The Commodore

The Blanchefleur would most likely still be hovering round the island of Rugen. Cape Arcona would be a profitable haunt—shipping coming down the Baltic from Russian and Finnish ports would make a landfall there, to be easily snapped up, hemmed in between the land and the two-fathom shoal of the Adlergrund. She would not know of the arrival of a British squadron, nor guess that the immediate recapture of the Maggie Jones had so quickly revealed her presence here.

“I think that is all perfectly plain, gentlemen?” said Hornblower, looking round his cabin at his assembled captains.

There was a murmur of assent. Vickery of the Lotus and Cole of the Raven were looking grimly expectant. Each of them was hoping that it would be his ship that would encounter the Blanchefleur–a successful single-ship action against a vessel of so nearly equal force would be the quickest way to be promoted captain from commander. Vickery was young and ardent—it was he who had commanded the boats at the cutting-out of the Sevres–and Cole was grey-headed and bent. Mound, captain of the Harvey, and Duncan, captain of the Moth were both of them young lieutenants; Freeman, of the cutter Clam, swarthy and with long black hair like a gipsy, was of a different type; it would be less surprising to hear he was captain of a smuggling craft than captain of a King’s ship. It was Duncan who asked the next question.

“If you please, sir, is Swedish Pomerania neutral?”

“Whitehall would be glad to know the answer to that question, Mr. Duncan,” said Hornblower, with a grin. He wanted to appear stern and aloof, but it was not easy with these pleasant boys.

They grinned back at him; it was with a curious pang that Hornblower realized that his subordinates were already fond of him. He thought, guiltily, that if only they knew all the truth about him they might not like him so much.

“Any other questions, gentlemen? No? Then you can return to your ships and take your stations for the night.”

At dawn when Hornblower came on deck there was a thin fog over the surface of the sea; with the dropping of the westerly wind the cold water flowing out from the melting ice-packs of the Gulf of Finland had an opportunity of cooling the warm damp air and condensing its moisture into a cloud.

“It could be thicker, sir, but not much,” grumbled Bush. The foremast was visible from the quarter-deck, but not the bowsprit. There was only a faint breeze from the north, and the Nonsuch, creeping along before it, was very silent, pitching hardly at all on the smooth sea, with a rattle of blocks and cordage.

“I took a cast with the deep-sea lead at six bells, sir,” reported Montgomery. “Ninety-one fathoms. Grey mud. That’ll be the Arcona deep, sir.”

“Very good, Mr. Montgomery,” said Bush. Hornblower was nearly sure that Bush’s curt manner to his lieutenants was modelled on the manner Hornblower used to employ towards him when he was first lieutenant.

“Nosing our way about with the lead,” said Bush, disgustedly. “We might as well be a Dogger Bank trawler. And you remember what the prisoners said about the Blanchefleur, sir? They have pilots on board who know these waters like the palms of their hands.”

Groping about in a fog in shoal waters was not the sort of exercise for which a big two-decker was designed, but the Nonsuch had a special value in this campaign. There were few ships this side of the Sound which could match her in force; under her protection the flotilla could cruise wherever necessary. Danes and Swedes and Russians and French had plenty of small craft, but when Nonsuch made her appearance they were powerless to hinder.

“If you please, sir,” said Montgomery, touching his hat. “Isn’t that gunfire which I can hear?”

Everybody listened, enwrapped in the clammy fog. The only noises to be heard were those of the ship, and the condensed fog dripping from the rigging to the deck. Then a flat-sounding thud came faintly to their ears.

“That’s a gun, sir, or my name’s not Sylvanus Montgomery!”

“From astern,” said Hornblower.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but I thought it was on the port bow.”

“Damn this fog,” said Bush.

If the Blanchefleur once had warning of the presence of a British squadron in pursuit of her, and then got away, she would vanish like a needle in a haystack. Hornblower held up a wetted finger and glanced into the binnacle.

“Wind’s north,” he said. “Maybe nor’nor’east.”

That was comforting. To leeward, the likely avenue of escape, lay Rugen and the coast of Swedish Pomerania, twenty miles away. If Blanchefleur did not slip through the net he had spread she would be hemmed in.

“Set the lead going, Mr. Montgomery,” said Bush.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“There’s another gun!” said Hornblower. “On the port bow, sure enough.”

A wild yell from the masthead.

“Sail ho! Sail right ahead!”

The mist was thinner in that direction. Perhaps as much as a quarter of a mile away could be seen the thinnest palest ghost of a ship creeping through the fog across the bows.

“Ship-rigged, flush-decked,” said Bush. “That’s the Blanchefleur sure as a gun!”

She vanished as quickly as she had appeared, into a thicker bank of fog.

“Hard-a-starboard!” roared Bush. “Hands to the braces!”

Hornblower was at the binnacle, taking a hurried bearing.

“Steady as you go!” he ordered the helmsman. “Keep her at that!”

In this gentle breeze the heavily sparred privateer would be able to make better speed than a clumsy two- decker. All that could be hoped for would be to keep Nonsuch up to windward of her to head her off if she tried to break through the cordon.

“Call all hands,” said Bush. “Beat to quarters.”

The drums roared through the ship, and the hands came pouring up to their stations.

“Run out the guns,” continued Bush. “One broadside into her, and she’s ours.”

The trucks roared as three hundred tons of metal were run out. At the breech of every gun there clustered an eager group. The linstocks smouldered sullenly.

“Masthead, there! Stay awake!” pealed Bush, and then more quietly to Hornblower, “He may double back and throw us off the scent.”

There was always the possibility of the masthead being above this thin fog—the lookout in Nonsuch might catch a glimpse of the Blanchefleur’s topmasts when nothing could be seen from the deck.

For several minutes there was no more sound save for the cry of the leadsman; Nonsuch rolled gently in the trough of the waves, but it was hard to realize in the mist that she was making headway.

“By the mark twenty,” called the leadsman.

Before he had uttered the last word Hornblower and Bush had turned to glance at each other; up to that moment their subconscious minds had been listening to the cries without their consciousness paying any attention. But ‘by the mark’ meant that now there was at most twenty fathoms under them.

“Shoaling, sir,” commented Bush.

Then the masthead lookout yelled again.

“Sail on the lee quarter, sir!”

Bush and Hornblower sprang to the rail, but in the clinging fog there was nothing to be seen.

“Masthead, there! What d’you see?”

“Nothin’ now, sir. Just caught a glimpse of a ship’s royals, sir. There they are again, sir. Two points—three points abaft the port beam.”