Telescopes swung round as if all were actuated by a single machine. A big ship with all plain sail set to the royals had appeared out of the mist beyond the middle ground, on a course rapidly diverging from that of the Porta Coeli. Hornblower recognised her instantly for what she was, and did not need Freeman’s identification.

“French West Indiaman,” said Freeman. “With a clear run to Harbour-Grace.”

One of the rare ships to run the continental blockade, bearing an invaluable cargo of grain and sugar to ease Bonaparte’s distress; she had taken advantage of the recent gale, which had blown the blockading squadrons from their stations, to dash up the Channel. A cargo delivered into the Seine, where centred the Imperial power, and whence diverged the whole road and canal systems, was worth two brought into some isolated inlet on the Biscay coast. The small British vessels of war, like the Porta Coeli and the Flame, had been constructed and stationed to prevent this very thing.

“There’ll be no catching her before she reaches Harbour-Grace,” muttered Freeman.

“Let her go, Mr. Freeman,” said Hornblower, loudly. “Our duty’s with Flame at present. There goes ten pounds a man prize-money.”

There were enough hands within earshot to hear that speech; they would repeat it to the rest of the crew. No one who thought of the lost prize-money would feel any better disposed towards the mutineers.

Hornblower turned his attention back to the Flame; she was standing steadily and without hesitation on a course which would take her into Honfleur. It would not be long before she was in French power, and it would be foolish to press matters to such an extreme, even though it was a bitter pill to swallow, to admit a check.

“Oh, heave-to, Mr. Freeman, please. Let’s see what she does then.”

The Porta Coeli came up into the wind in response to sail and helm, Hornblower training round his glass to keep Flame under observation. The moment the Porta Coeli’s manoeuvre became apparent, the Flame imitated it, coming up into the wind and lying motionless, the white cross conspicuous on her foretopsail.

“Try bearing down on them again, Mr. Freeman.”

Flame turned away instantly towards France.

“A wink’s as good as a nod, Mr. Freeman. Heave-to again.”

Clearly the mutineers had no intention of allowing the Porta Coeli to come any nearer than she was at present, well beyond cannonshot. She would hand herself over to the French sooner than permit any closer approach.

“Mr. Freeman, will you be so good as to have a boat hoisted out for me? I’ll go and parley with the villains.”

That would be a sign of weakness, but the mutineers could be in no doubt about the weakness of his position and the corresponding strength of their own. It would be telling them nothing they did not know already, that they held Hornblower and the Lords of the Admiralty and the British Empire itself in a cleft stick. Freeman showed no signs of his doubts regarding the advisability of a valuable captain putting himself in the power of mutineers. Hornblower went below to pocket his orders; it might even be necessary to show the mutineers the full powers with which he had been entrusted—but it would be only in the last resort that he would do so; that would be letting the mutineers too much into their Lordships’ confidence. The boat was overside with Brown at the tiller when Hornblower came on deck again; Hornblower went down the side and settled himself into the sternsheets.

“Give way!” ordered Brown; the oars bit the water and the boat began to crawl towards the Flame, dancing over the little waves of the estuary.

Hornblower watched the brig as they approached; she lay hove-to, but Hornblower could see that her guns were run out and her boarding-nettings rigged, and she had clearly no intention of being taken by surprise. The hands were at their guns, there were lookouts aloft, a warrant officer aft with a telescope under his arm—not a sign in the world of mutiny on board.

“Boat ahoy!” came the hail across the water.

Brown held up his four fingers, the universal signal that there was a captain in the boat—four fingers for the four side-boys demanded by ceremonial.

“Who are ye?” hailed the voice.

Brown looked round at Hornblower, received a nod from him, and hailed back.

“Commodore Sir Horatio Hornblower, K.B.”

“We’ll allow Commodore Hornblower on board, but no one else. Come alongside, and we’ve cold shot here to drop into you if you play any tricks.”

Hornblower reached for the main-chains and swung himself up into them; a seaman raised the boarding-nettings so that he could struggle under them to the deck.

“Kindly tell your boat to sheer off, Commodore. We’re taking no risks,” said a voice.

It was a white-haired old man who addressed him, the telescope under his arm marking him out as officer of the watch. White hair fluttered about his ears; sharp blue eyes in a wrinkled face looked at Hornblower from under white brows. The only thing in the least bizarre about his appearance was a pistol stuck in his belt. Hornblower turned and gave the required order.

“And now may I ask your business here, Commodore?” asked the old man.

“I wish to speak to the leader of the mutineers.”

“I am captain of this ship. You can address yourself to me, Nathaniel Sweet, sir.”

“I have addressed myself to you as far as I desire, unless you are also the leader of the mutineers.”

“Then if you have done so, you can call back your boat and leave us, sir.”

An impasse already. Hornblower kept his eyes on the blue ones of the old man. There were several other men within earshot, but he could sense no wavering or doubt among them; they were prepared to support their captain. Yet it might be worth while speaking to them.

“Men!” said Hornblower, raising his voice.

“Belay that!” rapped out the old man. He whipped the pistol out of his belt and pointed it at Hornblower’s stomach. “One more word out of turn and you’ll get an ounce of lead through you.”

Hornblower looked steadily back at him and his weapon; he was curiously unafraid, feeling as if he were watching move and counter-move in some chess game, without remembering that he himself was one of the pawns in it with his life at stake.

“Kill me,” he said with a grim smile, “and England won’t rest until you’re swinging on a gallows.”

“England has sent you here to swing me on a gallows as it is,” said Sweet, bleakly.

“No,” said Hornblower. “I am here to recall you to your duty to King and Country.”

“Letting bygones be bygones?”

“You will have to stand a fair trial, you and your confederates.”

“That means the gallows, as I said,” replied Sweet. “The gallows for me, and I should be fortunate compared with some of these others.”

“A fair and honest trial,” said Hornblower, “with every mitigating circumstance taken into consideration.”

“The only trial I would attend,” replied the old man, “would be to bear witness against Chadwick. Full pardon for us—a fair trial for Chadwick. Those are our terms, sir.”

“You are foolish,” said Hornblower. “You are throwing away your last chance. Surrender now, with Mr. Chadwick unbound and the ship in good order, and those circumstances will weigh heavily in your favour at your trial. Refuse, and what have you to look for? Death. That is all. Death. What can save you from our country’s vengeance? Nothing.”

“Begging your pardon, Captain, but Boney can,” interposed the old man, dryly.

“You trust Bonaparte’s word?” said Hornblower, rallying desperately before this unexpected counter-attack. “He’d like to have this ship, no doubt. But you and your gang? Bonaparte won’t encourage mutiny—his power rests too much on his own army. He’ll hand you back for us to make an example of you.”