“Keep a sharp lookout for any signal from the Porta Coeli,” he said sharply to the midshipman of the watch.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Porta Coeli, the Gate of Heaven; the Silly Porter was what the men called her. Hornblower had a vague memory of reading about the action which resulted in the strange name appearing in the Navy List. The first Porta Coeli had been a Spanish privateer—half pirate, probably—captured off Havannah. She had put up so fierce a resistance that the action had been commemorated by naming an English ship after her. The Tonnant, the Temeraire, most of the foreign names in the Navy List came there as a result of similar actions—if the war were to go on long enough there would be more ships in the Navy with foreign names than with English ones, and among the rival navies the converse might eventually become true. The French Navy boasted a Swiftsure; maybe the Americans would have a Macedonian on their Navy List in future years. He had not heard yet of a French Sutherland; Hornblower felt a sudden twinge of strange regret. He snapped his telescope shut and turned abruptly on his heel, walking fast as though to shake off the memories that assailed him. He did not like to think about surrendering the Sutherland, even though the court martial had so honourably acquitted him; and, strangely enough, the passage of time made his feelings of shame about the incident more acute instead of less. And his regrets about the Sutherland brought with them, inevitably, memories of Maria, now nearly three years in her grave. Memories of poverty and despair, of pinchbeck shoebuckles; of the pity and sympathy he had felt for Maria—a poor substitute for love, and yet the memory of it hurt intensely. The past was coming to life again in his mind, a resurrection as horrible as any other resurrection would be. He remembered Maria, snoring softly in her sleep beside him, and he remembered the sour smell of her hair; Maria, tactless and stupid, of whom he had been fond as one is fond of a child, although not nearly as fond as he was now of Richard. He was almost shaking with the memory when it abruptly faded out and was replaced by the memory of Marie de Graçay—why the devil was he thinking about her? The unreserved love that she gave him, her warmth and tenderness, the quickness of perception with which she understood his moods; it was insane that he should find himself hungering at this day for Marie de Graçay, and yet he was, even though it was hardly a week since he had left the arms of a loyal and understanding wife. He tried to think about Barbara, and yet the mental images he conjured up were instantly thrust again into the background by pictures of Marie. It would be better even to think about surrendering the Sutherland. Hornblower walked the deck of the Flame with ghosts at his side in the chill, bleak winter day. Men saw his face and shrank from crossing his path with greater care even than usual. Yet most of them thought Hornblower was only planning some further deviltry against the French.

It was late afternoon before the expected interruption came.

“Signal from Porta Coeli, sir! Eighteen—fifty-one—ten. That’s friendly ships in sight, bearing nor’west.”

“Very good. Ask their numbers.”

This must be the reinforcements sent by Pellew. The signal hands bent on the flags and hauled away at the halliards; it was several minutes before the midshipman noted the reply and translated it by reference to the list.

“Nonsuch, 74, Captain Bush, sir.”

“Bush, by God!”

The exclamation leaped uncontrolled from Hornblower’s lips; the devils that surrounded him were chased away as though by holy water at the thought of his old staunch matter-of-fact friend being only just over the horizon. Of course Pellew would send Bush if he were available, knowing the friendship that had so long existed between him and Hornblower.

“Camilla, 36, Captain Howard, sir.”

He knew nothing about Howard whatever. He looked at the list—a captain of less than two years’ seniority. Presumably Pellew had selected him as junior to Bush.

“Very good. Reply—’Commodore to—’”

“Porta’s still signalling, begging your pardon, sir. ‘Nonsuch to Commodore. Have—on board—three hundred—marines—above—complement’.”

Good for Pellew. He had stripped his squadron to give Hornblower a landing force that could make itself felt. Three hundred marines, and the Nonsuch’s detachment as well, and a body of seamen. He could march five hundred men into Le Havre should the opportunity arise.

“Very good. Make ‘Commodore to Nonsuch and Camilla. Delighted to have you under my command’.”

Hornblower looked again over at Le Havre. He looked up at the sky, he gauged the strength of the wind, remembered the state of the tide, calculated the approach of night. Over there Lebrun must be bringing his plans to fruition, tonight if at all. He must be ready to strike his blow.

“Make ‘Commodore to all vessels. Join me here after dark. Night signal two lanterns horizontally at fore yard-arms’.”

“—fore yardarms. Aye aye, sir,” echoed the midshipman, scribbling on his slate.

It was good to see Bush again, to shake his hand in welcome as he hoisted himself in the darkness onto the Flame’s deck. It was good to sit in the stuffy little cabin with Bush and Howard and Freeman as he told them about his plans for the morrow. It was wonderful to be planning action after that day of horrible introspection. Bush looked at him closely with his deep-set eyes.

“You’ve been busy, sir, since you came to sea again.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower.

The last few days and nights had been a turmoil; even after the recapture of the Flame the business of reorganisation, the sessions with Lebrun, the writing of the despatches had all been exhausting.

“Too busy, if you’ll pardon me, sir,” went on Bush. “It was too soon for you to resume duty.”

“Nonsense,” protested Hornblower. “I had almost a year’s leave.”

“Sick leave, sir. After typhus. And since then—”

“Since then,” interjected Howard, a handsome, dark, young-looking man, “a cutting-out action. A battle. Three prizes taken. Two vessels sunk. An invasion planned. A midnight council of war.”

Hornblower felt suddenly irritated.

“Are you gentlemen trying to tell me,” he demanded, glowering round at them, “that I’m unfit for service?”

They quailed before his anger.

“No, sir,” said Bush.

“Then be so good as to keep your opinions to yourselves.”

It was hard luck on Bush, who, after all, was only making a kindly inquiry about his friend’s health. Hornblower knew it, and be knew how desperately unfair it was to make Bush pay for the miseries Hornblower had suffered that day. Yet he could not resist the temptation for the moment. He swept his glance round them again, forcing them to drop their gaze to the deck, and he had no sooner done it, no sooner obtained for himself this pitiful bit of self-gratification, than he regretted it and sought to make amends.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I spoke in haste. We must all have the most complete confidence in each other when we go into action tomorrow. Will you forgive me?”

They mumbled back at him, Bush profoundly embarrassed at receiving an apology from a man who, in his opinion, was free to say what he liked to anyone.

“You all understand what I want done tomorrow—if tomorrow is the day?” Hornblower went on.

They nodded, turning their eyes to the chart spread out in front of them.

“No questions?”

“No, sir.”

“I know this is only the sketchiest plan. There will be contingencies, emergencies. No one can possibly foresee what will happen. But of one thing I am certain, and that is that the ships of this squadron will be commanded in a way that will bring credit to the service. Captain Bush and Mr. Freeman have acted with bravery and decision under my own eyes too often, and I know Captain Howard too well by reputation for me to have any doubt about that. When we attack Havre, gentlemen, we shall be turning a page, we shall be writing the end of a chapter in the history of tyranny.”