turned to fly. Then she had seen the red ensign which the Sutherland had hoisted, and misread it as the French colours—both sides had made the same mistake before this, the red fly both of tricolour and of red ensign led easily to confusion.
It was fortunate this time that Leighton had been Rear-Admiral of the Red, so that the Sutherland had worn his colours. What was more, the Sutherland had the round bow given her by her Dutch builders, the same as nearly every French ship of the line, and unlike every English ship save three or four. So the brig had taken the Sutherland to be French, and as soon as she was sure of this had held to the wind again, anxious to make her offing so as to weather Cape Creux. Then the MV signal which she had flown had been the private French recognition signal—that was something well worth knowing. It was only when the Sutherland did not make the expected conventional reply that the French captain had realised his mistake, and made one last dash for liberty.
A quite unavailing dash, for the Sutherland had cut her off from all chance of escape to leeward. The ships were only two miles apart now, and converging. Once more the brig came round, this time with the very faint hope of clawing away out of range to windward. But the Sutherland was hurtling close upon her.
“Fire a shot near him,” snapped Hornblower.
At that threat the French captain yielded. The brig hove to, and the tricolour came down from her peak. A cheer went up from the Sutherland’s main deck.
“Silence, there!” roared Hornblower. “Mr. Bush, take a boat and board her. Mr. Clarke, you’re prize-master. Take six hands with you and navigate her to Port Mahon.”
Bush was all smiles on his return.
“Brig Amelie, sir. Six days out from Marseilles for Barcelona. General cargo of military stores. Twenty-five tons powder. One hundred and twenty-five tons of biscuit. Beef and pork in casks. Brandy. Admiralty agent at Port Mahon’ll buy her, sure as a gun, ship, stores, and all.” Bush rubbed his hands. “And we the only ship in sight!”
If any other British ship had been in sight she would have shared the prize money. As it was the only shares to be given away were those of the Admiral commanding in the Mediterranean and of Admiral Leighton commanding the squadron. Between them they would have one-third of the value, so that Hornblower’s share would be about two-ninths—several hundred pounds at least.
“Bring the ship before the wind,” said Hornblower. Not for worlds would he give any sign of his delight at being several hundred pounds richer. “We’ve no time to lose.”
He went below to shave, and as he scraped the lather from his cheeks and contemplated the melancholy face in the glass he meditated once more on the superiority of sea over land. The Amelie was a small vessel, almost inconsiderable in size. But she carried between two and three hundred tons of stores; and if the French had tried to send that amount overland to Barcelona it would have called for a first-class military convoy—a hundred or more waggons, hundreds of horses, taking up a mile or more of road and needing a guard of thousands of troops to protect it from the attacks of the Spanish partisans. Troops and horses would have needed food, too, and that would call for more waggons still, all crawling along at fifteen miles a day at most over the Spanish roads. Small wonder, then, that the French preferred to run the risk of sending their stores by sea. And what a blow it would be for the harassed French army to find a British squadron on their flank, and their best route of communication broken.
Walking forward to take his bath with Polwheal in attendance, a new idea struck him.
“Pass the word for the sailmaker,” he said.
Potter the sailmaker came aft and stood at attention while Hornblower rotated himself under the jet of the washdeck pump.
“I want a French ensign, Potter,” said Hornblower. “There’s not one on board?”
“French ensign, sir? No, sir.”
“Then make one. I’ll give you twe
nty minutes, Potter.”
Hornblower continued to rotate under the jet of the pump, rejoicing in its refreshing impact on this hot morning. The chances were that no Frenchman had observed the capture of the Amelie from Cape Creux, and that was the only land in sight at the time. Even if someone had done so, it would take many hours to warn all the coast line of the presence of a British ship of the line. Having taken the French by surprise, the right game to play was to go on exploiting that surprise to the utmost, making use of every device that would make the blow effective. He went back to his cabin and put on refreshing clean linen, still turning over in his mind the details of his plans which were now losing their nebulousness of the night before and growing more and more clear cut.
“Breakfast, sir?” asked Polwheal, tentatively.
“Bring me some coffee on the quarterdeck,” said Hornblower. He could not bear the thought of food—perhaps because of his present excitement, perhaps because of his vast dinner of the night before.
From the quarterdeck could be seen shadowy blue masses on the horizon right ahead—the peaks of the Pyrenees; between them and the sea crawled the road from France to Spain. The sailmaker’s mate came running aft with his arms full of a vast bundle.
“Mr. Vincent,” said Hornblower. “I’ll have this flag hoisted instead of our own.”
The officers of the quarterdeck eyed the strange tricolour as it rose to the peak, and they looked from the flag to their captain, whispering among themselves. Grouped on the lee side, not one of them dared to try to open a conversation with Hornblower on the weather side. Hornblower exulted both in their excitement and their silence.
“Send the hands to quarters as soon as they have breakfasted, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. “Clear for action, but keep the ports shut, I want the long boat and launch ready to be hoisted out at a moment’s notice.”
The hands came tumbling up from breakfast in a perfect babble of sound—the order to clear for action, the tricolour at the peak, the mountains of Spain ahead, the morning’s capture, all combining to work them up into wild excitement.
“Keep those men silent on the maindeck, there!” bellowed Hornblower. “It sounds like Bedlam turned loose.”
The noise dwindled abruptly, the men creeping about like children in a house with an irascible father. The bulkheads came down, the galley fire was tipped overside. The boys were running up with powder for the guns; the shot garlands between the guns were filled with the black iron spheres ready for instant use.
“Cleared for action, sir,” said Bush.
“H-h’m,” said Hornblower. “Captain Morris, if I send away the long boat and launch, I want twenty marines in each. Have your men told off ready.”
Hornblower took his glass and studied once more the rapidly nearing coast line. There were cliffs there, and the coast road wound at the foot of them, at the water’s edge, and the shore was steep-to, according to his charts. But it would be a sensible precaution to start the lead going soon. He was taking a risk in approaching a lee shore guarded by heavy batteries—the Sutherland might be badly knocked about before she could beat to windward out of range again. Hornblower was counting not merely on the disguise he had adopted, but on the very fact that the French would not believe that an English ship could take that risk.
To the French in the batteries the presence of a French ship of the line off that coast was susceptible of explanation—she might have ventured forth from Toulon, or have come in from the Atlantic, or she might be a refugee from some Ionian island attacked by the British, seeking refuge after long wanderings. He could not believe that they would open fire without allowing time for explanation.
At a word from Hornblower the Sutherland turned on a course parallel with the shore, heading northward with the wind abeam. She was creeping along now, in the light breeze, only just out of gunshot of the shore. The sun was blazing down upon them, the crew standing silently at their stations, the officers grouped on the quarterdeck, Hornblower with the sweat running down his face, sweeping the coast with his glass in search of an objective. The little wind was calling forth only the faintest piping from the rigging; the rattle of the blocks to the gentle roll of the ship sounded unnaturally loud in the silence as did the monotonous calling of the man at the lead. Suddenly Savage hailed from the foretop.
“There’s a lot of small craft, sir, at anchor round the point, there. I can just see ‘em from here, sir.”
A dark speck danced in the object glass of Hornblower’s telescope. He lowered the instrument to rest his aching eye, and then he raised it again. The speck was still there; it was a tricolour flag waving lazily in the wind from a flagstaff on the point. That was what Hornblower had been seeking. A French battery perched on the top of the cliff. Forty-two pounders, probably, sited with a good command, probably with furnaces for heating the shot—no ship that floated could fight them. Clustered underneath, a little coasting fleet, huddling there for shelter at the sight of a strange sail.
“Tell your men to lie down,” said Hornblower to Morris. He did not want the red coats of the marines drawn up on the quarterdeck to reveal his ship prematurely for what she was.
The Sutherland crept along, the grey cliffs growing more clearly defined as at Hornblower’s order she was edged closer in shore. Beyond the cliffs mountain peaks were revealing themselves with startling suddenness whenever Hornblower’s rigid concentration on the battery relaxed. He could see the parapets now in his glass, and he almost thought he could see the big guns peeping over them. At any moment now the battery might burst into thunder and flame and smoke, and in that case he would have to turn and fly, baffled. They were well within gunshot now. Perhaps the French had guessed the Sutherland’s identity, and were merely waiting to have her well within range. Every minute that the Sutherland approached meant another minute under fire when she tried to escape. The loss of a mast might mean in the end the loss of the ship.
“Mr. Vincent,” said Hornblower, without shifting his gaze from the battery. “Hoist MV.”
The words sent a stir through the group of officers. They could be certain now of what plan Hornblower had in mind. The trick increased the risk of detection at the same time as, if it were successful, it gave them more opportunity of approaching the battery. If MV were the French recognition signal, and was being correctly employed, well and good. If not—the battery would soon tell them so. Hornblower, his heart thumping in his breast, judged that at any rate it might confuse the issue for the officer in the battery and induce him to delay a little longer. The signal rose up the halliards, and the battery still stayed silent. Now a signal hoist soared up the battery’s flagstaff.
“I can’t read that, sir,” said Vincent. “One of ‘em’s a swallowtail we don’t use.”
But the mere fact of the battery’s signalling in reply meant that they were at least doubtful of the Sutherland’s identity—unless it were part of the plan to lure her closer in. Yet if the battery delayed much longer it would be too late.
“Mr. Bush, do you see the battery?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will take the long boat. Mr. Rayner will take the launch, and you will land and storm the battery.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I will give you the word when to hoist out.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Quarter less eight,” droned the leadsman—Hornblower had listened to each cast subconsciously; now that the water was shoaling he was compelled to give half his attention up to the leadsman’s cries while still scrutinising the battery. A bare quarter of a mile from it now; it was time to strike.
“Very good, Mr. Bush. You can go now.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Back the main tops’l, Mr. Gerard.”
At Bush’s orders the dormant ship sprang to life. The shrilling of the pipes brought the boats’ crews to the falls at the run. This was the time when the painful drill would reveal its worth; the more quickly those boats were swung out, manned, and a
way, the less would be the danger and the greater the chance of success. Long boat and launch dropped to the water, the hands swarming down the falls.
“Throw the guns down the cliff, Mr. Bush. Wreck the battery if you can. But don’t stay a moment longer than necessary.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
They were off, the men tugging like maniacs at the oars.
“Helm a-lee! Mr. Gerard, put the ship about. And down with that flag, and send up our own. Ah!”
The air was torn with the passage of cannon shot overhead. The whole ship shook as something struck her a tremendous blow forward. Hornblower saw the smoke billow up round the battery—it had opened fire at last. And thank God it was firing at the ship; if one of those shots hit a boat he would be in a pretty scrape. So pleased was he at the thought that it never occurred to him to wonder about his own personal safety.
“Mr. Gerard, see if the guns can reach the battery. See that every shot is properly aimed. It is no use unless the embrasures can be swept.”
Another salvo from the battery, and too high again, the shot howling overhead. Little Longley, strutting the quarterdeck with his dirk at his hip, checked in his stride to duck, instinctively, and then, with a side glance at his captain, walked on with his neck as stiff as a ramrod. Hornblower grinned.
“Mr. Longley, have that main top gallant halliard spliced at once.”
It was a kindness to keep the boy busy so that he would have no time to be afraid. Now the Sutherland’s starboard broadside began to open fire, irregularly, as the gun captains fancied their weapons bore. Flying jets of dust from the face of the cliff showed that most of the shot were hitting thirty feet too low. But if even one or two shots got in through the embrasures and killed someone working the guns it would be a valuable help in unsettling the artillery men. Another salvo. This time they had fired at the boats. The launch almost vanished under the jets of water flung up by the plunging fire, and Hornblower gulped with anxiety. But the next moment the launch reappeared, limping along crabwise—a shot must have smashed some of the oars on one side. But the boats were safe now; close up to the cliffs as they were the guns up above could surely not be depressed sufficiently to hit them. The long boat was in the very surf now, with the launch at her heels. Now the men were tumbling out and splashing up to the beach.
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