On the other hand, it seemed to mean a great deal to the admiral, for hardly had sufficient time elapsed for the message to be carried below to him than a question soared up to the Victory’s yardarm.

“Flag to Renown.” Hornblower read those flags as they broke and was instantly ready for the rest of the message. “Is McCool alive?”

“Reply affirmative,” said Captain Sawyer.

And the affirmative had hardly been hoisted before the next signal was fluttering in the Victory.

“Have him on board at once. Court martial will assemble.”

A court martial! Who on earth was this man McCool? A deserter? The recapture of a mere deserter would not be a matter for the commanderinchief. A traitor? Strange that a traitor should be courtmartialled in the fleet. But there it was. A word from the captain sent Hart scurrying overside to bring this mysterious prisoner on board, while signal after signal went up from the Victory convening the court martial in the Renown.

Hornblower was kept busy enough reading the messages; he had only a glance to spare when Hart had his prisoner and his sea chest hoisted up over the port side. A youngish man, tall and slender, his hands were tied behind him — which was why he had to be hoisted in — and he was hatless, so that his long red hair streamed in the wind. He wore a blue uniform with red facings — a French infantry uniform, apparently. The name, the uniform, and the red hair combined to give Hornblower his first insight into the situation. McCool must be an Irishman. While Hornblower had been a prisoner in Ferrol, there had been, he knew, a bloody rebellion in Ireland. Irishmen who had escaped had taken service with France in large number. This must be one of them, but it hardly explained why the admiral should take it upon himself to try him instead of handing him over to the civil authorities.

Hornblower had to wait an hour for the explanation, until, at two bells in the next watch, dinner was served in the gun room.