There was everything to be said in favour of keeping Castilla under observation for a while at least, and almost nothing to be said against it. The recent flight and pursuit had proved that Atropos had the heels of her even under reefed topsails, so that it could be taken for granted that she was safe from her in any lesser wind — and the wind was moderating. The Castilla was now a full thirty miles dead to leeward of Cartagena; it would be useful to know — Collingwood would certainly want to know — whether she intended to beat back there again or would fetch some easier Spanish port. Close-hauled she could make Alicante to the north or perhaps Almeria to the south; she was close-hauled on the starboard tack, heading south, at this moment. And there was the possibility to be borne in mind that she did not intend to return to Spain as yet, that her captain might decide to range through the Mediterranean for a while to see what prizes he could snap up. On her present course she could easily stretch over to the Barbary coast and pick up a victualler or two with grain and cattle intended for the Fleet.

Hornblower's orders were that he should rejoin Collingwood in Sicilian waters after looking into Malaga and Cartagena; he was not the bearer of urgent despatches, nor, Heaven knew, was Atropos likely to be an important addition to the strength of the Fleet; while on the other hand it was the duty of every English captain, having once made contact with a ship of the enemy in open water, to maintain that contact as long as was possible. Atropos could not hope to face Castilla in battle, but she could keep her under observation, she might warn merchant shipping of danger, and she might with good fortune meet some big British ship of war — in actual fact, not make-believe — to whom she could indicate the enemy.

"Mr. Jones," said Hornblower. "Lay her on the starboard tack again if you please. Full and by."

"Aye aye, sir."

Jones, of course, showed some surprise at the reversal of the roles, at the pursued becoming the pursuer, and that was one more proof that he was incapable of strategic thought. But he had to engage himself on carrying out his orders, and Atropos steadied on a southerly course, running parallel to Castilla's, far to windward; Hornblower trained his glass on the topsails just visible over the horizon. He fixed the shape of them firmly in his memory; a slight alteration in the proportion of length to breadth would indicate any change of course on the part of the Castilla.

"Masthead!" he hailed. "Keep your eye on the enemy. Report anything you see."

"Aye aye, sir."

Atropos was like a terrier now, yapping at the heels of a bull in a field — not a very dignified role — and the bull might turn and charge at any moment. Eventually the captain of the Castilla would make up his mind that a trick had been played on him, that Atropos had been signalling to non-existent friends, and there was no guessing what he might decide to do then, when he grew certain that there was no help following Atropos up just beyond the horizon. Meanwhile the wind was still moderating, and Atropos could set more canvas. When beating to windward she behaved best under all the sail she could carry, and he might as well keep as close to the enemy as the wind allowed.

"Try setting the mainsail, Mr. Jones, if you please."

"Aye aye, sir."

The main course was a big sail, and the little Atropos seemed to take wings under the tremendous pressure of it when it was sheeted home, with the tack hauled forward to the chess-trees by the united strength of half a watch. Now she was thrusting along bravely in the summer evening, lying over to the wind, and shouldering off the hungry waves with her starboard bow in great fountains of spray, through which the setting sun gleamed in fleeting rainbows of fiery beauty, and leaving behind her a seething wake dazzling white against the blue. It was a moment when it was good to be alive, driving hard to windward like this, and with all the potentiality of adventure at hand in the near unknown. War at sea was a dreary business usually, with boredom and discomfort to be endured day and night, watch and watch, but it had moments of high exaltation like this, just as it had its mom of black despair, of fear, of shame.

"You may dismiss the watch below, Mr. Jones."

"Aye aye, sir,"

Hornblower glanced round the deck. Still would have the watch.

"Call me if there's any change, Mr. Still. I want to set more sail if the wind moderates further."

"Aye aye, sir."

A moment of exaltation, come and gone. He had been on his feet nearly all day, since dawn, and his legs were weary, and if he stayed on deck they would grow wearier still. Down below there were the two books he had bought at Gibraltar for a badly needed guinea — Lord Hodge's "Statement of the Present Political Condition of Italy", and Barber's "New Methods of Determining Longitude, with some Remarks on Discrepancies in Recent Charts". He wanted to inform himself on both subjects, and it was better to do so now than to stay up on deck growing more and more weary while the hours passed.

At sunset he emerged again; Castilla was still holding the same course, with Atropos head-reaching upon her very slightly. He looked at those distant topsails; he read the slate that recorded the day's run, and he waited while the log was hove again. Surely if Castilla intended to put back into Cartagena she would have gone about by now. She had made a very long reach to the southward, and any backing of the wind round to the north — a very likely occurrence at this season — would nullify much of her progress so far. If she did not come about by the time darkness set in it would be a strong indication that she had something else in mind. He waited as the sunset faded from the western sky, and until the first stars began to appear overhead; that was when his aching eye, straining through the glass, could see no more of Castilla. But at the last sight of her she was still standing to the southward. All the more reason to keep her under observation.

It was the end of the second dogwatch and the hands were being called.

"I'll have the main course taken in, Mr. Turner," he said.

He wrote his night orders by the faint light of the binnacle; the ship to be kept close-hauled on the starboard tack; he was to be called if the wind shifted more than two points, and in any event he was to be called immediately before moonrise in the middle watch. The gloomy little cabin when he retired into it was like a wild beast's lair with its dark corners where the light of the lamp did not penetrate. He lay down fully clothed, endeavouring to keep his tired mind from continuing to try to solve the problem of what the Castilla intended to do. He had shortened sail, as she would probably do. If she did not, he had the heels of her and might overtake her in daylight. If she did anything else, if she tacked or wore, he was doing what was probably best to find her again next day. His eyes closed with fatigue, and did not open again until they came to tell him the middle watch had been called.

The west wind, dying away though it was, had brought a slight overcast with it, enough to obscure the stars and deprive the small moon, almost in its last quarter, of most of its light. Atropos, still close-hauled, was now, in the lessening wind, only flitting with the waves that came on to her starboard bow, meeting them elegantly like a stage beauty extending her hand to a stage lover. The dark water all around seemed to fall in with the mood and to murmur pretty conventionalities. There seemed no imminence of blazing death. The minutes passed in warm idleness.

"Deck there!" That was the masthead lookout hailing. "I think I can see something, sir. Right away on the starboard bow."

"Get aloft with the night glass, youngster," said Turner, who had the watch, to the master's mate beside him.

A minute passed, two minutes.

"Yes, sir," came the new voice from the masthead. "It's the loom of a ship. Three miles — four miles — fine on the starboard bow."

The night glasses trained round more forward.

"Maybe," said Turner.

There was a tiny patch of something darker than the surrounding night; Hornblower's night glass could tell him no more than that. He watched it painstakingly. The bearing of it seemed to be altering.

"Steer small!" he growled at the helmsman.

For a moment he wondered if the patch was really there; it might be something his mind suggested to his eye — a whole ship's company could sometimes imagine the same thing if the idea was once put in their heads. No, it was undoubtedly there, and drawing across Atropos' bows, more than could be accounted for by any wavering of her course with bad steering. It must be Castilla; she must have swung round at midnight and come hurrying down wind in the hope of pouncing on her prey by surprise. If he had not shortened sail she would be right on him. The Spanish lookouts were not up to their work, for she was holding on her course.

"Heave-to, Mr. Turner," he said, and walked across to the port side to keep the Castilla under observation as Atropos came up into the wind. Castilla had already lost most of the advantage of the weather gage, and in a few minutes would lose it all. The slowly-moving clouds overhead were parting; there was a faint gleam of light through a thin patch, further darkness, and then the moon shone through a gap. Yes, that was a ship; that was the Castilla, already far down to leeward.

"Deck, there! I can see her plainly now, sir. On the port quarter. Captain, sir! She's wearing round!"

So she was. Her sails gleamed momentarily bright in the moonlight as they swung round. She had failed in her attempt to surprise her enemy, and was making a fresh one.

"Lay her on the port tack, Mr. Turner."

The little Atropos could play catch-as-catch-can with any big frigate in this sort of weather. She swung round and headed into the wind, her stern to her pursuer again.

"Masthead! What sail has the enemy set?"

"She's setting her royals, sir. All plain sail to the royals."

"Call all hands, Mr. Turner. Set all plain sail."

There was still enough wind for the addition of courses and royals to lay Atropos over and send her flying once more. Hornblower looked back at Castilla's topsails and royals, silhouetted now against clear sky below the moon. It did not take very long to determine that now Atropos was gaining fast. He was pondering a decision regarding shortening sail when he was saved the trouble. The silhouettes narrowed again abruptly.

"Deck there!" hailed the masthead. "Enemy's hauled her wind, sir."

"Very well! Mr. Turner, wear ship, if you please. Point our bows right at her, and take in the fore course."

The terrier had evaded the bull's charge and was now yapping at its heels again. It was easy to follow the Castilla for the rest of the night, keeping a sharp lookout during the periods of darkness lest she should play on them the same trick as Atropos had played once. Dawn, rising ahead, revealed the Castilla's royals and topsails an inky black before they changed to ivory white against the blue sky. Hornblower could imagine the rage of the Spanish captain at the sight of his pertinacious pursuer, dogging him in this fashion with insolent impunity. Seven miles separated the ships, but as far as the Castilla's big eighteen-pounders mattered it might as well be seventy, and moreover the invisible wind, blowing direct from Atropos to Castilla, was an additional protection, guarding her from her enemy like the mysterious glass shield that turned the hero's sword in one of the Italian epics. Atropos, seven miles to windward, was as safe and yet as visible as the Saracen magician.

Hornblower was conscious of weariness again. He had been on his feet since midnight, after less than four hours' rest. He wanted, passionately, to rest his legs; he wanted, hardly less, to close his aching eyes. The hammocks had been brought up, the decks swabbed, and it only remained now to cling to Castilla's heels, but when any moment might bring the need for a quick decision he dared not leave the deck — odd that now he was safely to windward the situation was more dynamic than yesterday when he had been to leeward, but it was true. Castilla might come to the wind at any unforeseen moment, and moreover the two ships were driving into the blue Mediterranean where any surprise might be over the horizon.

"I'll have a mattress up here," said Hornblower.

They brought one up and laid it aft beside the weather scuppers. He eased his aching joints down on to it, settled his head on his pillow, and closed his eyes. The lift and send of the ship were soporific, and so was the sound of the sea under the Atropos' counter. The light played backward and forward over his face as the shadows of sails and rigging followed the movement of the ship. He could sleep — he could sleep, heavily and dreamlessly, while the ships flew on up the Mediterranean, while they called the watch, while they hove the log, even while they trimmed the yards as the wind came a little northerly, moving round ahead of the sun.

It was afternoon when he woke. He shaved with the aid of a mirror stuck in the hammock nettings; be took his bath under the washdeck pump and put on the clean shirt that he sent for; he sat on the deck and ate cold beef and the last of the goodly soft bread taken on board at Gibraltar, somewhat stale now but infinitely better than ship's biscuit; and the fresh butter from the same source, kept cool so far in an earthenware crock was quite delicious. It struck seven bells as he finished his last mouthful.

"Deck there! Enemy's altering course."

He was on his feet in a flash, his plate sliding into the scuppers, the telescope in his hand without conscious volition on his part. No doubt about it. Castilla had altered to a more northerly course, with the wind abeam. It was not very surprising for they had run a full two hundred miles from Cartagena; unless the Castilla was prepared to go right up the Mediterranean far to leeward of all Spanish bases, it was time for her to head north to fetch Minorca. He would follow her there, the terrier harassing the bull, and he would give a final yap at the bull's heels outside Port Mahon. Besides, the Castilla's alteration of course might not portend a mere flight to Minorca. They were right on the track of convoys beating up the Mediterranean from Sicily and Malta.

"Port your helm, Mr. Still, if you please. Maintain a parallel course."

It was only sensible to stay up to windward of Castilla as much as possible. The intense feeling of wellbeing of five minutes ago was replaced now by excitement, a slight tingling under the skin. Ten to one the Castilla's alteration of course meant nothing at all, but there was the tenth chance. Eight bells; hands mustered for the first dogwatch.

"Deck there! There's a sail ahead of the enemy, sir!"

That was it, then.

"Get aloft with you, Mr. Smiley. You can go too, Mr. Prince."

That would show His Serene Highness that a punishment cleared the record in the Navy, and that he was being trusted not to risk any more monkey tricks. It was a detail that had to be borne in mind despite the flood of excitement following the masthead report. There was no knowing what that sail over there, invisible from the deck, might imply. But there was a chance that it was a British ship of war, fair in Castilla's path.

"Two sail! Three sail! Captain, sir, it looks like a convoy, dead to leeward."

A convoy could only be a British convoy, and a convoy meant the presence of a British ship of war ahead there in Castilla's path.

"Up helm and bear down on the enemy. Call all hands, Mr. Still, if you please. Clear for action."

During all the long flight and pursuit he had not cleared for action. He had not wanted action with the vastly superior Castilla, and had been determined on avoiding it. Now he hoped for it — hoped for it with that tremor of doubt that made him hate himself, all the more so as the repeating of the order brought a cheer from the men, the watch below pouring on deck for duty with expectant grins and schoolboy excitement. Mr. Jones came bustling up on deck buttoning his coat; apparently he had been dozing comfortably through the afternoon watch. To Jones would fall the command of the Atropos if any accident should befall him, if a shot should take off his leg or dash him into bloody fragments. Odd that the thought of Jones becoming responsible for handling Atropos was as disturbing as the rest of it. But all the same Jones must be brought up to date on the situation and told what should be done. He did it in three sharp sentences.

"I see, sir," said Jones, pulling at his long chin. Hornblower was not so sure that he did see, but there was no more time to spare for Jones.

"Masthead! What of the convoy?"

"One sail has tacked, sir. She's standing towards us."

"What d'you make of her?"

"She looks like a ship of war, sir. I can only see her royals, sir."

"Mr. Horrocks, make the private signal and our number."

A ship standing towards Castilla could only be a ship of war, the escorting vessel. Hornblower could only hope she would be one of the larger frigates, able to meet the big Castilla on something like equal terms. But he knew most of the frigates Collingwood had — Sirius, Naiad, Hermione —thirty-two gun twelve-pounder frigates most of them, hardly a match for Castilla's forty-four eighteen-pounders unless well handled, and unless Castilla fought badly, and unless he himself had a chance to intervene. He strained his eyesight staring forward through his glass, but the British ship was not yet in sight from the deck, and Castilla was still running boldly down before the wind. Clearing for action was nearly completed; they were casting loose the guns.

"Signal, sir!"

Horrocks was ready with the book as the masthead reported the flags.

"Private signal correctly answered, sir. And her number. She's Nightingale, sir, 28, Captain Ford, sir."

Almost the smallest of the frigates, with only nine-pounders on her maindeck. Please God Ford would have the sense not to close with Castilla. He must out-manoeuvre her, keep her in play, and then when Atropos came up there could be some pretty tactics until they could shoot away some of Castilla's spars and take her at a disadvantage. Then they could rake her and weaken her before closing in for the kill. The captain of the Castilla was showing proof of having grasped the essentials of the situation; caught between two hostile ships so that he could not avoid action if it were forced on him he was plunging down at his best speed to the attack on the one most accessible to him; he was still carrying all sail to bring him most quickly into action before Atropos could intervene. He could well hope to batter Nightingale into a wreck and then turn on Atropos. If he succeeded — oh, if he succeeded! — it would be a terrible problem for Atropos, to decide whether or not to accept action.

"Ship cleared for action, sir," reported Jones.

"Very well."

Now his glass picked her up; the distant sail, far beyond Castilla. As he looked, as the top gallants appeared below the royals, the royals disappeared. Nightingale was shortening down to "fighting sails" ready for action. Hornblower knew a little about Ford. He had the reputation of a good fighting captain. Please God he had discretion as well. Ford was far his senior in the Navy list; there was no possibility of giving him orders to keep clear.

Castilla was still hurtling down upon Nightingale.

"Signal, sir. Number 72. 'Engage the enemy more closely!'"

"Acknowledge."

Hornblower was conscious of Jones's and Turner's eyes upon him. There might be an implied rebuke in that signal, a hint that he was not doing his best to get into action. On the other hand it might be a mere signal that action was imminent. Nightingale's topsails were over the horizon now; close-hauled, she was doing her best to come to meet Castilla. If only Ford would hold off for half an hour — Atropos was steadily gaining on Castilla. No, he was still hurrying to the encounter before Atropos could arrive; he was playing Castilla's game for her. Now Castilla was clewing up her courses; she was taking in her royals, ready for the clash. The two ships were hastening together; white sails on a blue sea under a blue sky. They were right in line from where Hornblower stood staring at them through his glass; right in line so that it was hard to judge the distance between them. Now they were turning, Nightingale paying off before the wind as Castilla approached. All the masts seemed blended together. Ford must keep clear and try to shoot away a spar.

A sudden billowing of smoke round the ships; the first broadsides were being fired. It looked as if the ships were already close-locked in action — surely it could not be. Not time yet to take in courses and royals; the sooner they got down into action the better. Now, heavily over the blue water, came the sound of those first broadsides, like the rumbling of thunder. The smoke was blowing clear of the fight, drifting away from the ships in a long bank. More smoke billowing up; the guns had been reloaded and were firing away, and still the masts were close together — had Ford been fool enough to lock yardarms? Again the long rumble of the guns. The ships were swinging round in the smoke cloud; he could see the masts above it changing their bearing, but he could not distinguish ship from ship. There was a mast falling, yards, sails and all; it must be Nightingale's main topmast, hideous though the thought was. This seemed like a lifetime, waiting to get into action. Cannon smoke and cannon thunder. He did not want to believe the glass was really revealing the truth to him as he looked, the details becoming clearer as he approached. The two ships were locked together, no doubt about it. And that was Nightingale, main topmast gone. She was lying at an angle to Castilla's side, bows towards her. The wind was still turning the two ships, and it was turning them as if they were one. Nightingale must be locked against Castilla, bowsprit or possibly anchor hooked into Castilla's fore chains. All Castilla's guns could bear, practically raking Nightingale with every broadside, and Nightingale's fire must be almost ineffectual. Could she tear herself loose? There went her foremast, everything, over the side; almost impossible to tear herself loose now.

The men at the guns were yelling at the sight.

"Silence! Mr. Jones, get the courses in."

What was he to do? He ought to cross Castilla's bows or stern and rake her, come about and rake her again. Not so easy to fire into Castilla's bows without hitting Nightingale; not so easy to cross her stern; that would put him to leeward and there would be delay in getting back into action again. And the two ships were still swinging considerably, not only with the wind but with the recoil of their guns. Supposing that as he took Atropos to lie a little clear they swung so that Nightingale intercepted his fire and he had to work back again to windward to get back into action? That would be shameful, and other captains hearing the story would think he had deliberately stayed out of fire. He could lay his ship alongside Castilla on her unoccupied side, but her slender scantlings would bear little of Castilla's ponderous broadside; his ship would be a wreck in a few minutes. And yet Nightingale was already a wreck. He must bring her instant, immediate relief.

Now they were only a mile from the locked ships and running down fast. Years of experience at sea told him how rapidly those last few minutes passed when ships needed each other.

"Muster the port side guns' crews," he said. "Every man, gun captains and all. Arm them for boarding. Arm every idler in the ship. But leave the hands at the mizzen braces."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Pikes, pistols and cutlasses, lads," said Hornblower to the eager men thronging round the arms chests. "Mr. Smiley, muster your topmen for'rard by No. 1 gun. Starboard side. Stand by for a rush."

Young Smiley was the best fighting man of them all, better than the nervous Jones or the stupid Still or the aged Turner. It was best to give him the command at the other end of the ship. Aft here he would have things under his own eye. And he realized be was still unarmed himself. His sword — the sword he had worn at the court of his King — was a cheap one. He could guess its temper was unreliable; he had never been able to afford a good sword. He stepped to the arms chest and took a cutlass for himself, drawing it and dropping the scabbard discarded on the deck; looping the knot over his wrist he stood with the naked blade in his hand and the sunlight beating down in his face.

Now they were closing on Castilla; only a cable's length apart and it looked closer. It called for accurate judgment to come close alongside.

"Starboard a point," he said to the helmsman.

"Starboard a point," came the repetition of the order.

Discipline kept the helmsman entirely attentive to his particular duty, even though Castilla's port side gun ports were opening, even though at that close range the gun muzzles were glaring straight at them, and the faces of the gunners could be seen through the ports looking along the guns. Oh God, it was just coming!

"Now, starboard slowly. Bring her gently round."

Like the end of the world that broadside came, ripping and smashing into the ship; there were screams, there were frightful crashes, the sunlight was full of dust particles flung up by the hurtling cannon-balls as the splinters whizzed through the air, and then the ship sidled into the powder smoke jutting forth from the gun muzzles. But he must think about only one doing at this moment.

"Now! Hard a-port. Braces there! Back the mizzen tops'l!"

There was a tiny gap between the sides of the two ships, closing by inches. If she struck violently she might rebound and open the gap again; if her forward way was not checked she might scrape forward and swing. In the loftier sides of the Castilla the gun ports were above the level of those of the Atropos. The dish-shaped Atropos had no "tumble-home" to her sides. Her bulwarks would make contact — he had been counting on that.

"Starboard side! Fire!"

The infernal crash of the broadside; the smoke whirling round, the orange-painted side of Castilla torn by the carronade balls; but not a moment to think about it.

"Come on!"

Up over Castilla's side in the eddying smoke pierced by sunbeams; up over the side, cutlass in hand, wild with fighting madness. A distorted face looking up at him. Strike, swinging the heavy blade like an axe. Wrench the blade free, and strike again at this new face. Plunge forward. Gold lace here, a lean brown face gashed by a black moustache, a slender blade luring at him; beat it aside and strike and strike and strike with every ounce of strength, with all the speed possible to him; beat down the feeble guard and strike again without pity. Trip over something and recover again. The terrified eyes of the men at the wheel looking round at him before they ran from his fury. A uniformed soldier with white cross-belts extending his arms in surrender; a pike appearing from nowhere beside him and plunging into the soldier's unprotected breast. The quarterdeck cleared but no time to breathe; shout "Come on" and plunge down on to the maindeck.

Something hit his cutlass blade and sent a numbing shock up his arm — a pistol bullet, most likely. There was a crowd of men massed round the main mast, but before he could reach it a surge of pikes from the side broke it up into fleeing fragments. Now a sudden rally on the part of the enemy, pistols banging, and then suddenly opposition ceased and Hornblower found himself glaring into a pair of wild eyes and realized that it was an English uniform, an English face although unknown to him — a midshipman from Nightingale, leading the boarding party which had stormed into the Castilla along Nightingale's bowsprit.

He could stand there now amid the wreckage and the dead with the madness ebbing out of him, sweat running into his eyes and blinding him; and yet once more he had to clear his mind and brace himself. He had to stop the killing that was still going on, he had to organize the disarming of the prisoners and the herding of them against the ship's side. He had to remember to say a word of thanks to Smiley, covered with blood and smoke, when he met him on the gangway forward. Here was the huge hulk of Eisenbeiss, chest heaving, the bloody cutlass like a toy in his vast hand. The sight roused his wrath.

"What the hell are you doing here, doctor? Get back on board and attend to the wounded. You've no business to neglect them."

A smile for the Prince, and then his attention was demanded by a thin-nosed, long-faced rat of a man.

"Captain Hornblower? My name's Ford."

He was going to shake the proffered hand, but discovered that first he must slip the cutlass lanyard from his wrist and transfer the weapon to his other hand.

"All's well that ends well," said Ford. "You arrived in time, but only just in time, captain."

It was no use trying to point out to a senior the senior's errors. They shook hands there, standing on the gangway of the captured Castilla, looking round at the three ships clinging together, battered and shattered. Far down to leeward, drifting over the blue sea, the long trail of powder smoke was slowly dissipating under the blue heaven.