Hornblower and the Crisis, Forester, S. [ebook reader ink .TXT] 📗

What about Maria, with one child born and another on the way? And — and — what about that promised post rank? Who would lift a finger for a forgotten near-​captain in a French prison?

Meadows was blaspheming, emitting a stream of senseless oaths and insane filth.

“We've thirty men,” said Hornblower. “They won't think we've more than half a dozen —”

“By God, we could board her!” exclaimed Meadows, the filth ending abruptly.

Could they? Could they get alongside? No French captain in his right mind would allow it, would risk damage to his precious ship in the strong breeze that was blowing. A spin of the wheel at the last moment, an order to luff in the last minute, and Princess would scrape by. A salvo of grape and the Princess would be a wreck; moreover the attempt would convey its own warning — the French captain and the French crew could anticipate trouble. The brig would have a crew of ninety at least, most likely more; unless there was total surprise thirty men would not have a chance against them. And Hornblower's vivid imagination conjured up a mental picture of the Princess, with all the good fortune in the world, alongside the brig and rolling wildly as she undoubtedly would. There could be no wild rush; the thirty odd men would reach the brig's deck in twos and threes, without a chance. It had to be complete, total surprise to stand the slightest chance of success.

With these considerations racing through his mind he looked from one to the other, watching their expressions change from momentary excitement and hope to uneasy doubt. Something else came up in his mind that called for rapid action, and he turned away to bellow in his loudest and most penetrating voice to the groups clustered about the deck.

“Get down out of sight, all of you! I don't want a single man to show himself! Get down out of sight!”

He turned back to meet a stony gaze from both Baddlestone and Meadows.

“I thought we'd better not show our hand until it's played out,” he said. “With a glass the brig'll soon be able to see we're crowded with men, and it might be as well if she didn't know.”

“I'm the senior,” snapped Meadows. “If anyone gives orders it's me.”

“Sir —” began Hornblower.

“Commander May eighteen hundred,” said Meadows. “You're not in the Gazette yet. You've not read yourself in.”

It was an important point, a decisive point. Hornblower's appointment as Commander dated back only to April 1803.

Until his promised captaincy was actually official he must come under Meadows' orders. That was something of a set back. His polite attempts at conversation earlier with Meadows must have appeared as deferential currying for favour instead of the generous condescension he had intended. And it was irritating not to have thought of all this before. But that irritation was nothing compared with that roused by the realization that he was a junior officer again, forced to proffer advice instead of giving orders — and this after two years of practically independent command. It was a pill to swallow; oddly, as the metaphor occurred to him, he was actually swallowing hard to contain his annoyance, and the coincidence diverted him sufficiently to cut off the angry answer he might have made. They were all three of them tense, even explosive. A quarrel among them might well be the quickest way to a French prison.

“Of course, sir,” said Hornblower, and went on — if a thing was worth doing it was worth doing well — “I must beg your pardon. It was most thoughtless of me.”

“Granted,” said Meadows, only slightly grudgingly.

It was easy enough to change the subject — a glance towards the brig set the other two swinging round to look as well.

“Still headreaching on us, blast her!” said Baddlestone. “Weathering on us too.”

Obviously she was nearer, yet the bearing was unchanged; the chase would end with the brig close up to the Princess without any alteration of course — and the infuriating corollary was that any other action the Princess might take would only shorten the chase.

“We've no colours hoisted,” said Meadows.

“Not yet,” replied Baddlestone.

Hornblower caught his eye and stared hard at him. It was inadvisable to speak or even for Hornblower to shake his head, even a trifle, but somehow the message reached Baddlestone, perhaps by telepathy.

“No need to hoist 'em yet,” went on Baddlestone. “It leaves our hands free.”

There was no need to take the smallest action that might commit them. There was not the least chance that the Frenchman would take the Princess to be anything other than a fleet auxiliary, but still . . . Things looked differently in a report, or even in a ship's log. If the Frenchman tired of the chase, or was diverted somehow from it, it would be well to offer him a loophole excusing him; he could say he believed the Princess to be a Dane or a Bremener. And until the colours had been hoisted and hauled down again Princess was free to take any action that might become possible.

“It's going to be dark before long,” said Hornblower.

“She'll be right up to us by then,” snarled Meadows, and the filthy oaths streamed from his mouth as ever. “Cornered like rats.”

That was a good description; they were cornered, hemmed in by the invisible wall of the wind. Their only line of retreat was in the direction of the brig, and the brig was advancing remorselessly up that line, actually as well as relatively. If the Princess was a rat, the brig was a man striding forward club in hand. And being cornered meant that even in darkness there would be no room to escape, no room for any evasive manoeuvre, right under the guns of the brig. But like a rat they might still fly at their assailant with the courage of desperation.

“I wish to God,” said Meadows, “we'd run down on her when we sighted her. And