Part IV (3900 words)
When morning came they were just nearing the Chanel du Four, the channel dividing the mainland from the rocky chain of islands leading to Ushant. It was a slow haul across that open water to the point of Saint-Mathieu, with no sail in sight.
Cargill took the watch.
The wind did not pick up until late in the forenoon watch, when the mainland had warmed sufficiently to create a pressure difference between the land and sea. The southwest winds the Hotspur had experienced all day became a steady blow, increasing their speed to seven knots as they changed their course to east a quarter north. By two bells into the afternoon watch they were at the mouth of the Goulet, and Cargill sent Orrock to rouse Bush. Their plan had been to patrol the Goulet until they caught sight of the Terre Huate's sail, but such a thing was not simple. There were batteries on both sides of that narrow passage, and Hotspur would have to hug the dangerous shoals in the center to stay out of cannon range. More worrisome still, the batteries would surely relay their position to the fleet at Brest, such that in very little time they could have several frigates chasing their stern. And then, even if they did sight the Terre Haute without interference by the fleet, what were they to do? Give chase and fire upon her? They would risk killing the captain in the crossfire!
Bush, a man of action not of thought, had found no ideal solution.
"Masthead! Scan the passage!"
There was a pause.
"Nothin', sir! No sail in sight!"
Bush held his features taught; this was disappointing but not surprising. It was unlikely that the Terre Huate had made better time than the Hotspur. She would have had to move slowly through the shoals, and if she remained on the north side of the isles she would have caught even less of that weak southwest wind than they had.
"Bring us west by southwest, Mr. Cargill. I want to luff and touch her."
Cargill pulled the ship to port, directing the Hotspur in a 220 degree rotation so that their turn was made with the wind rather than into it. To 'luff and touch' was to bring the ship as close to the wind as possible, then let her fall off a point. Their new heading put the wind four points off their bow, sailing close hauled. Bush brought a telescope to his eye and pointed it to the shrinking coast.
They were a good four miles offshore and two hours down in the glass when he ordered the yards swung against the helm to halt their forward motion.
"Bring in all canvas! I don't want a scrap of white showing!" He yelled to the topmen and hands. They hurried to do his bidding without a second thought, but the nearby officers looked at him in surprise. Prowse, who had come on deck upon sensing the turn of the ship, seemed on the verge of objecting.
Bush explained, "Even the batteries will have trouble spotting us with our sails furled. If we're lucky they'll think we've gone."
"We'll drift, sir," Cargill was compelled to point out. With all sail furled they would have no maneuverability whatsoever.
"Indeed," Bush confirmed, "But it is high tide now. In two hours the current will be moving against the wind, and if we're lucky the one will equal the other."
Prowse had been making this same deduction even as Bush spoke, and he looked shrewdly at Bush, as if surprised to find his wits matched by the stern lieutenant. Bush tried to ignore this inspection, but it was difficult not to feel some irritation.
"I want someone taking readings with the sextant every thirty minutes so we can calculate our drift," he barked. "And I want two men on lookout." He directed these orders to the sailing master and his mate rather than the men, and Cargill rushed to relay the commands.
Prowse gave Bush another look, then nodded once and smiled. "Aye aye, sir."
That was gratifying, yet it was small satisfaction. Now that Bush was up on deck, he could not return to his cabin, though he'd be leaving the ship in capable hands. He was anxious enough to pace the deck the rest of the afternoon, despite the unexpected self-consciousness Prowse's inspection had sparked. He settled for standing stolidly by the wheel and surveying the rigging as the sails were one by one hauled up and tied round.
He mentally pictured which sails he would unfurl first should they need to move quickly. The yards would need to be swung this way if they spotted a sail from the north, and that way if they spotted a ship of war coming out of the Goulet. They would make the best headway with the wind a quarter or more abaft the beam, on a heading either a quarter north or a quarter east of northeast, but they would catch their sails aback if they turned too sharply into the wind while under full sail. This was simple, straight-forward seamanship, and Bush navigated every possibility in his mind as more a mental relaxation than an exercise. Fretting about sails was infinitely less distressing than fretting about his captain, for whom his imagination could conjure horror after horror.
These thoughts successfully distracted Bush for the rest of the afternoon watch, but at the change of the watch his musings were interrupted by an unexpected visit from Wallis, the ship's surgeon.
"We have a problem, sir."
Bush's eyebrows rose. Of course they had a problem—the captain was in the hands of cock-crapping mercenaries!
"Just what is the problem, Wallis?"
"It's Seamus, sir."
"Seamus." Bush hadn't the foggiest idea to what the surgeon was referring.
"Yes, Seamus—the 3rd gunner. He's been on my table for over a day and a half, and the smells gettin' to be right foul, sir. It's not sanitary, and it's not good for morale."
Seamus. The hand who'd died when they'd engaged the french invasion fleet. Bush took a deep inhalation through his nose, then let it out in a gust.
"We'll have to commit him now. I'll do the readings."
This must have been what Wallis expected, for he nodded. "Very well, sir. I'd recommend doing it after supper, sir. Men might lose their appetites otherwise."
Bush nodded stiffly, "Give his body to the sailmaker, and have the bosun collect his things for auction." He turned his gaze back to the rigging before the surgeon could respond, but he heard a grunt of acknowledgement.
He could not decide whether it was an ill omen or good that they would be holding a funeral on the eve of this night. By morning Hornblower would either be dead, reclaimed, or lost forever to the French. Would a restless spirit hurt or help their chances? He'd know in two hours, he suspected.
But thirty minutes later, two bells into the first dog watch, he was confronted by another problem. They had drifted more than he could wish. The broad side of the Hotspur was as big as any sail, even low as it was to the sea's surface, and the wind had had two hours to work against the ship before the falling tide began counteracting it. Even then the current did not counter the wind fully, for in that last hour of the watch the strengthening flow had merely deflected them north instead of northeast. They were not in danger of the batteries, but they were approaching the coast between Saint-Mathieu and the Goulet and would have to come about to avoid the shallows.
Bush ordered out all sail but the mains'l and mizzen sail. They would have to beat back against the wind, and for that endeavor the tops'ls and to'gallants would bear the brunt of the work. That would take some time, time he could devote to the last benediction of a dead man.
The sun was flush with the horizon and giving out her last rays as the first dog watch ended. It was a fitting sight to accompany a funeral; the pale yellow and pink rays glistened against the undulating sea to create a sparkle of jewels on every smooth wave. The dark blue of the ocean was an impenetrable black that would quickly swallow any body. Bush could only hope it was impenetrable enough to prevent the escape of this man's wandering spirit, for if there was so much as the hint of a ghost aboard the Hotspur, he'd be fighting more than the wind in his chase.
Bush gave the just-relieved shift thirty minutes to eat, then called all hands on deck. Cargill brought the ensign down to half mast. Several men were required in the rigging and at the braces to keep the ship beating to windward, but otherwise Bush would observe all proper ceremony for this, his first prayer for the dead.
O'Grady, a hand from Seamus's division, came forward with a small chest clutched in his wiry hands. Bush made no comment as the seaman began calling out the bidding for his comrade's possessions. It occurred to Bush that he did not even know if Seamus had a wife—a family. He felt a pang of guilt as he realized that, beyond not possessing this information, he had not even the interest in acquiring it. His heart and mind were devoted singularly to the retrieval of his moody, dark-eyed superior. When he tried to picture the face of this lowly deck hand he saw instead a thin, melancholy face framed by dark curls. He saw a tall figure by the wheel, steering them through shoals no other captain would brave. He saw thin lips pressed into a frown of irritated fatigue as a mind that worked faster than any other aboard was forced to accommodate the practical limitations of a body. Hornblower haunted Bush as thoroughly as any corpse—an image that caused Bush to shudder, despite the eyes upon him.
Seamus's body was carried to the rail by four fellow sailors in a short semblance of a parade. When his body rested in the gap where a gun formerly perched, Bush opened the Book of Common Prayer he'd had Doughty fetch from the wardroom.
"Fore as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to . . ."
It was strange how he could hear these words so many times during his service, and yet when it came to speaking them himself he found that he must carefully read each one in turn to make sure he left none out.
". . . we therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the Sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the four men who had carried the weighted canvas to the side heaved. There was a splash, and then Seamus Whiting, 3rd gunner, disappeared into the dark waters of the deepening twilight.
Bush dismissed the hands.
It took them four hours of slow tacking against the wind to reach that same point at which they'd started, miles off the coast. The crew seemed unperturbed by the funeral—likely anticipating the action they thought was to come—but Bush was restless, as he had been all day. When they finally came that satisfactory distance from the coast, he again furled all sail and let the Hotspur bob gently in place.
As before they drifted, but now they drifted east by northeast. The southwest wind they'd enjoyed all afternoon had slackened as night fell, but when they lost the wind they gained the current, for the tide had reversed at the end of the second dog watch and now pulled them slowly but inexorably toward the Goulet.
Late in the first watch the wind returned from a different direction. It was a clear night, which allowed the mainland to cool significantly. This made its surface colder than the ocean's surface, creating higher pressures over land than water. The result was a land breeze, coming from north by northeast. Yet the wind was not quite sufficient to halt the pull of the current, and by three bells into the second watch they were getting dangerously close to the battery at the northern mouth of the Goulet.
Bush, who had been unable still to drag himself down to his cabin to sleep, was on the verge of calling the men up the shrouds to loose sail when someone at the mast let go a shout.
"Sail to lew'ard! Sail in sight!"
Bush was at the rail in an instant, telescope to his eye. It could be no more than two miles off-a patch of white in the darkness. The clear sky had given them the added benefit of a crescent moon, and it was no doubt only that light that had allowed the lookout to spot the sail. Bush looked again through the glass. Three masts, but not as tall as their own rigging, and she did not appear as long as the Hotspur. She could be a brig, maybe a sloop of war, but . . . but . . .
"You men! Get up those lines! I want all sail out, and be quick about it! Mr. Prowse, you'll take us southeast a point east—I want to be to windward of her when we draw near!"
The hands wore grins on their weathered faces as they scurried up the ratlines, and while Bush could not join them in that expression, he felt himself fill with an anxious excitement. That could only be the Terre Haute, which meant they were in spitting distance of the captain; in spitting distance of a battle. It took only five minutes for the last sail to unfurl, and then Cargill was directing the men at the braces to swing the yards round. The wind would be a point abaft their beam, and the tide was still in their favor, which meant Bush could expect them to make as much as four knots.
They gained quickly.
At four bells the Terre Haute was near enough to be easily recognized, and the Hotspur in turn. The frenchmen had no doubt been surprised by her sudden appearance—they would not have seen her until she unfurled her canvas. Only now did they adjust their sail, mirroring the Hotspur in her southeast heading. They were both past the mouth of the Goulet then, and Bush was forced to consider the navigational difficulties ahead. The passage was less than a mile and half wide, and in mid-channel lay three significant dangers: the Fillettes, the Goudron, and the Mengam. The Fillettes, the little girls, was the western most obstruction; a series of rocks that were submerged at high tide, and only five feet above the ocean surface during low spring tide. This was a hazard Bush was well accustomed to, thanks to Hornblower's noble insistence on those night patrols, and he had a healthy respect for their danger. The others he was less familiar with. The Goudron was a rocky bank just east of the Fillettes, only two feet beneath the surface at low tide. The Mengam, a mile further east, was a large black rock, protruding 16 to 26 feet above the water line. The entire cluster of shoals would be a constant concern for the Hotspur while she remained on their weather side.
And stay to the weather side they would, for the beginnings of a plan had formed in Bush's mind. The Hotspur and the Terre Haute were on a course to intersect just before the Fillettes—the frenchmen clearly intending to take the southern route around the shoals. The Hotspur would take the northern route.
"Mr. Prowse. Take us north by northeast, and then east when we're well clear of the Girls."
"Aye aye, sir."
They would be have to sail close to the wind to take that heading, but once in the channel they would move faster than the Terre Haute. The current was stronger in the northern portion of the Goulet than the southern, and they had more sail and a deeper draft for the tide to carry. They would beat their prey to the end of that mile of shoals even if their sails shivered all the way.
Forty-five minutes of beating against that foul wind proved Bush correct in his estimation, though it took longer than he had expected. The tide had reached its peak halfway to their destination, and the water was still-the current halting as it prepared to reverse direction. What speed they had towards the end was from the wind alone, and that was not much, since it was coming in only four points off their bow. His only consolation was that he could see the Terre Haute as they both moved through the Goulet, and the Hotspur easily had her reach. When they came to the end of the Goudron it was a simple matter to turn the wind on their quarter and position themselves at the passage between the Goudron and the Mengam. If they could keep station there, they would block the french sloop's exit-
"Mr. Orrock! Beat to quarters! I want the guns run out!"
"Aye aye, sir!" There was fire in the lad's eyes as he descended from the quarterdeck to the gun deck, and Bush found himself envious. He was too worried, too preoccupied with strategizing, to feel that easy excitement. The guns were loaded and brought to bear in less than three minutes, which was remarkable considering the men had not been at their stations prior to his command.
"I want the port guns ready to fire, Orrock!" Orrock didn't spare him a glance, but Bush heard a jubilant "Aye aye, sir!" issue from below him. They were before the passage now, and the sloop was in their sights off the starboard beam. But with the wind at their stern, Bush would not risk them coasting into the Mengam while they were preoccupied with the guns. As soon as that rock loomed before them he tacked the Hotspur round, bringing the port guns to bear and cutting their speed by putting the wind fore of their beam.
The Terre Haute was but a third of a mile distant-easy cannon reach. It would be a simple matter to hull and sink her! to dismast her! to blast her to pieces for her treachery! That was the least they deserved, for what they'd done to the captain!
The captain.
With a jolt Bush saw the flaw in his plan. The captain was aboard that same sloop he was preparing to blow out of the water. One stray shot-one flying splinter and Hornblower could be dead. And dead at Bush's hand, or near enough.
"Mr. Orrock!" He shouted in sudden alarm. "Aim for the masts and the rigging! I don't want to see a single shot below the rail! Aim high, damn you!"
"Aye aye, sir! Shall we fire now, sir?" Orrock's voice was unchanged from its previous enthusiasm, and Bush forced himself to relax. Their current position was a far sight better than that of the night before, when they'd been wandering the fog in hazy confusion. At least now they could see the Terre Haute.
"Fire as she bears!"
Bush heard orders relayed to the guncrew, and then the nine nine-pounders of the port side fired one after the other in a concussion of sound. He kept his glass pressed to his eye. He saw two holes appear in the Terre Haute's courses; one of the yards ratcheted around as its spar was struck . . . but no mast fell.
"Reload!" Orrock shouted, stealing the words from Bush's mouth.
"Fire at will, Mr. Orrock!"
The gun deck was shrouded in smoke, and with the next wave of explosions the cloud wafted up to envelope the quarterdeck. Bush could not see the effect of this second barrage, but he fancied he heard the crack of splintering wood.
"Deck there! She's turning!" called one of the topmen.
"Which way?" Damn that blasted smoke! He needed to see!
"She's trying to reverse her heading, sir!"
They could try to run, but they would not succeed. They must know that . . .
"We'll give chase," he spoke aloud to himself, affirming in his mind which action he would take next. A voice by his elbow stopped him from immediately issuing the command.
"We're drifting, sir."
Bush looked at Prowse in surprise. Of course they were drifting—with the wind off their beam they would move a touch west for every cablelength they gained to the north.
"The tide is coming out."
Ahh. It had been high tide some forty-five minutes past, which meant that the tide was falling now, driving an ever strengthening current out of the Bay of Brest. They were drifting westward faster than he had realized.
"Thank you, Mr. Prowse."
With both the current and the wind acting in concert they would have to take in some sail to avoid coming upon the french sloop too swiftly. The Terre Haute was too near the shoals to approach her incautiously.
"Take us due west, Mr. Prowse, and I want the forecourse and the mizzen tops'l down."
"Aye aye-"
"Deck there!" The masthead again interrupted Bush's orders. "She's turned into the wind, sir! She's all aback!"
Bush's eyes widened involuntarily. "All aback?" The french must have gone to port instead of to starboard when they made their turn, attempting to save time by risking the wind.
"Her sails are shivering, sir!" The second lookout shouted.
"She's still turnin'-" The first added.
Bush could almost see the motions in his minds eye, even as the billowing smoke of the guns began to settle.
"The current's got 'er!"
"They've got their yards turned now—"
"They've stopped!".
"No—they've gone aground!"
Bush could contain himself no longer. He put his glass to his eye and strained to see through the haziness surrounding them. There she was, only a quarter mile away. She was rocking every-which way, helpless in the throws of the wind and current. Waves were splashing on her weather side, some beginning to break over her rail. She was INDEED grounded! When her sails flew aback, she'd become a victim to the current, and that falling tide had taken her right on to the Goudron! At high tide, those rocky shoals would be maybe 8 feet below the surface—about the draft of the Hotspur. It was bad luck indeed that the sloop had caught on anything! And now that she had, she'd be stuck there, for the water was only getting shallower.
"Mr. Cargill! Mr. Poole! Prepare the boats!"
They'd board her, by God!