What in Gods 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. Thats Swedish colours under a flag of truce.
Hornblower turned his glass on the leader and confirmed Bushs decision.
The next one, sir Bush laughed apologetically at his own innocence, I know its strange, sir, but it looks just like the British ensn under a flag of truce.
It was hard to believe; and it was easy to make a mistake in identifying a small boats flag at that distance. But Hornblowers 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 bosuns 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 hata fore-and-aft one with a white plume and a Swedish cockadeacross
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, wheres 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.
Basses heavy face showed considerable embarrassment at Brauns translation of Hornblowers 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 Bushs 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 Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Republic.
Captain Hornblower, said Hornblower. He was suddenly excessively cautious, because his government had never recognized those resounding titles which Dumoulin had just reeled off. In the eyes of King George and his ministers, Napoleon, Emperor of the French, was merely General Bonaparte in his personal capacity, and Chief of the French Government in his official one. More than once British officers had found themselves in serious trouble for putting their names to documentscartels and the likewhich bore even incidental references to the Empire.
Is there anyone who can speak French? asked Dumoulin politely, I regret bitterly my complete inability to speak English.