Hornblower in the West Indies h-12 Read online

He would not hold out his hand; Cambronne later would feel contaminated if he touched him. He came stiffly to attention and raised his hand instead in salute.

  “Goodbye, Count,” he said. “I hope we shall meet again in happier circumstances.”

  “Goodbye, milord,” said Cambronne, heavily.

  Hornblower climbed into the mizzen chains and the boat pulled in to him, and he fell, rather than climbed, into the stern-sheets.

  “Give way,” he said. No one could feel as utterly exhausted as he felt. No one could feel as utterly unhappy.

  They were waiting for him eagerly on board Crab, Harcourt and Gerard and the others. He still had to preserve an unmoved countenance as he went on board. He still had duties to do.

  “You can let Daring go past, Mr. Harcourt,” he said. “It is all arranged.”

  “Arranged, My Lord?” This was from Gerard.

  “Cambronne has given up the attempt. They are going quietly to France.”

  “France? To France? My Lord—?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  They looked across the strip of sea, purple now in the dying day; Daring was bracing round her yards to catch the faint breeze that was blowing.

  “Your orders are to let them pass, My Lord?” persisted Gerard.

  “Yes, damn you,” said Hornblower, and instantly regretted the flash of rage and bad language. He turned to the other. “Mr. Harcourt, we can now proceed into Port of Spain. I presume that even if the wind is fair you will prefer not to risk the Dragon’s Mouth by night. You have my permission to wait until daylight.”

  “Aye aye, my Lord.”

  Even then they would not leave him in peace as he turned to go below.

  “Dinner, My Lord?” asked Gerard. “I’ll give orders for it at once.”

  Hopeless to snarl back that he wanted no dinner; the discussion that would have ensued would have been worse than going through the form of eating dinner. Even so it meant that on entering his cabin he could not do as he wanted and fall on his cot with his face in his hands and abandon himself to his misery. He had to sit up stiff and square while Giles laid and served and cleared away, while the tropical sunset flamed in the sky and black night swooped down upon the little ship on the purple sea. Only then, after Giles’s last “Goodnight, My Lord,” could he think again, and work back through all the horror of his thoughts.

  He had ceased to be a gentleman. He was disgraced. Everything was at an end. He would have to resign his command—he would have to resign his commission. How would he ever face Barbara? When little Richard grew up and could understand what had happened how would he ever be able to meet his eyes? And Barbara’s aristocratic family would sneer knowingly to each other. And never again would he walk a quarterdeck, and never again step on board with his hand to his hat and the bosun’s calls shrilling in salute. Never again; his professional life was at an end—everything was at an end. He had made the sacrifice deliberately and cold-bloodedly, but that did not make it any less horrible.

  His thoughts moved into the other half of the circle. He could have done nothing else. If he had turned aside to Kingston or Port of Spain Daring would have slipped past him, as her time of arrival off Tobago proved, and any additional strength he might have brought with him—if any, as was not likely—would have been useless. If he had stayed at Kingston and sent a despatch to London? If he had done that he might at least have covered himself with the authorities. But it would have been unavailing. How much time would elapse between the arrival of his letter in London and the arrival of Daring on the coast of France with Bonaparte on board? Two week; Very likely less than that. The clerks at the Admiralty would have treated his despatch at first as coming from a madman. There would be delay in its reaching the First Lord’s hands, delay in its being laid before the Cabinet, delay while action was being debated, delay while the French ambassador was informed, delay while joint action was being agreed upon.

  And what action, if any—if the Cabinet did not dismiss his letter as that of an unbalanced alarmist? The peacetime navy of England could never have been got to sea in time and in sufficient numbers to cover the whole coast of France so as to make it impossible for Daring to land her deadly cargo. And the mere inevitable leakage of the news that Bonaparte was at sea and expected to land would throw France into immediate revolution—no doubt about that, and Italy was in a turmoil too. By writing to London he would have covered himself, as he had already decided, from the censure of the Government. But it was not the measure of a man’s duty to avoid blame. He had a positive duty to do, and he had done it, in the only way possible. Nothing else would have stopped Cambronne. Nothing else. He had seen where his duty lay. He had seen what the price would be, and now he was paying it. He had bought the peace of the world at the price of his own honour. He had ceased to be a gentleman—his thoughts completed the other half of the circle.

  His mind plunged on, struggling desperately, like a man in utter darkness waist deep in a slough. It would not be long before the world knew of his dishonour. Cambronne would talk, and so would the other Frenchmen. The world would hear soon of a British Admiral giving his plighted word in the certain knowledge that he was telling a lie. Before then he would have left the Service, resigned his command and his commission. That must be done at once; his contaminated flag must fly no longer; he must give no further orders to gentlemen. In Port of Spain there was the Governor of Trinidad. Tomorrow he would tell him that the West India squadron no longer had a Commander-in-Chief. The Governor could take all the necessary official action, in circularising the squadron and informing the Government—just as if yellow fever or apoplexy had taken off the Commander-in-Chief. In this way anarchy would be reduced to a minimum, and a change of command arranged as simply as possible; that was the last service he could perform for his country, the very last. The Governor would think he was mad, of course—he might be in a strait-jacket tomorrow unless he confessed his shame. And then the Governor would pity him; the first of the pity, the first of the contempt, he would have to face for the rest of his life. Barbara—Richard—the lost soul plunged on through the stinking slough, through the dark night.

  At the end of that dark night a knock at the door brought in Gerard. The message he was bearing died on his lips as he looked at Hornblower’s face, white under the tan, and at his hollow eyes.

  “Are you quite well, My Lord?” he asked, anxiously.

  “Quite well. What is it?”

  “Mr. Harcourt’s respects, My Lord, and we are off the Dragon’s Mouth. The wind is fair at nor’-nor’-east and we can make the passage as soon as day breaks, in half an hour, My Lord. We’ll drop anchor in Port of Spain by two bells in the forenoon watch, My Lord.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gerard.” The words came slowly and coldly as he forced himself to utter them. “My compliments to Mr. Harcourt and that will do very well.”

  “Aye aye, My Lord. This will be the first appearance of your flag in Port of Spain, and a salute will be fired.”

  “Very well.”

  “The Governor, by virtue of his appointment, takes precedence of you, My Lord. Your Lordship must therefore pay the first call. Shall I make a signal to that effect?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gerard. I would be obliged if you would.”

  The horror still had to be gone through and endured. He had to make himself spick and span; he could not appear on deck unshaven and dirty and untidy. He had to shave and endure Giles’s conversation.

  “Fresh water, My Lord,” said Giles, bringing in a steaming can. “Cap’n’s given permission, seeing that we’ll be watering today.”

  There might once have been sheer sensuous pleasure in shaving in fresh water, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure in standing on deck watching Crab make the passage of the Dragon’s Mouth, in looking about him at new lands, in entering a new port, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure once in fresh linen, even in a crisp new neckcloth, even in his ribbon and star and gold-h
ilted sword. There might have been pleasure in hearing the thirteen guns of his salute fired and answered, but there was none now—there was only the agony of knowing that never again would a salute be fired for him, never again would the whole ship stand at attention for him as he went over the side. He had to hold himself stiff and straight so as not to droop like a weakling in his misery. He even had to blink hard to keep the tears from overflowing down his cheeks as if he were a sentimental Frenchman. The blazing blue sky overhead might have been black for all he knew.

  The Governor was a ponderous Major-General, with a red ribbon and a star, too. He went rigidly through the formalities of the reception, and then unbent as soon as they were alone together.

  “Delighted to have this visit from you, My Lord,” he said. “Please sit down. I think you will find that chair comfortable. I have some sherry which I think you will find tolerable. May I pour Your Lordship a glass?”

  He did not wait for an answer, but busied himself with the decanter and glasses.

  “By the way, My Lord, have you heard the news? Boney’s dead.”

  Hornblower had not sat down. He had intended to refuse the sherry; the Governor would not care to drink with a man who had lost his honour. Now he sat down with a jerk, and automatically took the glass offered him. The sound he made in reply to the Governor’s news was only a croak.

  “Yes,” went on the Governor. “He died three weeks back in St. Helena. They’ve buried him there, and that’s the last of him. Well—are you quite well, My Lord?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” said Hornblower.

  The cool twilit room was swimming round him. As he came back to sanity he thought of St. Elizabeth of Hungary. She, disobeying her husband’s commands, had been carrying food to the poor—an apron full of bread—when her husband saw her.

  “What have you in your apron?” he demanded.

  “Roses,” lied St. Elizabeth.

  “Show me,” said her husband.

  St. Elizabeth showed him—and her apron was full of roses.

  Life could begin anew, thought Hornblower.

  The Star Of The South

  Here where the trade winds blew at their freshest, just within the tropics, in the wide unbroken Atlantic, was, as Hornblower decided at that moment, the finest stretch of water for a yachting excursion to be found anywhere on the globe. This was nothing more than a yachting excursion, to his mind. Only recently he had emerged from a profound spiritual experience during which the peace of the whole world had depended on his judgement; by comparison it seemed now as if the responsibilities of being Commander-in-Chief on the West Indian Station were mere nothings. He stood on the quarterdeck of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Clorinda, balancing easily as she reached to windward under moderate sail, and allowed the morning sunshine to stream down on him and the trade wind to blow round his ears. With the pitch and the roll as Clorinda shouldered against the sea the shadows of the weather rigging swooped back and forth over the deck; when she took a roll to windward, towards the nearly level morning sun, the shadows of the ratlines of the mizzen shrouds flicked across his eyes in rapid succession, hypnotically adding to his feeling of well-being. To be a Commander-in-Chief, with nothing more to worry about than the suppression of the slave trade, the hunting down of piracy, and the policing of the Caribbean, was an experience more pleasant than any Emperor, or even any poet, could ever know. The bare-legged seamen washing down the decks were laughing and joking; the level sun was calling up dazzling rainbows in the spray flung up by the weather bow; and he could have breakfast at any moment that he wanted it—standing here on the quarterdeck he was finding additional pleasure in anticipation and wantonly postponing that moment.

  The appearance of Captain Sir Thomas Fell on the quarterdeck took something away from the feeling of well-being. Sir Thomas was a gloomy, lantern-jawed individual who would feel it his bounden duty to come and be polite to his Admiral, and who would never have the sensitivity to be aware when his presence was undesired.

  “Good morning, My Lord,” said the captain, touching his hat.

  “Good morning, Sir Thomas,” replied Hornblower, returning the salute.

  “A fine fresh morning, My Lord.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Sir Thomas was looking over his ship with a captain’s eye, along the decks, up aloft, and then turning aft to observe where, right astern, a smudgy line on the horizon marked the position of the hills of Puerto Rico. Hornblower suddenly realised that he wanted his breakfast more than anything on earth; and simultaneously he realised that he now could not gratify that desire as instantaneously as a Commander-in-Chief should be able to. There were limitations of politeness that constrained even a Commander-in-Chief—or that constrained him at least. He could not turn away and go below without exchanging a few more sentences with Fell.

  “Maybe we’ll catch something today, My Lord,” said Fell; instinctively with the words the eyes of both men turned aloft to where a look-out sat perched up at the dizzy height of the main topgallant masthead.

  “Let’s hope we do,” said Hornblower, and, because he had never succeeded in liking Fell, and because the last thing he wanted to do was to enter into a technical discussion before breakfast, he blundered on so as to conceal these feelings. “It’s likely enough.”

  “The Spaniards will want to run every cargo they can before the convention’s signed,” said Fell.

  “So we decided,” agreed Hornblower. Re-hashing old decisions before breakfast was not to his taste, but it was typical of Fell to do that.

  “And this is the landfall they’d make,” went on Fell, remorselessly, glancing astern again at Puerto Rico on the horizon.

  “Yes,” said Hornblower. Another minute or two of this pointless conversation and he would be free to escape below.

  Fell took the speaking-trumpet and directed it upwards.

  “Masthead, there! Keep a good lookout or I’ll know the reason why!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” came the reply.

  “Head money, My Lord,” said Fell, in apologetic explanation.

  “We all find it useful,” answered Hornblower, politely.

  Head money was paid by the British Government for slaves freed on the high seas, to the Royal Naval ships concerned in the capture of the slaves, and divided among the ship’s company like any other prize money. It was a small fund compared with the gigantic sums acquired during the great wars, but at five pounds a head a big capture could bring in a substantial sum to the ship making the capture. And of that substantial sum one-quarter went to the captain. On the other hand, one-eighth went to the Admiral commanding, wherever he happened to be. Hornblower, with twenty ships at sea under his command, was entitled to one-eighth of all their head money. It was a system of division which explained how during the great wars the Admirals commanding the Channel Fleet or in the Mediterranean became millionaires, like Lord Keith.

  “No one could find it more useful than I, My Lord,” said Fell.

  “Maybe,” said Hornblower.

  Hornblower knew vaguely that Fell was in difficulties about money. He had had many years of half pay since Waterloo, and even now as captain of a fifth-rate his pay and allowances were less than twenty pounds a month—lucky though he was, in peacetime, to have command even of a fifth-rate. He had had experience himself of being a poor captain, of wearing cotton stockings instead of silk, and brass epaulettes instead of gold. But he had no desire whatever to discuss the Tables of Personal Pay before breakfast.

  “Lady Fell, My Lord,” went on Fell, persistently, “has a position to maintain in the world.”

  She was an extravagant woman, so Hornblower had heard.

  “Let’s hope we have some luck today, then,” said Hornblower, still thinking about breakfast.

  It was a melodramatic coincidence that at that very moment a hail came down from the masthead.

  “Sail ho! Sail right to wind’ard!”

  “Perhaps that’s what we’re waiting for
, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower.

  “As likely as not, My Lord. Masthead, there! How’s the sail heading? Mr. Sefton, bring the ship to the wind.”

  Hornblower backed away to the weather-rail. He felt he could never grow used to his situation as Admiral, and having to stand by and be no more than an interested spectator while the ship he was in was being handled at decisive moments. It was quite painful to be a spectator, but it would be more painful still to go below and remain in ignorance of what was going on—and much more painful than to postpone breakfast again.

  “Deck, there! She’s a two-master. Heading straight down for us. All sail to the royals. Captain, sir, she’s a schooner! A big schooner, sir. Still running down for us.”

  Young Gerard, the flag-lieutenant, had come running on deck at the first hail from the masthead, to his place beside his Admiral.

  “A tops’l schooner,” he said. “A big one. She could be what we’re looking for, My Lord.”

  “Plenty of other things she could be,” said Hornblower, doing his best to conceal his absurd excitement.

  Gerard had his telescope pointing to windward.

  “There she is! Coming down fast, right enough. Look at the rake of those masts! Look at the cut of those tops’ls! My Lord, she’s no Island schooner.”

  It would not be a very remarkable coincidence if she should be a slaver; he had brought Clorinda here to the windward of San Juan in the full expectation that slave cargoes would be hurrying here. Spain was meditating joining in the suppression of the slave trade, and every slaver would be tempted to run cargoes and take advantage of enhanced prices before the prohibition should take effect. The main slave market for the Spanish colonies was at Havana, a thousand miles to leeward, but it could be looked upon as certain that Spanish slavers, making their passage from the Slave Coast, would touch first at Puerto Rico to refill with water if not to dispose of part of their cargo. It had only been logical to station Clorinda to intercept them.

  Hornblower took the telescope and trained it on the fast-nearing schooner. He saw what Gerard had spoken about. Hull up now, he could see how heavily sparred she was, and how built for speed. With those fine lines it would only pay for her to carry highly perishable cargo—human cargo. As he looked he saw the rectangles of her square sails narrow vertically; the small distance between her masts widened greatly. She was wheeling away from the waiting Clorinda—a final proof, if any was needed, that she was what she appeared to be. Laying herself on the starboard tack, she proceeded to keep at a safe distance, and to increase that distance as fast as possible.