Despatches for M. le Baron Momas, hailed Hornblower in return.
The confident voice, the fluent French, the use of Momas name, might all gain time for the squadron to enter.
What ship?
It was inconceivable that the seamen in the guard-boat did not recognise the Flame the question must be a merely rhetorical one asked while the puzzled officer in command collected his thoughts.
British brig Flame , called Hornblower; he had the helm put over at that moment to make the turn past the point.
Heave-to, or I will fire into you!
If you fire, you will have the responsibility, replied Hornblower. We bear despatches for Baron Momas.
It was a fair wind now for the quay. The turn had brought the guard-boat close alongside; Hornblower could see the officer standing up in the bows beside the bow-gun, a seaman at his shoulder with a glowing linstock in his hand. Hornblowers own full-dress uniform must be visible and cause some delay, too, for men expecting to fight would not be expected to wear full dress. He saw the officer give a violent start, having caught sight of the Porta Coeli looming up in the mist astern of the Flame. He saw the order given, saw the spark thrust on the touchhole. The three-pounder roared, and the shot crashed into the Flame s side. That would give the alarm to the batteries at the point and above the quay.
We do not fire back, he hailedmaybe he could gain a little more time, and maybe that tune would be of use, although he doubted it.
Here inside the harbour the mist was not so thick. He could see the shadowy shape of the quay rapidly defining itself. In the next few seconds he would know if this were a trap or not, if the batteries should open in a tempest of flame. One part of his mind raced through the data, while another part was working out how to approach the quay. He could not believe that Lebrun was playing a double game, but if it were so only he and the Flame would be lostthe other vessels would have a chance to get clear.
Luff! he said to the helmsman. There were a few busy seconds as he applied himself to the business of bringing the Flame alongside the quay as speedily as possible and yet without
damaging her too severely. She came alongside with a creak and a clatter, the fenders groaning as if in agony. Hornblower sprang onto the bulwark and from there to the quay, sword, cocked hat, epaulettes and all. He could not spare time to look round, but he had no doubt that the Porta Coeli had anchored, ready to give assistance where necessary, and that the Nonsuch in her turn was nearing the quay, her marines drawn up ready for instant landing. He strode up the quay, his heart pounding. There was the first battery, the guns glaring through the embrasures. He could see movement behind the guns, and more men running to the battery from the guardhouse in the rear. Now he had reached the edge of the moat, his left hand held up in a gesture to restrain the men at the guns.
Where is your officer? he shouted.
There was a momentary delay, and then a young man in blue and red artillery uniform sprang upon the parapet.
What do you want? he asked.
Tell your men not to fire, said Hornblower. Have you not received your new orders?
The full dress, the confident bearing, the extraordinary circumstances puzzled the young artillery officer.
New orders? he asked feebly.
Hornblower simulated exasperation.
Get your men away from those guns, he said. Otherwise there may be a deplorable accident.
But, monsieur The artillery lieutenant pointed down to the quay, and Hornblower now could spare the time to glance back, following the gesture. What he saw made his pounding heart pound harder yet for sheer pleasure. There was the Nonsuch against the quay, there was the Camilla just coming alongside; but more important yet, there was a big solid block of red coats forming up on the quay. One section with an officer at its head was already heading towards them at a quick step, muskets sloped.
Send a messenger instantly to the other battery, said Hornblower, to make sure the officer in command there understands.
But, monsieur
Hornblower stamped his foot with impatience. He could hear the rhythmic tread of the marines behind him, and he gesticulated to them with his hand behind his back. They marched along past him.
Eyes left! ordered the subaltern in command, with a smart salute to the French officer. The courtesy took what little wind was left out of the sails of the Frenchman, so that his new protest died on his lips. The marine detachment wheeled to its left round the flank of the battery on the very verge of its dry ditch. Hornblower did not dare take his eyes from the young Frenchman on the parapet, but he sensed what was going on in the rear of the battery. The sally-port there was open, and the marines marched in, still in column of fours, still with their muskets sloped. Now they were in among the guns, pushing the gunners away from their pieces, knocking the smouldering linstocks out of their hands. The young officer was wringing his hands with anxiety.