Another hit, by God! shouted Hornblower, the words forced from him like a cork from a popgun. He was as excited as a schoolboy; he found he was jumping up and down on the deck. The foremast gone; he tried to picture the frightful destruction those shells must be causing, crashing down on the frail wooden decks. And there was smoke visible over the crest of the dunes too, more than could be accounted for by the bursting of the shells, and blacker, too. Probably she was on fire. Mizzenmast and mainmast came into line againBlanchefleur was swinging across the channel. She must be out of control. Perhaps a shell had hit the cable out to the kedge or wrecked the towing boats.
Moth fired again; and two red swallowtails at the dip showed that her shells had fallen close and shortBlanchefleur must have swerved appreciably across the channel. Mound had noticed it, and was increasing the propelling charge in his mortars. That was smoke; undoubtedly it was smoke eddying from Blanchefleur. She must be on fire. And from the way she lay, stationary againHornblower could see that her topmasts made no movement at all to the sand-dunesshe must have gone aground. Mound fired again, and they waited. There went the mizzen-topmast, leaning over slowly, and the maintopmast disappeared as well. There was nothing to see now, except the smoke rising ever more thickly. Mound looked at Hornblower for orders.
Better keep on firing, said Hornblower, thickly. Even if the crew were roasting alive in her it was his duty to see that Blanchefleur was utterly destroyed. The mortars roared out again, and the shells made their steep ascent, climbing upwards for ten full seconds before swooping down again. Clam signalled close and over. Moth fired again, and Clam signalled a hit for, her; Hornblowers inner eye was seeing mental pictures of the shells plunging from the sky in among the crew of the Blanchefleur as
they laboured amid the flames to save their ship, burning, dismasted, and aground. It took only the briefest interval of time for those pictures to form, for the moment the signal was seen in Clam Mound bent to fire the mortars, and yet the fuses had not taken fire when the sound of a violent explosion checked him. Hornblower whipped his glass to his eye; an immense gust of smoke showed over the sand-dunes, and in the smoke Hornblower thought he could make out flying speckscorpses or fragments of the ship, blown into the air by the explosion. The fire, or one of Moth s last shells, had reached Blanchefleur s magazines.
Signal to Clam , Mr. Mound, said Hornblower What do you see of the enemy?
They waited for the answer.
Enemytotallydestroyed, sir, read off the masters mate, and the crew gave a ragged cheer.
Very good, Mr. Mound. I think we can leave these shallows now before daylight goes. Hang out the recall, if you please, with Clam s number and Lotus s number.
This watery northern sunshine was deceptive. It shone upon one but it gave one no heat at all. Hornblower shivered violently for a momenthe had been standing inactive, he told himself, upon the Harvey s deck for some hours, and he should have worn a greatcoat. Yet that was not the real explanation of the shudder, and he knew it. The excitement and interest had died away, leaving him gloomy and deflated. It had been a brutal and cold-blooded business, destroying a ship that had no chance of firing back at him. It would read well in a report, and brother officers would tell each other of Hornblowers new achievement, destroying a big French privateer in the teeth of the Swedes and the French amid shoals innumerable. Only he would know of this feeling of inglorious anticlimax.
Chapter Ten
What do you think the Swedesll say, sir? he asked, greatly daring. The responsibility was none of his, and he knew by experience that Hornblower was likely to resent being reminded that Bush was thinking about it.
They can say what they like, said Hornblower, but nothing they can say can put Blanchefleur together again.
It was such a cordial reply compared with what Hornblower might have said that Bush wondered once more what it was which had wrought the change in Hornblowerwhether his new mellowness was the consequence of success, of recognition of promotion, or of marriage. Hornblower was inwardly debating that very question at that very moment as well, oddly enough, and he was inclined to attribute it to advancing years. For a few moments he subjected himself to his usual pitiless self-analysis, almost morbidly intense. He knew he had grown blandly tolerant of the fact that his hair was thinning, and turning grey over his templesthe first time he had seen a gleam of pink scalp as he combed his hair he had been utterly revolted, but by now he had at least grown accustomed to it. Then he looked down the double row of young faces at his table, and his heart warmed to them. Without a doubt, he was growing paternal, coming to like young people in a way new to him; he suddenly became aware, for that matter, that he was growing to like people young or old, and was losingtemporarily at least, said his cautious spiritthat urgent desire to get away by himself and torture himself.