Baddlestone listed the pitiful contents of the arms chest; even a waterhoy carried cutlasses and pistols for defence against hostile rowing boats, which were well known to push out from the French shore to snap up unarmed prizes in a calm.
“We could get a few more,” interposed Hornblower. “They're bound to send a boat and a prize crew. And in the dark —”
“By God, you're right!” shouted Meadows, and he turned on Baddlestone. “Don't hoist those colours! We'll get out of this! By God, we'll take her!”
“We could try,” said Baddlestone.
“And by God, I'm the senior naval officer!” said Meadows.
A man returning to England under a cloud would be rehabilitated almost automatically if he brought a prize in with him. Meadows might possibly reach the captains' list before Hornblower.
“Come on,” said Meadows. “Let's get the hands told off.”
They were entering upon the wildest, the most reckless enterprise that could ever be imagined, but they were desperate men. Hornblower himself was desperate, although he told himself during the bustle of preparation that he was a man under orders with no alternative except to obey. He would not go so far as to point out to himself that they were carrying out the plan he himself had devised — and on which he would have acted, danger or no danger, had he been in command.
Hornblower and the Crisis
CHAPTER SIX
Princess was lying hove to in the darkness. The mere fact of being hove to could be construed by the enemy as an admission of surrender — but not by a legalistic mind. From her fore stay flickered a lighted lantern, trimmed right down. That would give least chance of the brig observing what would be going on aft in the waist, and yet that tiny dot of light was visible in the total blackness to the brig a cable's length — a cable and a half — to leeward, where the four bright lanterns hoisted in the fore — and main — rigging not only revealed her position but provided light for the business of hoisting out her boat.
“They're coming,” growled Meadows, crouching at the gunwale. “Remember, cold steel.”
In the strong breeze that was blowing confused noises would pass unnoticed in the brig, but a shot would be heard clearly enough downwind. Now the crouching men could see a solid nucleus tossing in the darkness. Now they could hear the grind of oars; now they could hear French voices. Hornblower was waiting. He threw them a line as they hooked on.
“Montez,” he said; it was an effort to keep his voice from cracking with excitement. His was the only white face in the hoy; the others were painted black.
Princess was heaving on the agitated sea in as lively a fashion as ever. It was several seconds before the first Frenchman boarded, cutlass and pistols at his belt, a midshipman arriving to take possession of the prize. Hornblower heard the dull thump when they struck him down. He was disposed of before the next man could make the leap. So was the next man, and the next, and the next. It was all horribly, repulsively easy to men who were prepared to be utterly ruthless.
Hornblower from his point of vantage could just determine when the last man had boarded; he could see that the boat's crew was preparing to hand up the prize crew's gear.
“Right!” he called, sharply.
Meadows and his allocated group were crouched and ready, and hurled themselves down in a torrent of falling bodies into the boat. An oar clattered and rattled; Hornblower could hear belaying pins striking against skulls. There was only one astonished outcry and no more. Hornblower could not hear the dead or unconscious bodies being dropped into the sea, but he knew that was being done.
“We've arms for seven,” came Meadows' voice. “Come on, longboat party. Hornblower, get started.”
There had been two hours in which to organize the attack; everybody knew what part he had to play. Hornblower ran aft and a group of almost invisible blackfaced figures loomed up at his side. It reminded him to dip his hand into the paint bucket that stood there and hastily smear his forehead and cheeks before making the next move. The hoy's boat was towing under the quarter; they hauled it in and scrambled down.
“Cast off!” said Hornblower, and a desperate shove with the port side oars got them clear. “Easy all!”
Tiller in hand, Hornblower stared through the darkness from under the stern. It had taken longer to man the brig's longboat; only now was it beginning to head back to the brig. As it rose on a wave Hornblower caught sight of it silhouetted against the light from the brig's lanterns. He must wait for several more seconds; if the brig's crew were to see two boats returning where one had set out the alarm might possibly be given.
It was a bad business that the French boat's crew had all been dropped into the sea; necessary act of war or not, the French could say they had been murdered. They would give no quarter to any survivors on the brig's deck if the attack were to fail; this was going to be the most desperate battle of his life — victory or death with no compromise possible.
There was the longboat approaching the brig's side, clearly visible in the light of the lanterns.
“Give way, port side!” The boat swung round as the oars bit. “Give way, starboard side!”
The boat began to move through the water, and the tiller under Hornblower's hand came to life. He set his course; there was no need to call upon the oarsmen to pull with all their strength, as they were well aware of the details of the situation. Hornblower had read somewhere a fragment of English history, about a Saxon over king who, in token of his pre eminence, had been rowed on the river Dee by eight under kings. Most of
