“Isthe news of the mutiny public?”

“No. And please God it won’t be until the courtmartial flag is hoisted. Holden at Bembridge had the sense to keep his mouth shut. He put the master’s mate and the hands under lock and key the moment he heard their news. Dart’s sailing for Calcutta next week—I’ll ship ‘em out in her. It’ll be months before the story leaks out.”

Mutiny was an infection, carried by words. The plague spot must be isolated until it could be cauterised.

St. Vincent drew a sheaf of papers to himself and took up his pen—a handsome turkey-feather with one of the newfangled gold nibs.

“What force do you require?”

“Something handy and small,” said Hornblower.

He had not the remotest idea how he was going to deal with this problem of recovering a vessel which had only to drop two miles to leeward to be irrecoverable, but his pride made him assume an appearance of self-confidence. He caught himself wondering if all men were like himself, putting on a brave show of moral courage when actually they felt weak and helpless—he remembered Suetonius’ remark about Nero, who believed all men to be privately as polluted as himself although they did not admit it publicly.

“There’s Porta Coeli,” said St. Vincent, raising his white eyebrows. “Eighteen-gun brig—sister to Flame, in fact. She’s at Spithead, ready to sail. Freeman’s in command—he had the cutter Clam under your command in the Baltic. He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Would she serve?”

“I think so, my lord.”

“Pellew’s commanding the mid-Channel squadron. I’ll send him orders to let you have any help you may request.”