“I’ll give you carte blanche,” replied St. Vincent. “A free hand. Bring Flame back safe and sound, and the mutineers along with her, and you can set about it any way you choose.”

“You will give me full powers—to negotiate, for instance, my lord?”

“I didn’t mean that, damn it,” replied St. Vincent. “I meant you could have any force you asked for. I could spare you three ships of the line, if you want them. A couple of frigates. Bomb-vessels. There’s even a rocket-vessel if you think you could use it—this fellow Congreve wants to see his rockets in action again.”

“It doesn’t appear to be the kind of situation in which great force would be of much use, my lord. Ships of the line would seem to be superfluous.”

“I know that too, damn it.” The struggle in St. Vincent’s mind was evident in his massive face. “Those insolent rascals can slip into the Seine’s mouth in two shakes of a duck’s tail at the first sign of danger to themselves. It’s brains that are needed here, I know. That’s why I sent for you, Hornblower.”

A nice compliment. Hornblower preened himself a little; he was talking here on terms almost of equality to one of the greatest admirals who had ever hoisted his flag, and the sensation was extraordinarily pleasant. And the internal pressure which was mounting inside the First Lord suddenly forced out of him a yet more astonishing statement.

“And the men like you, Hornblower,” exploded St. Vincent. “Damn it, I don’t know a man who doesn’t. They’ll follow you and listen to you. You’re one of the officers the men talk about among themselves. They trust you and expect things of you—so do I, damn it, as you can see.”

“But if I talk to the men it will imply that I am negotiating with them, my lord.”

“No negotiations with mutineers!” blared St. Vincent, striking the desk with a fist like a leg of mutton. “We had enough of that in ‘94.”