Hornblower and the Atropos

“Deck there! There’s a sail ahead of the enemy, sir!”

That was it, then.

“Get aloft with you, Mr. Smiley. You can go too, Mr. Prince.”

That would show His Serene Highness that a punishment cleared the record in the Navy, and that he was being trusted not to risk any more monkey tricks. It was a detail that had to be borne in mind despite the flood of excitement following the masthead report. There was no knowing what that sail over there, invisible from the deck, might imply. But there was a chance that it was a British ship of war, fair in Castilla’s path.

“Two sail! Three sail! Captain, sir, it looks like a convoy, dead to leeward.”

A convoy could only be a British convoy, and a convoy meant the presence of a British ship of war ahead there in Castilla’s path.

“Up helm and bear down on the enemy. Call all hands, Mr. Still, if you please. Clear for action.”

During all the long flight and pursuit he had not cleared for action. He had not wanted action with the vastly superior Castilla, and had been determined on avoiding it. Now he hoped for it—hoped for it with that tremor of doubt that made him hate himself, all the more so as the repeating of the order brought a cheer from the men, the watch below pouring on deck for duty with expectant grins and schoolboy excitement. Mr. Jones came bustling up on deck buttoning his coat; apparently he had been dozing comfortably through the afternoon watch. To Jones would fall the command of the Atropos if any accident should befall him, if a shot should take off his leg or dash him into bloody fragments. Odd that the thought of Jones becoming responsible for handling Atropos was as disturbing as the rest of it. But all the same Jones must be brought up to date on the situation and told what should be done. He did it in three sharp sentences.

“I see, sir,” said Jones, pulling at his long chin. Hornblower was not so sure that he did see, but there was no more time to spare for Jones.

“Masthead! What of the convoy?”

“One sail has tacked, sir. She’s standing towards us.”

“What d’you make of her?”

“She looks like a ship of war, sir. I can only see her royals, sir.”

“Mr. Horrocks, make the private signal and our number.”

A ship standing towards Castilla could only be a ship of war, the escorting vessel. Hornblower could only hope she would be one of the larger frigates, able to meet the big Castilla on something like equal terms. But he knew most of the frigates Collingwood had—Sirius, Naiad, Hermione–thirtytwo gun twelvepounder frigates most of them, hardly a match for Castilla’s fortyfour eighteenpounders unless well handled, and unless Castilla fought badly, and unless he himself had a chance to intervene. He strained his eyesight staring forward through his glass, but the British ship was not yet in sight from the deck, and Castilla was still ru

“Signal, sir!”

Horrocks was ready with the book as the masthead reported the flags.

“Private signal correctly answered, sir. And her number. She’s Nightingale, sir, 28, Captain Ford, sir.”

Almost the smallest of the frigates, with only ninepounders on her maindeck. Please God Ford would have the sense not to close with Castilla. He must outmanoeuvre her, keep her in play, and then when Atropos came up there could be some pretty tactics until they could shoot away some of Castilla’s spars and take her at a disadvantage. Then they could rake her and weaken her before closing in for the kill. The captain of the Castilla was showing proof of having grasped the essentials of the situation; caught between two hostile ships so that he could not avoid action if it were forced on him he was plunging down at his best speed to the attack on the one most accessible to him; he was still carrying all sail to bring him most quickly into action before Atropos could intervene. He could well hope to batter Nightingale into a wreck and then turn on Atropos. If he succeeded—oh, if he succeeded!—it would be a terrible problem for Atropos, to decide whether or not to accept action.

“Ship cleared for action, sir,” reported Jones.

“Very well.”

Now his glass picked her up; the distant sail, far beyond Castilla. As he looked, as the top gallants appeared below the royals, the royals disappeared. Nightingale was shortening down to “fighting sails” ready for action. Hornblower knew a little about Ford. He had the reputation of a good fighting captain. Please God he had discretion as well. Ford was far his senior in the Navy list; there was no possibility of giving him orders to keep clear.

Castilla was still hurtling down upon Nightingale.

“Signal, sir. Number 72. ‘Engage the enemy more closely!’”

“Acknowledge.”

Hornblower was conscious of Jones’s and Turner’s eyes upon him. There might be an implied rebuke in that signal, a hint that he was not doing his best to get into action. On the other hand it might be a mere signal that action was imminent. Nightingale’s topsails were over the horizon now; closehauled, she was doing her best to come to meet Castilla. If only Ford would hold off for half an hour—Atropos was steadily gaining on Castilla. No, he was still hurrying to the encounter before Atropos could arrive; he was playing Castilla’s game for her. Now Castilla was clewing up her courses; she was taking in her royals, ready for the clash. The two ships were hastening together; white sails on a blue sea under a blue sky. They were right in line from where Hornblower stood staring at them through his glass; right in line so that it was hard to judge the distance between them. Now they were turning, Nightingale paying off before the wind as Castilla approached. All the masts seemed blended together. Ford must keep clear and try to shoot away a spar.

A sudden billowing of smoke round the ships; the first broadsides were being fired. It looked as if the ships were already closelocked in action—surely it could not be. Not time yet to take in courses and royals; the sooner they got down into action the better. Now, heavily over the blue water, came the sound of those first broadsides, like the rumbling of thunder. The smoke was blowing clear of the fight, drifting away from the ships in a long bank. More smoke billowing up; the guns had been reloaded and were firing away, and still the masts were close together—had Ford been fool enough to lock yardarms? Again the long rumble of the guns. The ships were swinging round in the smoke cloud; he could see the masts above it changing their bearing, but he could not distinguish ship from ship. There was a mast falling, yards, sails and all; it must be Nightingale’s main topmast, hideous though the thought was. This seemed like a lifetime, waiting to get into action. Ca