Rayner’s eyelids flickered for a second—he had heard Hornblower’s promise to Captain Osborn, and he knew that more than a hundred of the new arrivals would refuse to volunteer. The boats would only have to be hoisted out again to take them back. But if Hornblower’s wooden expression indicated anything at all, it was that he meant what he said.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Rayner.

Bush was approaching now, paper in hand, having agreed his figures regarding the recruits with Gerard.

“A hundred and twenty, total, sir, as you ordered,” said Bush. “One cooper’s mate—he was a volunteer, one hundred and nine able seamen—two of ‘em volunteered; six quarter gunners; four landsmen, all volunteers.”

“Excellent, Mr. Bush, Read ‘em in. Mr. Rayner, square away as soon as those boats are inboard. Mr. Vincent! Signal to the convoy. ‘All-men-have-volunteered. Thank you. Good-bye.’ You’ll have to spell out ‘volunteered’ but it’s worth it.”

Hornblower’s high spirits had lured him into saying an unecessary sentence. But when he took himself to task for it he could readily excuse himself. He had a hundred and twenty new hands, nearly all of them able seamen—the Sutherland had nearly her full complement now. More than that, he had guarded himself against the wrath to come. When the inevitable chiding letter arrived from the Admiralty he would be able to write back and say that he had taken the men with the East India Company’s Commodore’s permission; with any good fortune he could keep the ball rolling for another six months. That would give him a year altogether in which to convince the new hands that they had volunteered—by that time some of them at least might be sufficiently enamoured of their new life to swear to that; enough of them to befog the issue, and to afford to an Admiralty, prepared of necessity to look with indulgence on breaches of the pressing regulations, a loophole of excuse not to prosecute him too hard.

“Lord Mornington replying, sir,” said Vincent. “’Do not understand the signal. Await boat’!”

“Signal ‘Good-bye’ again,” said Hornblower.

Down on the maindeck Bush had hardly finished reading through the Articles of War to the new hands—the necessary formality to make them servants of the King, submissive to the hangman and the cat.

The Sutherland had reached her rendezvous off Palamos Point, apparently the first of the squadron, for there was no sign as yet of the flagship or of the Caligula. As she beat slowly up under easy sail against the gentle south-easterly wind Gerard was taking advantage of this period of idleness to exercise the crew at the guns. Bush had too long had his way in drilling the crew aloft; it was time for practice with the big guns, as Hornblower had agreed. Under the scorching sun of a Mediterranean midsummer the men, naked to the waist, had sweated rivers running the guns out and in again, training round with handspikes, each man of the crew learning the knack of the flexible rammer—all the mechanical drill which every man at the guns had to learn until he could be trusted to run up, fire, clean, and reload, and to go on doing so for hour after hour, in thick powder smoke and with death all round him. Drill first, marksmanship a long way second, but all the same it was policy to allow the men to fire off the guns a few times—they found compensation in that for the arduous toil at the guns.

A thousand yards to port the quarter boat was bobbing over the glittering sea. There was a splash, and then they could see the black dot of the cask she had thrown overboard before pulling hastily out of the line of fire.

“No. 1 gun!” bellowed Gerard. “Take your aim! Cock your locks! Fire—stop your vents!”

The foremost eighteen-pounder roared out briefly while a dozen glasses looked for the splash.

“Over and to the right!” announced Gerard. “No. 2 gun!”

The maindeck eighteen-pounders, the lower deck twenty-four-pounders, spoke each in turn. Even with experienced gun layers itwould have been too much to expect to hit a cask at such a long range in thirty-seven shots; the cask still bobbed unharmed. Every gun of the port battery tried again, and still the cask survived.

“We’ll shorten the range. Mr. Bush, have the helm put up and run the ship past the cask at a cable’s length away. Now, Mr. Gerard.”

Two hundred yards was a short enough range even for carronades; the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades’ crews stood to their weapons as the Sutherland ran down to the cask. The guns went off nearly simultaneously as they bore, the ship trembling to the concussions, while the thick smoke eddied upwards round the naked men. The water boiled all round the cask, as half a ton of iron tore it up in fountains, and in the midst of the splashes the cask suddenly leaped clear of the water, dissolving into its constituent staves as it did so. All the guns’ crews cheered while Hornblower’s silver whistle split the din as a signal to cease fire, and the men clapped each other on the shoulder exultantly. They were heartily pleased with themselves. As Hornblower knew, the fun of knocking a cask to pieces was full compensation for two hours’ hard work at gun drill.

The quarter boat dropped another cask; the starboard side battery prepared to bombard it, while Hornblower stood blinking gratefully in the sunshine on the quarterdeck, feeling glad to be alive. He had as full a crew as any captain could hope for, and more trained top-men than he could ever have dared to expect. So far everyone was healthy; his landsmen were fast becoming seamen, and he would train them into gunners even quicker than that. This blessed midsummer sunshine, hot and dry, suited his health admirably. He had left off fretting over Lady Barbara, thanks to the intense pleasure which it gave him to see his crew settling down into a single efficient unit He was glad to be alive, with high spirits bubbling up within him.

“Good shot, there!” said Hornblower. An extraordinary lucky shot from one of the lower deck guns had smashed the second cask to fragments. “Mr. Bush, see that every man of that gun’s crew gets a tot of rum tonight.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sail ho!” came from the masthead. “Deck, there. Sail right to wind’ard, an’ coming down fast.”

“Mr. Bush, have the quarter boat recalled. Heave the ship to on the starboard tack, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Even here, no more than fifty miles from France, and not more than twenty from a corner of Spain under French domination, there was very small chance of any sail being French, especially on the course this one was steering—any French vessel crept along the coast without venturing a mile to sea.

“Masthead! What do you make of the sail?”

“She’s a ship, sir, wi’ all sail set. I can see her royals an’ t’garn stuns’ls.”

“Belay!” roared the boatswain’s mate to the hands hoisting in the quarter boat.

The fact that the approaching vessel was a full-rigged ship made it more unlikely still that she was French—French commerce was confined to small craft, luggers and brigs and tartanes, now. Probably she was one of the ships the Sutherland had come to meet. A moment later the suspicion was confirmed from the masthead.

“Deck, there! Sail looks like Caligula to me, sir. I can see her torps’ls now, sir.”

So she was; Captain Bolton must have completed his task of escorting the storeships into Port Mahon. Within an hour the Caligula was within gunshot.

“Caligula signalling, sir,” said Vincent. “Captain to Captain. Delighted to see you. Will you dine with me now?”

“Hoist the assent,” replied Hornblower.

The pipes of the boatswain’s mates twittered into one last weird wail as Hornblower went up the side of the Caligula; the sideboys stood at attention; the marines presented arms; and Captain Bolton came forward, his hand held out and his craggy face wreathed in smiles.