"Tie those men's hands behind them."

"Sir?"

"You heard what I said."

To bind prisoners was almost a violation of the laws of war. When Leadbitter approached to carry out his orders the Frenchmen showed evident resentment. A buzz of voices arose.

"You can't do this, sir," said their spokesman. "We have -"

"Shut your mouth," snapped Hornblower.

Even having to give that order put him in a bad temper, and his bad temper was made worse by his doubts about himself. Now that the Frenchmen were disarmed they could offer no resistance in face of the drawn pistols of the British sailors. With loud protests they had to submit, as Leadbitter went from man to man tying their wrists behind their backs. Hornblower was hating himself for the part he had to play, even while his calculating mind told him that he had a fair chance of success. He had to pose as a bloodthirsty man, delighting in the taking of human life, without mercy in his soul, gratified by the sight of the death struggles of a fellow-human. Such men did exist, he knew. There were gloomy tyrants in the King's service. In the past ten years of war at sea there had been some outrages, a few, on both sides. These Frenchmen did not know him for what he really was, nor did the West India crew. Nor for that matter his own men. Their acquaintance had been so short that they had no reason to believe him not to have homicidal tendencies, so that their behaviour would not weaken the impression he wished to convey. He turned to one of his men.

"Run aloft," he said. "Reeve a whip through the block at the main yardarm."

That portended a hanging. The man looked at him with a momentary unbelief, but the scowl on Hornblower's face sent him scurrying up the ratlines. Then Hornblower strode to where the wretched Frenchmen were standing bound; their glance shifted from the man at the yardarm to Hornblower's grim face, and their anxious chattering died away.

"You are pirates," said Hornblower, speaking slowly and distinctly. "I am going to hang you."

In case the English-speaking Frenchman's vocabulary did not include the word "hang" he pointed significantly to the man at the yardarm. They could all understand that. They remained silent for a second or two, and then several of them began to speak at once in torrential French which Hornblower could not well follow, and then the leader, having pulled himself together, began his protest in English.

"We are not pirates," he said.

"I think you are," said Hornblower.

"We are privateersmen," said the Frenchman.

"Pirates," said Hornblower.

The talk among the Frenchmen rose to a fresh height; Hornblower's French was good enough for him to make out that the leader was translating his curt words to his companions, and they were urging him to explain more fully their position.

"I assure you, sir," said the wretched man, striving to be eloquent in a strange language, "we are privateersmen and not pirates."

Hornblower regarded him with a stony countenance, and without answering turned away to give further orders.

"Leadbitter," he said, "I'll have a hangman's noose on the end of that line."

Then he turned back to the Frenchmen.

"Who do you say you are then?" he asked. He tried to utter the words as indifferently as he could.

"We are from the privateer Vengeance of Dunkirk, sir. I am Jacques Lebon, prizemaster."

Privateers usually went to sea with several extra officers, who could be put into prizes to navigate them back to a French port without impairing the fighting efficiency of the privateer, which could continue her cruise. These officers were usually selected for their ability to speak English and for the knowledge of English seagoing ways, and they bore the title of "prizemaster". Hornblower turned back to observe the noose now dangling significantly from the yardarm, and then addressed the prizemaster.

"You have no papers," he said.

He forced his lips into a sneer as he spoke; to the wretched men studying every line in his face his expression appeared quite unnatural, as indeed it was. And Hornblower was gambling a little when he said what he did. If the prizemaster had been able to produce any papers the whole line of attack would have to be altered; but it was not much of a gamble. Hornblower was certain when he spoke that if Lebon had had papers in his pocket he would have already mentioned them, asking someone to dive into his pocket for them. That would be the first reaction of any Frenchman whose identity had been put in question.

"No," said Lebon, crestfallen. It was hardly likely that he would have, when engaged on an ordinary operation of war.

"Then you hang," said Hornblower. "All of you. One by one."

The laugh he forced himself to produce sounded positively inhuman, horrible. Anyone hearing it would be justified in thinking that he was inspired by the anticipated pleasure of watching the death struggles of a dozen men. The white-haired captain of the Amelia Jane could not bear the prospect, and came forward to enter into the discussion.

"Sir," he said. "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to attend to my own business, sir," said Hornblower, striving to throw into his voice all the harshness he had ever heard employed by all the insolent officers he had met during his service. "May I ask you to be kind enough to do the same?"

"But you can't be meaning to hang the poor devils," went on the captain.

"But that is what I do mean."

"But not in my ship, sir - not now - not without trial."

"In your ship, sir, which you allowed to be captured. And now. Pirates taken red-handed can be hanged instantly, as you know, sir. And that is what I shall do."

It was a stroke of good fortune that the captain should have entered into the discussion. His appearance of sick dismay and the tone of his protests were convincingly genuine - they would never have been so if he had been admitted previously to a planned scheme. Hornblower's attitude towards him was brutal, but it was for the good of the cause.

"Sir," persisted the captain, "I'm sure they're only privateersmen -"

"Please refrain from interfering with a King's officer in the execution of his duty. You two men, there, come here."

The two of the crew of the gig that he indicated approached obediently. Probably they had seen hangings before, along with every kind of brutality in a brutal service. But the imminent certainty of taking personal part in a hanging obviously impressed them. There was some reluctance visible in their expressions, but the hard discipline of the service would make certain they would obey the orders of this one man, unarmed and outnumbered.

Hornblower looked along the line of faces. Momentarily he felt a horrid sickness in his stomach as it occurred to him to wonder how he would be feeling if he really was selecting a victim.

"I'll have that one first," he said, pointing.

The bull-throated swarthy man whom he indicated paled and shuddered; backing away he tried to shelter himself among his fellows. They were all speaking at once, jerking their arms frantically against the bonds that secured their wrists behind them.

"Sir!" said Lebon. "Please - I beg of you - I implore -"

Hornblower condescended to spare him a glance, and Lebon went on in a wild struggle against the difficulties of language and the handicap of not being free to gesticulate.

"We are privateersmen. We fight for the Empire, for France." Now he was on his knees, his face lifted. As he could not use his hands he was actually nuzzling with his mouth against the skirts of Hornblower's pea-jacket. "We surrendered. We did not fight. We caused no death."

"Take this man away from me," said Hornblower, withdrawing out of reach.

But Lebon on his knee followed him over the deck, nuzzling and pleading "Captain," said the English captain, interceding once again. "Can't you at least wait and land 'em for trial? If they're pirates it'll be proved quick enough."

"I want to see 'em dangling," said Hornblower, searching feverishly in his mind for the most impressive thing he could say.

The two English seamen, taking advantage of the volume of protest, had paused in the execution of their orders. Hornblower looked up at the noose, dangling dimly but horribly in the fog.

"I don't believe for one single moment," went on Hornblower, "that these men are what they say they are. Just a band of thieves, pirates. Leadbitter, put four men on that line. I'll give the word when they are to walk away with it."

"Sir," said Lebon, "I assure you, word of honour, we are from the privateer Vengeance."

"Bah!" replied Hornblower. "Where is she?"

"Over there," said Lebon. He could not point with his hands; he pointed with his chin, over the port bow of the anchored Amelia Jane. It was not a very definite indication, but it was a considerable help, even that much.

"Did you see any vessel over there before the fog closed down, captain?" demanded Hornblower, turning to the English captain.

"Only the Ramsgate trawler," he said, reluctantly.

"That is our ship!" said Lebon. "That is the Vengeance! She was a Dunkirk trawler - we - we made her look like that."

So that was it. A Dunkirk trawler. Her fish-holds could be crammed full of men. A slight alteration of gear, an "R" painted on her mainsail, a suitable name painted on her stern and then she could wander about the narrow seas without question, snapping up prizes almost at will.

"Where did you say she lay?" demanded Hornblower.

"There - oh!"

Lebon checked himself as he realized how much information he was giving away.

"I can hazard a good guess as to how she bears from us," interposed the English captain, "I saw - oh!"

He broke off exactly as Lebon had done, but from surprise. He was staring at Hornblower. It was like the denouement scene in some silly farce. The lost heir was at last revealed. The idea of now accepting the admiration of his unwitting fellow players, of modestly admitting that he was not the monster of ferocity he had pretended to be, irritated Hornblower beyond all bearing. All his instincts and good taste rose against the trite and the obvious. Now that he had acquired the information he had sought he could please himself as long as he acted instantly on that information. The scowl he wished to retain rested the more easily on his features with this revulsion of feeling.

"I'd be sorry to miss a hanging," he said, half to himself, and he allowed his eye to wander again from the dangling noose to the shrinking group of Frenchmen who were still ignorant of what had just happened. "If that thick neck were stretched a little -"

He broke off and took a brief turn up and down the deck, eyed by every man who stood on it.

"Very well," he said, halting. "It's against my better judgment, but I'll wait before I hang these men. What was the approximate bearing of that trawler when she anchored, captain?"

"It was at slack water," began the captain, making his calculations. "We were just beginning to swing. I should say -"

The captain was obviously a man of sober judgment and keen observation. Hornblower listened to what he had to say.

"Very well," said Hornblower when he had finished. "Leadbitter, I'll leave you on board with two men. Keep an eye on these prisoners and see they don't retake the brig. I'm returning to the ship now. Wait here for further orders."

He went down into his gig; the captain accompanying him to the ship's side was clearly and gratifyingly puzzled. It was almost beyond his belief that Hornblower could be the demoniac monster that he had appeared to be, and if he were it was strange good fortune that his ferocity should have obtained, by pure chance, the information that the prisoners had just given him. Yet on the other hand it was almost beyond his belief that if Hornblower had employed a clever ruse to gain the information he should refuse to enjoy the plaudits of his audience and not to bask in their surprise and admiration. Either notion was puzzling. That was well. Let him be puzzled. Let them all be puzzled - although it seemed as if the sobered hands pulling at the oars of the gig were not at all puzzled. Unheeding of all that had been at stake they were clearly convinced that their captain had shown himself in his true colours, and was a man who would sooner see a man's death agonies than eat his dinner. Let 'em think so. It would do no harm. Hornblower could spare them no thought in any case, with all his attention glued upon the compass card. It would be ludicrous - it would be horribly comic - if after all this he were to miss Atropos on his way back to her, if he were to blunder about in the fog for hours looking for his own ship. The reciprocal of North by East half East was South by West half West, and he kept the gig rigidly on that course. With what still remained of the ebb tide behind them it would only be a few seconds before they ought to sight Atropos. It was a very great comfort when they did.

Mr. Jones received Hornblower at the ship's side. A glance had told him that the gig's crew was two men and a coxswain short. It was hard to think of any explanation of that, and Mr. Jones was bursting with curiosity. He could not help but wonder what his captain had been doing, out there in the fog. His curiosity even overcame his apprehension at the sight of the scowl which Hornblower still wore - now that he was back in his ship Hornblower was beginning to feel much more strongly the qualms that should have influenced him regarding what Their Lordships might think of his absence from his ship. He ignored Jones's questions.

"You got those tops'l yards across, I see, Mr. Jones."

"Yes, sir. I sent the hands to dinner when you didn't come back, sir. I thought -"

"They'll have five minutes to finish their dinners. No longer. Mr. Jones, if you were in command of two boats sent to capture a hostile vessel at anchor in this fog, how would you set about it? What orders would you give?"

"Well, sir, I'd - I'd -"

Mr. Jones was not a man of quickness of thought or rapid adaptability to a new situation. He hummed and he hawed. But there were very few officers in the Navy who had not been on at least one cutting-out and boarding operation. He knew well enough what he should do, and it slowly became apparent.

"Very well, Mr. Jones. You will now hoist out the long boat and the launch. You will man them and see that the boats' crews are fully armed. You will proceed North by East half East - fix that in your mind, Mr. Jones, North by East half East - from this ship for a quarter of a mile. There you find a West India brig the Amelia Jane. She has just been recaptured from a French prize crew, and my coxswain is on board with two men. From her you will take a new departure. There's a French privateer, the Vengeance. She's a Dunkirk trawler disguised as a Ramsgate trawler. She is probably heavily manned - at least fifty of a crew left - and she is anchored approximately three cables' lengths approximately north-west of the Amelia Jane. You will capture her, by surprise if possible. Mr. Still will be in command of the second boat. I will listen while you give him his instructions. That will save repetition. Mr. Still!"

The despatch that Hornblower wrote that evening and entrusted to the Amelia Jane for delivery to the Admiralty was couched in the usual Navy phraseology.

Sir I have the honour to report to you for the information of Their Lordships that this day while anchored in dense fog in the Downs I became aware that it seemed likely that some disturbance was taking place near at hand. On investigating I had the good fortune to recapture the brig Amelia Jane, homeward bound from Barbados, which was in possession of a French prize crew. From information gained from the prisoners I was able to send my first lieutenant, Mr. Jones, with the boats of H.M. ship under my command, to attack the French private ship of war Vengeance of Dunkirk. She was handsomely carried by Mr. Jones and his officers; and men including Mr. Still, second lieutenant, Messrs. Horrocks and Smiley, and His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau, midshipmen, after a brief action in which our loss was two men slightly wounded while the French Captain, Monsieur Ducos, met with a severe wound while trying to rally his crew. The Vengeance proved to be a French trawler masquerading as an English fishing boat. Including the prize crew she carried a crew of seventy-one officers and men, and she was armed with one four-pounder carronade concealed under her net.

I have the honour to remain, Your obed't servant, H. Hornblower, Captain.

Before sealing it Hornblower read through this report with a lopsided smile on his face. He wondered if anyone would ever read between the lines of that bald narrative, how much anyone would guess, how much anyone would deduce. The fog, the cold, the wet; the revolting scene on the deck of the Amelia Jane; the interplay of emotion; could anyone ever guess at all the truth? And there was no doubt that his gig's crew was already spreading round the ship horrible reports about his lust for blood. There was some kind of sardonic satisfaction to be derived from that, too. A knock at the door. Could he never be undisturbed?

"Come in," he called.

It was Jones. His glance took in the quill in Hornblower's fingers, and the inkwell and papers on the table before him.

"Your pardon, sir," he said. "I hope I don't come too late."

"What is it?" asked Hornblower; he had little sympathy for Jones and his undetermined manners.

"If you are going to send a report to the Admiralty, sir - and I suppose you are, sir -"

"Yes, of course I am."

"I don't know if you're going to mention my name, sir - I don't want to ask if you are, sir - I don't want to presume -"

If Jones was soliciting a special mention of himself in the Admiralty letter he would get none at all.

"What is it you're saying to me, Mr. Jones?"

"It's only that my name's a common one, sir. John Jones, sir. There are twelve John Jones's in the lieutenants' list, sir. I didn't know if you knew, sir, but I am John Jones the Ninth. That's how I'm known at the Admiralty, sir. If you didn't say that, perhaps -"

"Very well, Mr. Jones. I understand. You can rely on me to see that justice is done."

"Thank you, sir."

With Jones out of the way Hornblower sighed a little, looked at his report, and drew a fresh sheet towards him. There was no chance of inserting "the Ninth" legibly after the mention of Jones's name. The only thing to do was to take a fresh sheet and write it all over again. An odd occupation for a bloodthirsty tyrant.

Chapter IX.

Hornblower watched with a keen eye his crew at work as they took in sail while Atropos came gliding into Gibraltar Bay. He could call them well-drilled now. The long beat down the Channel, the battles with the Biscay gales, had made a correlated team of there. There was no confusion and only the minimum number of orders. The men came hurrying off the yards; he saw two figures swing themselves on to the main backstays and come sliding down all the way from the masthead, disdaining to use the shrouds and ratlines. They reached the deck simultaneously and stood grinning at each other for a moment - clearly they had been engaged in a race. One was Smiley, the midshipman of the maintop. The other - His Serene Highness the Prince of Seitz-Bunau. That boy had improved beyond all expectation. If ever he should sit on his throne again in his princely German capital he would have strange memories to recall.

But this was not the time for a captain to let his attention wander.