Part II (3100 words)
When Hornblower next awoke it was to a dim cabin. The Hotspur was gently rocking, and when he twisted his head to look toward the window, he saw that the light was fading. He must have slept the entire day. It could be no earlier than six in the evening! As if to confirm this conclusion, he heard the tinny ringing of the bells. Four bells—he would guess of the first dog watch, which would indeed make it six in the evening! He didn't know whether to be more disgusted with himself or with Bush for letting him sleep so long. But as he pulled his legs over the side of his cot and came to his feet, he was delighted to discover how well he felt. His dizziness was gone, and he had only the slightest hint of a headache. He walked to his window to let in a breeze, then returned to his bed to grab a water bottle. He poured its contents into his mug and took a gulp, only to have his throat rebel. It struggled vainly to open and close properly, and he was certain that half the water went into his lungs instead of his stomach. The result was a rather horrible sounding cough that seemed to bounce off his cabin walls, and permeate the very air with its din. He envisioned his painful hacks penetrating the thin wood of his door and flying right out the window to the deck above. In seeming confirmation of this idle thought, he heard a brief knock on his door and Doughty entered. Hornblower had just about gotten his cough under control, and so he motioned Doughty to stay where he was, afraid the man might try to slap his back or something equally invasive in a misguided attempt at aiding his captain.
Finally his spluttering ended, and he took a hesitant sip of water to assure himself that everything was once more functioning.
His cheeks reddened in embarrassment when he looked up at Doughty, and he was compelled to explain, "Swallowed water down the wrong pipe."
Doughty inclined his head in acknowledgement, as if it was of no matter to him. "Can I get you some supper, sir? Something warm to drink?"
"I uhm . . . yes, Doughty. Yes." Hornblower considered leaving it at that, but the residual ache in his throat and the memory of the delicious broth of last night's supper prompted him to say further, "I would very much like some soup, if you can manage it."
Doughty visibly perked up at this request. He smiled as he said, "Aye aye sir," and Hornblower would almost have thought the man was skipping by the sound of his steps down the corridor.
Hornblower took advantage of Doughty's absence to dress himself, taking absurd satisfaction in re-donning the uniform that he had been so ignominiously stripped of the night before. Doughty had clearly done his best to wash and mend them, but when sea water was the medium used for the washing, it was hardly an improvement from their usual soiled state. Nonetheless, it was peculiarly relaxing to sit at his table and, leaning down, slowly roll up his stockings. It was gratifying to pull on his coat and carefully tie his stock. It was with pleasure that he stepped before his mirror and took in his handiwork. His neck cloth was perhaps not as straight as it could be, and he was sure Doughty could have done a better job with his hair, but . . . Hornblower couldn't help but feel that he looked good. Or better, anyway—he got the impression he'd looked God awful the day before.
There was a knock on his door and Doughty hustled in with a large tray. The spread on that tray looked obscenely delicious, and Hornblower could hardly disguise his eagerness. There was a large bowl in the middle, and from the smell it could only be lamb stew, no doubt from that very same dinner the night before. But that was not all. Doughty had done something to the ship biscuits to make them look like crackers, crispy and salted, and there was chunks of what could only be butter or cheese beside the crackers. And then there was a mug of something that smelled like coffee, though logically Hornblower knew it could not possibly be coffee. The entire meal must have originated from the wardroom, and for one brief moment Hornblower considered reprimanding his steward for his presumption. But the moment was indeed brief, and almost as soon as Doughty set down the tray, Hornblower was seated and lifting a spoon to his mouth. He could only hope that Doughty would see the rapid pace at which he ate and the smile that he could not quite contain, and convey his appreciation to the wardroom. Looking up at Doughty's grinning face as he sipped the last dregs of the soup, Hornblower had no doubt that he would.
It was a very sated and relaxed Hornblower that came on deck that evening. Prowse caught sight of his figure as he rose from the companionway and raised his voice, "Wind's backing east by nor'east, sir."
Hornblower nodded acknowledgement. That would be the land breeze starting up as night fell. He smiled, and began touring the deck. His improved mood was so apparent that Hornblower could see reciprocating grins on the faces of some of the seamen, and even on some of his officers. Bush, of course was the only one who risked commenting on the change, "Feeling better, sir?"
"Ha-h'mm," Hornblower cleared his throat. "Yes, Mr. Bush." Bush waited, but Hornblower did not elaborate. Instead he shifted his attention to the foremast. "How is she taking the strain?" He gestured with a lift of his head to the cracked but braced mast.
"Well enough, sir. I wouldn't like to test her in the weather we had a month back, but she'll get us back to Portsmouth, right enough."
"It is possible there will be a spare mast amongst the fleet at Ushant."
"Possible, sir." Bush clearly did not think it likely.
"And how close are we?"
"Mr. Prowse has us eight miles southeast of Molene Island, sir. We've had slow winds all day, and all abeam. We've only been pulling two knots, I'd judge."
"Very well." From L'ile-Molene it was another six miles or more to Ushant island, and from Ushant it was another six miles to the fleet's rendezvous coordinates. That meant they would be among the fleet in ten hours, if the wind held. But chances were that as the sun fell and they moved further from the mainland, the wind would slacken or veer. They might get a land breeze from the east once night settled in, but more likely the change in pressure would simply counteract the present southwest wind, leaving them with in a dead calm. It could be late tomorrow before they saw the squadron.
"Have those two shot holes been patched with something better than sail?"
"Ah-yes, sir. They were tarred and planked this morning. We've only been running the pumps for ten minutes every two hours. I think she's as dry as we can get her without a dock.
"My compliments to the carpenter and his mate," Hornblower said, pleased. "How are the wounded?"
"Seamus, 3rd gunner, passed away late this morning. The other two, both of the deck crew, should make it unless infection sets in. Wallis had to amputate an arm from the one, but the other got lucky."
It was peculiar how a man could be pierced by a ragged cannon-driven splinter and be considered lucky. But a seaman without both hands was a seaman at the end of his career; Hornblower knew that as well as any captain. "We shall have to commit the gunner's body. When do you recommend?" The others had been committed the night before, even as they'd been desperately struggling to make repairs, but any sea burial now would require a proper ceremony.
Bush gave Hornblower a surprised glance, and half-turned to face his captain fully. Hornblower rarely asked the advice of his officers, even on matters of importance. It was an indication of his high spirits indeed, if nothing else, that the captain would deign to converse with Bush on such a mundane topic. But Bush, now familiar with Hornblower's contrary nature, knew that any acknowledgment of the peculiarity of this moment could bring it to an abrupt end; and so he tried to pretend that this was an everyday occurrence. Hornblower of course noticed this effort, but his spirits were indeed such that he could pay it no mind.
"Well, sir, we've been through three watch rotations now, so I'd say most of the men have gotten at least a lick of sleep. But I don't reckon the crew would look kindly on a night-time funeral, now that it's not necessary. Superstitious lot, you know." Bush said this with a small laugh, but it was clear from its timbre that Bush counted himself among those 'superstitious' seamen. "Best to wait til' morning, I think."
Hornblower nodded, as much to see Bush's pleasure at having his captain listen to him as to pacify the crew's fears. And Bush was right. The sun was nearly set at that moment, the sky a darkening purple, and it would be better, contrarily, to start the day with a funeral than to end it with one.
Hornblower let his eyes take in the rigging of the Hotspur in the fading light-the men by the braces, ready to run up the shrouds should he call them; Orrock at the wheel, and Prowse beside him, his wide girth making him one of the most recognizable figures on the deck; Bush looking keenly at the hands, thinking up some new exercise to keep them busy. The fading light was still enough to cast shadows on the deck, and the spiderweb of lines formed by the rigging aloft seemed to created intricately patterned snowflakes of blackness on the planking. It was every commander's dream to attain post-rank and secure a ship of the line, but at that moment, as he took in the beautiful symmetry of his sixth-rate, Hornblower thought it would not be so bad if he never left her. He turned to Bush.
"I'll take the deck, Mr. Bush, if you'd like to catch some sleep yourself."
"Thank you, sir, but I caught some at the afternoon watch. May I stand the rest of the dog watch with you, sir?"
"Very well, Mr. Bush." Hornblower imbued his response with as much gruff annoyance as he could muster, but he knew the effect was ruined by the slight lifting of the corner of his mouth.
It was four bells of the first watch before Bush retired, and two bells in the middle watch before Hornblower considered doing the same. He would have, too, but as he turned to give Poole the deck there was a hail from the masthead.
"Deck there! Sail to starboard!" That was a surprise. The wind had indeed slackened, such that they were just now approaching Ushant, and with the decline of the breeze a thick fog had rolled in. The sail would have to be close to be spotted, even from the masthead.
He cupped his hands to amplify his voice, "Masthead! What kind of sail?"
"Small, sir! No bigger 'en a brig! I see nets on 'er side. Fishing nets!" If the ship had been the Deux Freres, the lookout would have recognized her.
"Mr. Poole, take us starboard two points, if you please."
"Aye aye, sir."
A moment more and he could see the ship for himself. It was bigger than the Deux Freres—equal in size, he would guess, to a 12-gun sloop. The lack of gun ports and the large nets on her sides marked her unmistakably as a fishing vessel, much to Hornblower's relief. Fishing vessels of that size were unusual, but not unheard of. Of the four fish-boats he'd interacted with since the Hotspur began patrolling French waters, all had been of a similar size to the Deux Freres, but they had also been trolling waters much nearer to Brest.
"Reef tops'ls!" He shouted to the hands. "Mr. Poole, take us along her port side." The Hotspur already had her main sail and fore sail taken in, so this measure would leave them with only enough sail for steerage. Yet in this calm they hardly needed more than that.
"'La Terre Haute'" Poole read off the stern, his pronunciation rendering it closer to 'La Teer Hot'
"The High Ground." Hornblower translated as he watched the deck of the other ship. It looked busier than he would have expected for this time of night—just past one in the morning. They certainly could not be looking for pilchard. As they came up alongside he had the yards braced at countered angles to bring the minute breeze to bare against their forward momentum. He would not risk taking in all sail this near to Ushant, where the currents and rocky outcroppings could easily leave them aground at low tide.
He raised his hands to shout across the closing gap. "Good Morning, gentlemen," he struggled to recall the appropriate French, "What fish are you catching?"
There was a bustle of movement on the Terre Haute's deck, as the regular seamen apparently sought out the captain or his mate for permission to respond. That discipline was commendable, if unusual for a ship full of fishermen. A long minute passed with no response, and so Hornblower rephrased his question, "Are you catching pilchards? Sea bass? Turbot?"
Finally a man appeared from inside the stern hatch. He looked hastily dressed, and his graying hair was still messy from sleep. There was someone by his side, whispering into his ear, and he looked over at the Hotspur with great interest and attention. His eyes moved along the British vessel's length, and came to rest on Hornblower.
"You ask what fish?"
"Yes."
"We hunt tuna and swordfish."
"Do you indeed?" Hornblower's eyebrows rose. That would account for the size of the vessel—tuna and swordfish were large fish, requiring either harpoons or very strong nets attached to an equally sturdy ship. He did not see a harpoon gun on the bow, but perhaps they used the hand-thrown variety.
"Oui, Monsieur."
Hornblower's fatigue melted away with the excitement of such a fortuitous encounter. Any opportunity to gain new intelligence for the fleet was an opportunity to be seized.
"I would like to buy some fish," He shouted to the other captain, "Would you care to dine in my cabin while we discuss your price?"
It was hard to read expressions in the dark of night, but by the pale glow of lantern light he thought he could see the other man frown. He held a whispered conference with his companion, then returned to studying Hornblower.
"You can buy fish, Monsieur," He said, "But I do not wish to importune you by having me come aboard. Instead I would invite you to dine aboard our ship, for we have fresh stores from Ushant, and if you have never had swordfish steak, Monsieur, then I would have you eat it to its greatest effect, as prepared by our cook."
If Hornblower had not been so recently sick, or had he been less flushed with excitement, he might have hesitated at the Frenchman's counteroffer, for a captain was always loathe to leave his ship. But Hornblower's initial reaction was to be quite pleased by this invitation. If the fishing captain had accepted Hornblower's offer, Hornblower would have been forced to yet again trespass on the good will of the wardroom to serve anything respectable, and Hornblower felt much too indebted to the wardroom already. He could see very little harm in such a visit-with the Hotspur standing in so close, the other ship was hardly in a position to practice any devilry. No. Hornblower was eager for news, even if it could not reflect their destruction of the Ireland invasion fleet, and so he accepted the invitation. He immediately ordered a boat lifted over the side.
In very little time Hornblower was down the side and across the water. Poole, the officer of the watch, could just make out his figure as he was waved into the small cabin at the stern of La Terre Haute, and disappeared from view. But they were both drifting slightly with the current, so Poole was forced to draw his eyes from the deck of the fishing vessel and adjust the Hotspur's sail to insure she kept abreast of the sloop. He hoped the visit would be a short one; he had been looking forward to rejoining the squadron, and while he greatly respected the captain, he did not always understand him.
BBBBBBBBBB
"Sir! Sir!" Someone was shaking Bush's shoulder, and he forced his mind into wakefulness. He wanted to groan, but he was too accustomed to being woken at all hours for such a thing to merit more than mild irritation. He must have been in a quite a deep sleep to feel even this out of sorts.
Before his accoster could offer any explanation, Bush heard a yell, "Beat to quarters! Get up, ya' lazy bastards! To your stations!" It was the bosun, his booming voice echoing through the lower deck, and Bush needed no further prodding to jump to his feet. He grabbed his breeches and struggled to pull them on, even as he asked sharply, "What happened? Who are we fighting?" He turned to slip on his coat and saw that it was Foreman who had been sent to rouse him. The young man looked nervous and out of sorts, and not a little afraid. Interestingly, much of that fear seemed directed toward Bush, as if he was anticipating great displeasure from the first lieutenant. "Spit it out, man!"
"A fishing vessel has taken the captain, sir!"