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'Mr Bush, you may secure the guns now, thank you.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Prowse was offering his telescope.

'That's the light-tower on Ushant, sir,' he said.

Hornblower caught a wavering glimpse of the thing, a gaunt framework topped by a cresset, where the French government in time of peace maintained a light for the benefit of the ships--half the world's trade made a landfall off Ushant--that needed it.

'Thank you, Mr Prowse.' Hornblower visualised the chart again; recalled the plans he had made in the intervals of commissioning his ship, in the intervals of his honeymoon, in the intervals of sea-sickness, during the past crowded days. 'Wind's drawing westerly. But it'll be dark before we can make Cape Matthew. We'll stand to the s'uth'ard under easy sail until midnight. I want to be a league off the Black Stones an hour before dawn.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Bush joined them, fresh from the business of securing the guns.

'Look at that, sir! There's a fortune passing us by.'

A large ship was hull-up to windward, her canvas reflecting the westering sun.