Later on Hornblower, out of curiosity, made a calculation. The Prince fell from a height of a little over seventy feet, and without the resistance of the air and had he not bounced off the shrouds he would have reached the surface of the sea in something over two seconds. But the resistance of the air could have been by no means negligible—it must have got under his jacket and slowed his fall considerably, for the boy was not killed and was in fact only momentarily knocked unconscious by the impact. Probably it took as much as four seconds for the Prince to fall into the sea. Hornblower was led to make the calculation when brooding over the incident later, for he could remember clearly all the thoughts that passed through his mind during those four seconds. Momentary exasperation came first and then anxiety, and then followed a hasty summing up of the situation. If he hoveto to pick up the boy the Castilla would have all the time needed to overhaul them. If he went on the boy would drown. And if he went on he would have to report to Collingwood that he had left the King’s greatnephew without lifting a finger to help him. He had to choose quickly—quickly. He had no right to risk his ship to save one single life. But—but—if the boy had been killed in battle by a broadside sweeping the deck it would be different. To abandon him was another matter again. On the heels of that conclusion came another thought, the beginnings of another thought, sprouting from a seed that had been sown outside Cartagena. It did not have time to develop in those four seconds; it was as if Hornblower acted the moment the green shoot from the seed showed above ground, to reach its full growth later.
By the time the boy had reached the sea Hornblower had torn the emergency lifebuoy from the taffrail; he flung it over the port quarter as the speed of the ship brought the boy nearly opposite him, and it smacked into the sea close beside him. At the same moment the air which Hornblower had drawn into his lungs to reprimand the Prince was expelled in a salvo of bellowed orders.
“Mizzen braces! Back the mizzen topsail! Quarter boat away!”
Maybe—Hornblower could not be sure later—everyone was shouting at once, but everyone at least responded to orders with the rapidity that was the result of months of drill. Atropos flew up into the wind, her way checked instantly. It was Smiley—Heaven only knew how he had made the descent from the starboard main topsail yardarm in that brief space—who got the jolly boat over the side, with four men at the oars, and dashed off to effect the rescue, the tiny boat soaring up and swooping down as the waves passed under her. And even before Atropos was hoveto Hornblower was putting the next part of the plan into action.
“Mr. Horrocks! Signal ‘Enemy in sight to windward’.”
Horrocks stood and gaped, and Hornblower was about to out with, “Blast you, do what I tell you,” but he restrained himself. Horrocks was not a man of the quickest thought in the world, and he had failed entirely to see any purpose in signalling to a vacant horizon. To swear at him now would simply paralyse him with nervousness and lead to a further delay.
“Mr. Horrocks, kindly send up the signal as quickly as you can. ‘Enemy in sight to windward.’ Quickly, please.”
The signal rating beside Horrocks was luckily quicker witted—he was one of the dozen men of the crew who could read and write, naturally—and was already at the halliards with the flaglocker open, and his example shook Horrocks out of his amazement. The flags went soaring up to the main topmast yardarm, flying out wildly in the wind. Hornblower made a mental note that that rating, even though he was no seaman as yet—lately a City apprentice who had come hurriedly aboard at Deptford to avoid something worse in civilian life—was deserving of promotion.
“Now another signal, Mr. Horrors. ‘Enemy is a frigate distant seven miles bearing west course east.’”
It was the sensible thing to do to send up the very signals he would have hoisted if there really were help in sight—the Castilla might be able to read them or might make at least a fair guess at their meaning. If there had been a friendly ship in sight down to leeward (Hornblower remembered the suggestion he had been going to make to Collingwood) he would never have hoveto, of course, but would have gone on tearing down to lure the Castilla as near as possible, but the captain of the Castilla was not to know that.
“Keep that signal flying. Now send up an affirmative, Mr. Horrocks. Very good. Haul it down again Mr. Jones! Lay the ship on the starboard tack, a good full.”
A powerful English ship down there to leeward would certainly order Atropos to close on Castilla as quickly as possible. He must act as if that were the case. It was only when Jones almost as hapless with astonishment as Horrocks had been—had plunged into the business of getting Atropos under way again that Hornblower had time to use his telescope. He trained it on the distant topsail again; not so distant now. Coming up fast, and Hornblower felt a sick feeling of disappointment and apprehension. And then as he watched he saw the square of the topsail narrow into a vertical oblong, and two other oblongs appear beside it. At the same moment the masthead lookout gave a hail.
“Deck there! The enemy’s hauled his wind, sir!”
Of course he would do so—the disappointment and apprehension vanished instantly. A Spanish frigate captain once he had put his bowsprit outside the safety of a defended port would ever be a prey to fear. Always there would be the probability in his mind that just over the horizon lay a British squadron ready to pounce on him. He would chase a little sloop of war eagerly enough, but as soon as he saw that sloop sending up signals and swinging boldly round on a course that challenged action he would bethink him of the fact that he was already far to leeward of safety; he would imagine hostile ships only just out of sight cracking on all sail to cut him off from his base, and once his mind was made up he would not lose a single additional mile or minute before turning to beat back to safety. For two minutes the Spaniard had been a prey to indecision after Atropos hoveto, but the final bold move had made up his mind for him. If he had held on for a short time longer he might have caught sight of the jolly boat pulling over the waves and then would have guessed what Atropos was doing, but as it was, time was gained and the Spaniard, close-hauled, was clawing back to safety in flight from a nonexistent enemy.
“Masthead! What do you see of the boat?”
“She’s still pulling, sir, right in the wind’s eye!”
“Do you see anything of Mr. Prince?”
“No, sir, can’t say as I do.”
Not much chance in that tossing sea of seeing a floating man two miles away, not even from the masthead.
“Mr. Jones, tack the ship.”
It would be best to keep Atropos as nearly straight down wind from the boat as possible, allowing it an easy run to leeward when its mission was accomplished. Castilla would not be able to make anything of the manoeuvre.
“Deck there! The boat’s stopped pulling, sir. I think they’re picking up Mr. Prince, sir.”
Thank God for that. It was only now that Hornblower could realize what a bad ten minutes it had been.
“Deck there! Yes, sir, they’re waving a shirt. They’re pulling back to us now.”
“Heaveto, Mr. Jones, if you please. Doctor Eisenbeiss, have everything ready in case Mr. Prince needs treatment.”
The Mediterranean at midsummer was warm enough; most likely the boy had taken no harm. The jolly boat came dancing back over the waves and turned under Atropos’ stern into the little lee afforded by her quarter as she rode with her starboard bow to the waves. Here came His Serene Highness, wet and bedraggled but not in the least hurt, meeting the concentrated gaze of all on deck with a smile half sheepish and half defiant. Eisenbeiss came forward fussily, talking voluble German, and then turned to Hornblower to explain.