Part III (3500 words, PG13)
"A fishing vessel has taken the captain, sir!"
"What?" Surely he must have misunderstood—the captain? Taken by fishermen? He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his bicorn, and headed toward the deck, Foreman at his heals.
The young gentleman struggled to offer Bush further explanation, "We met with a fishing boat about a half bell back, and the cap'n went over to buy some fish. But the fishing boat just took off, with no word, and the cap'n still aboard. Mr. Poole had the watch, and he set sail to follow, but with the fog-"
They were on deck now, and Bush raked his eyes across the rigging and the sea in quick assessment. The other officers seemed to be congregating on the foc's'l, and Bush approached them, searching for Poole.
"Sir!" There he was, by the bow. "Sir! They headed off north by northwest, but the lookout can only barely make them out now."
As if in confirmation of this assertion, there came a shout from the masthead, "Deck there! Sail is turnin' north!"
Bush's eyes were again on the rigging. Poole had done a tolerable job in getting sail out swiftly, but with the weak wind . . . having too much sail would add friction and do more harm then good.
"Take in the mains'l and fores'l , and clew the main tops'l!" He shouted to the hands.
Then, feigning a calm he did not feel, he turned back to the officers, "Mr. Young, put a good man in the chains. They might be sailing into the shallows, and we have the deeper beam. I want readings every five minutes. See that he has a replacement standing by. Mr. Orrock, get down to the gun deck and have all starboard guns ready to bare. We may not be able to see her, but that ship must be in shot range with this slow wind. Mr. Cargill, have someone fetch-Mr. Prowse!" Bush spotted the wide figure of the sea Master coming up the companionway. "Mr. Prowse, I'll thank you to pull out the charts of Ushant and the isles—I need to know whether we can follow the frogs if they decide to go up the Fromver, or however you say it."
The officers dispersed to see to his orders, and Bush had a minute to contemplate the import of all that had happened. The captain had been taken. Taken, dammit! Carried off under their very noses by a bunch of Johnny Crapeaus, and the Hotspur had done nothing to stop them! And he had been asleep, by God! Asleep! The captain could at that very moment be dead, and Bush had been asleep! But Bush did not want to believe that the captain was dead—could not allow himself to believe the captain was dead. Not Hornblower. A man as clever—as amazingly brilliant as Hornblower could not possibly be killed by a flea-bitten crew of mangy fishermen. French fishermen.
"The guns are ready, sir!" That was Cheeseman, relaying Orrock's word, no doubt.
"Stagger the hight of each gun, so we get a wide spread. Fire as they're readied. Mr. Poole! Turn us two points into the weather so our starboard guns bear north!"
"Aye aye, sir." Bush heard Poole relay the order to the man at the wheel.
The Hotspur lurched as the guns fired, and he strained to hear any response from the fishing sloop. Was that a scream? The crash of breaking timbers? The fog muted distant sounds even as it obscured their vision. Bush ordered the guns reloaded and fired again. It was not an easy decision. With each barrage the Hotspur lost headway, and Bush was torn between giving earnest chase and showering them with shot. He feared that the fishermen would go into the shoals, where the Hotspur and her guns could not follow—shoals he could expect at any moment, for he had not had time to confirm their position and consult the charts. This fear slowly solidified into a certainty in Bush's subconscious, and perhaps that was why he gave into his instinct to fire rather than chase.
"Deck there! I can't see 'er, sir! No sail in sight!"
"Damn!" Bush cursed. But he ordered one last barrage, knowing that even out of sight the Terre Haute must still be in range. The booming concussion of nine-pounders rang in Bush's ear, but he heard no tell-tale creak of timbers across the water.
"Mr. Poole, take us due north!" He shouted. That would put the wind, what little there was, free on their quarter.
"By the deep six!"
Damn again. Now that the guns were silent Bush could hear the cry of the leadsman, and they were shoaling fast.
"And a half five!"
In another few minutes they would risk getting caught on the rocks.
Bush swore loudly. He could not just let the captain be carried off by those vermin! Every part of him rebelled against it. That Hornblower had been taken off in the first place was ridiculous—the height of injustice! And why had the captain, bless him, ever left the ship in the first place? Could he not have entertained the fishermen in his cabin, as he usually did?
"By the mark four!"
"Mr. Poole! Turn us about, and when we have eight fathoms beneath us set us east by southeast! We'll move parallel to the isles." Bush folded his arms across his chest and simmered in frustration while the Hotspur tacked and then slowly changed her heading. Even in his distraction Bush couldn't help but notice that their new heading put the wind a point off the Hotspur's beam, such that he doubted they would make more than one knot of speed. The fisherman would have the immediate advantage.
"Mr. Cheeseman, you can run down to Orrock and tell him to reel in the guns. Little good that they did us! I want a look at those maps, Mr. Prowse. And I want to know what the devil was going on while I was asleep. Mr. Poole?" His voice was icy as he pinned the young gentleman with his keen blue eyes.
Poole wilted under that gaze, and he stuttered when he spoke, "I d-don't know, sir. We caught sight of a f-fishing sloop—the 'Tare Howte'. It was a right b-big one, but c-couldn't be anything other than a f-fishing boat. The c-captain shouted over to them in French, and it s-seemed to take 'em awhile to get their own c-captain on deck. Then they talked in French some more, and then the c-captain ordered the gig readied."
"You have no idea why he decided to go over there rather than have them come aboard the Hotspur?"
"N-no, sir. The captain said something about swordfish, said he was going over, and th-that was it, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"Did the deck hands look like fisherman? There was no way it was a French sloop of war disguised as fishing sloop?"
"It didn't seem so to me, sir. Barnes was the lookout—he might of seen better."
Bush swung his head to the mast. "Barnes!" he yelled, his voice booming louder than any speaking trumpet. "I want you down here! Doyle! You'll take his place!"
Barnes came down the shrouds with the graceful alacrity of an experienced topsail man, but he had little to add to Poole's report. "Definitely a fishin' boat, sir. Ya' don't get nets lookin' like that unless you use 'em. And I saw some harpoon spikes along the side."
"You saw nothing peculiar about the men?"
"No sir. A bit quiet maybe. But they's frenchies, so who can say?"
"Thank you Barnes. You can go back and join Doyle; I want two lookouts in this fog."
"Aye aye, sir."
Bush was at a loss, and stood silent a moment in thought. Yet there was very little to absorb—very little that was at all comprehensible. "What the devil are they playing at?" he finally burst forth, unable to contain his frustration. If Hornblower were there, he'd have a hundred guesses as to what had happened, and a hundred possible courses of action in mind. But the captain was not there, and Bush was suddenly faced with the fear that he was not capable of fulfilling his duty as a King's officer.
"Spies, sir." Mr. Prowse offered, breaking into his depressing self-condemnation, "They must be spies, in Boney's pay."
"Spies. I think you must be right, Mr. Prowse. It is the only explanation that makes any kind of sense."
"Unless there was something special in the captain's orders, sir."
The captain's orders. What were their orders? They were supposed to patrol the Goulet, but did they have a secondary mission? Was this encounter more intentional than it appeared? No, that was ridiculous. Hornblower was not that good of an actor, and surely if there was a secret mission he would have told Bush . . . surely. Bush felt a wave of doubt. The captain often played things close to the chest.
He should look at the orders, to eliminate all alternatives. The thought caused Bush's heart to constrict, but it was the only way he could rid himself of all doubt.
Then, with this action clear in his mind, Bush was faced with another crisis of conscience. For the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions made no allowance for his current predicament. They provided that 'If the Commander in command of any Ship shall die, the senior Lieutenant on board shall, if there be no senior Officer present, take command of such Ship as acting Commander.' But Hornblower was not dead—at least Bush could not yet believe him dead-which made his assumption of command, and reading of the captain's orders, a murky legal precedent.
To hell with it. He'd withstand any admiralty censure if it helped him get the captain back.
Prowse had been watching the play of emotions on Bush's face as he went through this debate and he nodded almost imperceptibly when he saw Bush come to a decision, for he could guess what it would be.
"Mr. Prowse, get your maps and meet me in the captain's cabin, and bring Cargill with you. Mr. Poole and Mr. Foreman, you will stand watch together. If you catch sight of ANYTHING, or if there's a change in the wind, you will send for me immediately. IMMEDIATELY. Is that understood?"
He looked each of those young gentlemen in the face, his eyes narrowing at their nervous expressions. He was about to stalk away when a flash of red caught his eye. The red coats of the marines. Poole must have called them up on deck at the same time he'd sent for Bush, for all twelve of them were on deck-even the the drummer boy.
"Sergeant Clemens! I'll thank you to post three men on the bow and three on the quarterdeck. You're to keep your eyes peeled for any longboats, but do not load your muskets! And I want that sentry back at the captain's cabin!" Bush was horrified that the sentry had left in the first place—as if the captain's absence meant his cabin was not worth the effort of guarding.
He stalked below and hesitated only a moment before that very cabin's door. Like ripping off a bandage, he fancied it would be best to do this swiftly, with no attention given to sentiment. He pulled open the door. It was only two long strides to the desk, and though it was dark inside, he had no problem locating the drawer that he guessed would hold the papers. He had the compartment open in a moment and the papers out before him. There was a noise to his right.
He looked up to find Doughty hovering beside, an eerie phantom-like creature in the blackness, for Bush had not lit any lanterns as he entered the room. Doughty backed away immediately when Bush's face caught in the light of the hallway, and he stuttered, "Sir?"
"What are you doing here, Doughty?" Bush replied sharply, his eyes returning to the papers he'd removed.
"I—I saw the sentry gone, sir, and I wanted to make sure no one tried anything whiles the captain was gone." It was a little strange that Doughty should choose to stand guard in the dark, but Bush could understand some of his motivation in doing so.
"We will get him back, Doughty. We will." He paused, squinting at the writing he could just make out. It had been daft not to take a lantern. "Fetch a light, Doughty."
No sooner said then done, and with the new illumination, Bush quickly spotted an envelope with a broken seal. A look at the date and signature in the letter confirmed it. Bush read through the thing quickly, but it was not long, and contained nothing mysterious. They were to patrol the Goulet. That was it. There were provisions for chain of command, where and how frequently to report, and what initiative they were allowed to take . . . but no mention of a secret mission. No mention of anything interesting whatsoever. Bush recalled then that they hadn't even had written orders when they stopped the Irish invasion fleet—Hornblower had only ever received oral permission from Chambers, and even then it was just to expand his patrol.
Bush stuffed the collection of papers back into the desk and was relieved when Prowse and Cargill entered the cabin, for it distracted him from the sense of uselessness that was growing in his stomach.
"The maps?"
Prowse laid them on the table in lieu of responding. Topmost was a chart of the Ushant island chain extending off the French coast.
"Where are we exactly?" Bush asked. It was irritating to be ignorant of such a thing, but he had been asleep for some three hours, and a glance at the traverse board was not enough to tell him their new location.
"We're near the mouth of the Passage du Fromveur, sir, which is where I reckon they've gone."
Bush examined the region Prowse indicated. It was a good thing he had decided not to follow the frenchmen, for they were further southeast than he had thought, no doubt a result of the weakened wind. The Passage du Fromveur was the channel separating Ushant Island from the island chain to which Molene belonged, and they were only at its southernmost entrance. And it was that southern entrance that was the most treacherous, for Loedec, the last rocky island before the passage, extended as a submerged ledge nearly a half mile into the channel. The tip of that outcropping, called Men Tensel, was visible even at high tide, but there were many rocks along the ledge and north of Men Tensel that were only two fathoms below the surface. If the breeze hadn't been so weak they might very well have hulled the Hotspur in their initial chase.
Bush was gratified that he had not lost both the captain and the ship in the same half hour. Yet the inspection of this chart left him with a choice to be made. Did he assume the frenchmen were indeed taking the Fromveur Passage? And if they were, did he give chase?
"She could hide anywhere in this fog," Bush thought aloud. "She could hide within the rocks until we've left, or she could swing around and make for the deeper sea as soon as we're out of sight. But what the hell are they doing with the captain?" That was what bothered him most. What could they want with Hornblower? Why take him and risk the Hotspur's guns?
"Spies, like I said," Prowse asserted. Bush looked up at him, and then looked to Cargill, who he now saw was hovering uncertainly beside the sea Master.
"What do you think, Mr. Cargill?" Bush needed a sounding board, and Prowse was already certain in his accusation.
"M-Me, sir?" Bush just stared at him. "Well, sir . . . well . . . well, there's only two reasons I can see to take any captain. Ransom and information. The captain doesn't have any-" Cargill stopped himself before he could complete what some might construe as an insult, but they all blushed nonetheless. Hornblower's poverty was impossible to miss, and even though the wardroom took pride in doing all they could for the man that led them, it was not a matter to be discussed openly. Cargill continued his original thought, "In any case, they can't very well expect to hold him ransom when all they have is a brig. So that leaves information. Maybe Bonaparte will pay them for it, or maybe-maybe they really are spies." His analysis complete, Cargill looked down at the chart, clearly too nervous to meet Bush's eyes.
But Bush was impressed with this assessment by the Master's mate, and he said so. "I think you must be right, Mr. Cargill. And if that is the case, they must sell their information somewhere, and the French fleet is at Brest." He looked again at the chart. "We have no hope of catching them in this fog and in the shoals, so we must catch them when they make for port." His finger traced the path they would have to take—the same tack they'd taken to reach Ushant, but in the opposite direction. His finger paused at the narrow passage into Brest harbor. "We'll stop them at the Goulet." Bush saw Prowse and Cargill both nodding at this conclusion, and he took some comfort from their agreement. He was not at all sure that they would find La Terre Haute at the Goulet, but it was all he could think to do.
Bush looked again at the two men closest to him in rank aboard the Hotspur. Prowse was a solid man, a competent Master. And he didn't take nonsense from anyone, be they above him or below him in rank. Cargill Bush had never thought much of. That initial poorly managed tack when they first left Portsmouth had left a sour taste in his mouth, no matter how the captain tried to excuse it. But Bush knew that Hornblower respected Cargill—liked him even. So Bush would do the same.
"Gentlemen. I want one of us three on deck at all times. I suggest we arrange our schedules accordingly. I'll stay on presently, until the start of the forenoon watch. I don't fancy I'll be able to sleep should I want to anyway."
"Aye aye, sir," Cargill replied, and Prowse nodded.
Bush straightened from his bent pose at the table and smoothed his jacket. Then he adjusted the great coat on his shoulders and made for the door. As he left he heard Prowse mutter, "We'll see if there's a captain left, after what those devil's 'l do to him."
It was only after Bush had been on deck for two hours that those words came back to him. He had been pacing back and forth across the deck, examining and reexamining the rigging to give the Hostpur every inch of speed she could muster, but there really was little to be done with that weak breeze abeam. So at length Prowse's pessimism niggled its way into his mind.
' . . . after what those devils will do to him . . .'
What would they do to him? Bush had feared for Hornblower's life the moment he'd been told of this disaster, but it had been the natural fear of any man at war. He had not considered that the frogs might have something in mind other than a shot to the head. But Cargill was right—they wanted information. How did an enemy acquire information? Hornblower had used bribery, but he did not think the captain of La Terre Haute would do the same.
Yet this was ridiculous; surely Hornblower would be protected by the rules of war? The french would be mad to treat him with anything other than complete respect. The political and military storm that would rain down upon them if they did not . . . except . . those men had not looked like officers of Bonaparte's navy. Would the rules of war apply to fishermen? Citizens?
Bush was unsure. Kidnapping was hardly condoned by the accord, so if they had gone that far, it was only a step further to . . . would they torture him?
They would.
A fearful agony seized his heart. Prowse was right; they would be lucky if there was a captain left after what those devil's would do to him.