The Commodore

Obviously she was finding her way up a channel to the shelter of Hiddensoe. On the chart there was a single sounding marked there, a laconic ‘2?’. Fifteen feet of water, and a battery at the head of the long peninsula. Blanchefleur could reckon herself safe if the Swedes would defend her. On the horizon to windward Hornblower saw the queer topsails of the bomb-ketches; Duncan and Mound, after blundering about in the fog, must have caught sight of Nonsuch while on their way to the rendezvous off Cape Arcona.

“Send the boats to assist Raven, if you please, Captain Bush,” said Hornblower.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hoisting longboat and cutter off their chocks and overside was an evolution calling for a couple of hundred hands. Pipes squealed and the bos’un’s cane stirred up the laggards. The sheaves squeaked in the blocks, bare feet stamped the decks, and even Nonsuch’s massive bulk heeled a little with the transfer of weight. Hornblower betook himself to his telescope again.

Blanchefleur had found herself a curious anchorage. She lay between the main island of Rugen and the long narrow strip of Hiddensoe; the latter was more of a sandspit than an island, a thread of sand-dunes emerging from the yellow shallows. In fact Blanchefleur’s spars were still in plain sight against the background of the low mud cliffs of Rugen; it was only her hull which was concealed by the dunes of Hiddensoe lying like a long curving breakwater in front of her. On one end of Hiddensoe was a battery— Hornblower could see the silhouettes of the guns, black against the green of the grass-grown embrasures—which covered one entrance to the tiny roadstead ; at the other end the breaking waves showed that there was not water enough even for a ship’s longboat to pass. The squadron had succeeded in cutting off the privateer’s escape into Stralsund, but it seemed as if she were just as safe where she was now, with miles of shoals all round her and a battery to protect her; any attempt to cut her out must be made by the ship’s boats, rowing in plain view for miles through the shallows, then through a narrow channel under the guns of the battery, and finally bringing out the prize under the same guns and over the unknown shoals. That was not a tempting prospect; he could land marines on the seaward front of Hiddensoe and try to storm the battery by brute force, but the attempt would be inviting a bloody repulse if there were no surprise to cover the assaulting party. Besides, the battery’s garrison would be Swedes, and he did not want to shed Swedish blood—Sweden was only a nominal enemy, but any vigorous action on his part might easily make her an active one. Hornblower remembered the paragraphs of his instructions which bore on this very point.

As if in echo to his thoughts the signal midshipman saluted with a new report.

“Signal from Lotus, sir.”

Hornblower read the message written in crude capitals on the slate.

“Flags of truce coming out from Stralsund. Have allowed them to pass.”

“Acknowledge,” said Hornblower.

What the devil did that mean? One flag of truce he could expect, but Vickery was reporting two at least. He swung his glass over to where Vickery had very sensibly anchored Lotus, right between Blanchefleur’s refuge and any possible succour from Stralsund. There were one—two— three—small sails heading straight for the Nonsuch, having just rounded Lotus. They were all of them of the queer Baltic rig, like Dutchmen with a foreign flavour—rounded bows and lee-boards and big gaff-mainsails. Close-hauled, with the white water creaming under their blunt bows and the spray flying in sheets even in this moderate breeze, they were clearly being sailed for all they were worth, as if it were a race.

“What in God’s name?” said Bush, training his glass on them.

It might be a ruse to gain time. Hornblower looked round again at the spars of Blanchefleur above the sandspit. She had furled everything and was riding at anchor.

“White above yellow and blue, sir,” said Bush, still watching the approaching boats. “That’s Swedish colours under a flag of truce.”

Hornblower turned his glass on the leader and confirmed Bush’s decision.

“The next one, sir—” Bush laughed apologetically at his own innocence, “I know it’s strange, sir, but it looks just like the British ens’n under a flag of truce.”

It was hard to believe; and it was easy to make a mistake in identifying a small boat’s flag at that distance. But Hornblower’s glass seemed to show the same thing.

“What do you make of that second boat, Mr. Hurst?”

“British colours under white, sir,” said Hurst without hesitation.

The third boat was some long way astern, and her colours were not so easy to make out.

“French, I think, sir,” said Hurst, but the leading boat was approaching fast now.

It was a tall portly gentleman who was swung up on to the deck in the bos’un’s chair, clinging to his cocked hat. He wore a blue coat with gold buttons and epaulettes, and he hitched his sword and his stock into position before laying the hat—a fore-and-aft one with a white plume and a Swedish cockade—across his chest in a sweeping bow.

“Baron Basse,” he said.

Hornblower bowed.

“Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower, Commodore commanding this squadron.”

Basse was a heavily jowled man with a big hook-nose and a cold grey eye; and it was obvious that he could only guess faintly at what Hornblower said.

“You fight?” he asked, with an effort.

“I am in pursuit of a privateer under French colours,” said Hornblower, and then, realizing the difficulty of making himself understood when he had to pick his words with diplomatic care: “Here, where’s Mr. Braun?”

The interpreter came forward with a brief explanation of himself in Swedish, and Hornblower watched the interplay of glances between the two. They were clearly the deadliest political enemies, meeting here on the comparatively neutral ground of a British man-o’-war. Basse brought out a letter from his breast pocket and passed it to Braun, who glanced at it and handed it to Hornblower.

“That is a letter from the Governor-General of Swedish Pomerania,” he explained, “saying that this gentleman, the Baron Basse, has his full confidence.”

“I understand,” said Hornblower.

Basse was already talking rapidly to Braun.

“He says,” explained Braun, “that he wants to know what you will do.”

“Tell him,” said Hornblower, “that that depends on what the Swedes do. Ask him if Sweden is neutral.”

Obviously the reply was not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Basse offered a lengthy explanation.

“He says that Sweden only wants to be at peace with all the world,” said Braun.

“Tell him that that means neutrality, then, and neutrality has obligations as well as privileges. There is a ship-of-war under French colours there. She must be warned that her presence in Swedish waters can only be tolerated for a limited time, and I must be informed of what the time-limit is.”

Basse’s heavy face showed considerable embarrassment at Braun’s translation of Hornblower’s demand. He worked his hands violently as he made his reply.

“He says he cannot violate the laws of international amity,” said Braun.

“Say that that is exactly what he is doing. That ship cannot be allowed to use a Swedish port as a base of operations. She must be warned to leave, and if she will not, then she must be taken over and a guard put in her to make sure she does not slip away.”

Basse positively wrung his hands as Braun spoke to him, but any reply he was going to make was cut short by Bush’s salute to Hornblower.

“The French flag of truce is alongside, sir. Shall I allow them to send someone on board?”

“Oh, yes,” said Hornblower testily.

The new figure that came in through the entry-port was even more decorative than Basse, although a much smaller man.

Across his blue coat lay the watered red silk ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and its star glittered on his breast. He, too, swept off his hat in an elaborate bow.

“The Count Joseph Dumoulin,” he said, speaking French, “Consul-General in Swedish Pomerania of His