“She’s been docked and breamed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’d manned?”

“Yes, sir. A good crew—the cream of the press.”

“Rigging set up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yards crossed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officers appointed?”

“Yes, sir. A lieutenant and four master’s mates.”

“You’ll need three months’ provisions and water.”

“I can stow a hundred and eleven days at full rations, sir. The cooperage is delivering the water-butts at noon. I’ll have it all stowed by nightfall, sir.”

“Have you warped her out?”

“Yes, sir. She’s at anchor now in Spithead.”

“You’ve done well,” said Cornwallis.

Hornblower tried not to betray his relief at that speech; from Cornwallis that was more than approval—it was hearty praise.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So what do you need now?”

“Bos’n’s stores, sir. Cordage, canvas, spare spars.”

“Not easy to get the dockyard to part with those at this moment. I’ll have a word with them. And then the ordnance stores, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Ordnance are waiting for a shipment of nine-pounder shot. None to be had here at the moment.”

Ten minutes ago Hornblower had been thinking of words to please Maria. Now he was selecting words for an honest report to Cornwallis.

“I’ll deal with that, too,” said Cornwallis. “You can be certain of sailing the day after tomorrow if the wind serves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now for your orders. You’ll get them in writing in the course of the day, but I’d better tell you now, while you can ask questions. War’s coming. It hasn’t been declared yet, but Boney may anticipate us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to blockade Brest as soon as I can get the fleet to sea, and you’re to go ahead of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not to do anything to precipitate war. You’re not to provide Boney with an excuse.”