“If you could give me notice of when you intend to sail, sir—I mean My Lord,” said Harcourt.
“Until dawn tomorrow in any case,” said Hornblower coming to a sudden decision; his day was full until then.
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
Would the grogshops of New Orleans waterfront be any different from the grogshops of Kingston or Port of Spain?
“Now perhaps I can have my breakfast, Mr. Gerard,” said Hornblower. “Unless you have any objection?”
“Aye aye, My Lord,” answered Gerard, carefully ignoring the sarcasm. He had long learned that his Admiral objected to nothing in the world as much as having to be active before breakfast.
It was after breakfast that a coloured man, trotting barefooted along the pier, came bearing on his head a basket of fruit which he handed in at the gangway at the moment when Hornblower was about to start off on his official round of calls.
“There’s a note with it, My Lord,” said Gerard. “Shall I open it?”
“Yes.”
“It is from Mr. Sharpe,” reported Gerard, after breaking the seal, and then some seconds later, “I think you had better read this yourself, My Lord.”
Hornblower took the thing impatiently.
My Lord [1],
I have imposed upon myself the pleasure of sending some fruit to Your Lordship.
It is my duty to inform Your Lordship that I have just received information that the freight which Count Cambronne brought out here from France, and which has been lying in bond in charge of the United States Customs Services, will shortly be transferred by lighter through the agency of a bonded carrier to the Daring. As Your Lordship will, of course, understand, this is an indication that the Daring will be sailing soon. My information is that the amount of bonded freight is very considerable, and I am endeavouring to discover in what it consists. Perhaps Your Lordship might, from Your Lordship’s coign of vantage, find an opportunity of observing the nature of this freight.
I am, with great respect,
Your Lordship’s humble and obedient servant,
Cloudesley Sharpe,
HBM’s Consul-General at New Orleans.
Now what could Cambronne have possibly brought from France in large amount that could be legitimately needed for the purpose he had avowed when he chartered the Daring? Not personal effects, certainly. Not food or liquor—he could pick those up cheaply in New Orleans. Then what? Warm-weather clothing would be a possible explanation. Those Guardsmen might well need it when returning to France from the Gulf of Mexico. It was possible. But a French General, with five hundred men of the Imperial Guard at his disposal, would bear the closest watching when the Caribbean was in such a turmoil. It would be a great help to know what kind of freight he was shipping.
“Mr. Harcourt!”
“Sir—My Lord!”
“I would like your company in the cabin for a moment, if you please.”
The young lieutenant stood at attention in the cabin a little apprehensively waiting to hear what his Admiral had to say.
“This isn’t a reprimand, Mr. Harcourt,” said Hornblower testily. “Not even an admonition.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” said Harcourt, relaxing.
Hornblower took him to the cabin window and pointed out through it, just as Sharpe had done previously.
“That’s the Daring,” he said. “An ex-privateer, now under charter to a French General.”
Harcourt looked his astonishment.
“That is the case,” went on Hornblower. “And today she will be taking on some cargo out of bond. It will be brought round to her out of bond by lighter.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“I want to know as much about that cargo as possible.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Naturally, I do not want the world to know that I am interested. I want nobody to know unnecessarily.”
“Yes, My Lord. I could use a telescope from here and see a good deal, with luck.”
“Very true. You can take note of whether it is bales or boxes or bags. How many there are of each. From the tackle employed you can guess at the weights. You can do all that.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
“Make careful note of all you see.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
Hornblower fixed his eyes on his youthful flag-captain’s face, trying to estimate his discretion. He remembered so well the emphatic words of the First Sea Lord regarding the necessity for the utmost tenderness regarding American susceptibilities. Hornblower decided the young man could be trusted.
“Now, Mr. Harcourt,” he said, “pay special attention to what I have to say. The more I know about that cargo the better. But don’t go at it like a bull at a gate. Should an opportunity present itself for finding out what it is, you must seize upon it. I can’t imagine what that opportunity may be, but opportunities come to those who are ready for them.”
Long, long ago, Barbara had said to him that good fortune is the portion of those who merit it.
“I understand, My Lord.”
“If the slightest hint of this gets out—if the Americans or the French get to know what you are doing—you will be sorry you were ever born, Mr. Harcourt.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“I’ve no use for a dashing young officer in this connection, Mr. Harcourt. I want someone with ingenuity, someone with cunning. You are sure you understand?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Hornblower at last took his eyes from Harcourt’s face. He himself had been a dashing young officer once. Now he had far more sympathy than ever before with the older men who had entrusted him with enterprises. A senior officer had perforce to trust his juniors, while still carrying the ultimate responsibility. If Harcourt should blunder, if he should be guilty of some indiscretion leading to a diplomatic protest, it would certainly be true that he might wish he had never been born—Hornblower would see to that. But Hornblower would be wishing he himself had never been born, too. But there was no useful purpose to be served in pointing that out.
“That is all, then, Mr. Harcourt.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Come on, Mr. Gerard. We’re late already.”
The upholstery of Mr. Sharpe’s carriage was of green satin, and the carriage was admirably sprung, so that although it lurched and swayed over the uneven street surfaces, it did not jolt or jerk. Yet after five minutes of lurching and swaying—the carriage had been standing for some time in the hot May sun—Hornblower felt himself turning as green as the upholstery. The Rue Royale, the Place d’armes, the Cathedral, received hardly a glance from him. He welcomed the halts despite the fact that each halt meant a formal meeting with strangers, the kind of meeting he disliked most heartily. He stood and gulped in the humid air during the blessed moments between descending from the carriage and entering in under the ornate porticoes that stood to welcome him. It had never occurred to him before that an Admiral’s full dress uniform might with advantage be made of something thinner than broadcloth, and he had worn his broad red ribbon and his glittering star far too often by now to feel the slightest pleasure in displaying it.
At the Naval Headquarters he drank an excellent Madeira; the General gave him a heavy Marsala; at the Governor’s mansion he was given a tall drink which had been iced (presumably with ice sent down during the winter from New England and preserved in an icehouse until nearly at midsummer it was more precious than gold) extraordinarily to the point where actual frost was visible on the tumbler. The delicious cold contents of that tumbler disappeared rapidly, and the tumbler was as rapidly refilled. He checked himself abruptly when he found himself talking a little too loudly and dogmatically regarding some point of trivial importance. He was glad to catch Gerard’s eye and withdraw as gracefully as he could; he was also glad that Gerard seemed perfectly cool and sober and had charge of the cardcase, dropping the necessary number of cards into the silver trays that the coloured butlers held out to receive them. By the time he rea
ched Sharpe’s house he was glad to see a friendly face—friendly even though it was only that morning that he had first set eyes on it.
“It is an hour before the guests are due to arrive, My Lord,” said Sharpe. “Would Your Lordship care for a short rest?”
“I would indeed,” said Hornblower.
Mr. Sharpe’s house had a contrivance which merited much attention. It was a douche bath—Hornblower only knew the French name for it. It was in a corner of the bathroom, floored and walled with the most excellent teak; from the ceiling hung an apparatus of perforated zinc, and from this hung a bronze chain. When Hornblower stood under this apparatus and pulled the chain a deluge of delicious cold water came streaming down on him from some unseen reservoir above. It was as refreshing as ever it had been to stand under the wash-deck pump on the deck of a ship at sea, with the additional advantage of employing fresh water—and in his present condition, after his experiences of the day, it was doubly refreshing. Hornblower stood under the raining water for a long time, reviving with every second. He made a mental note to install a similar contrivance at Smallbridge House if ever he found himself at home again.
A coloured valet in livery stood by with towels to save him from the reheating exertion of drying himself, and while he was being dabbed a knock at the door heralded Gerard’s entrance.
“I sent to the ship for a fresh shirt for you, My Lord,” he said.
Gerard was really displaying intelligence; Hornblower put on the fresh shirt with gratitude, but it was with distaste that he tightened his stook and pulled on his heavy uniform coat again. He hung the red ribbon over his shoulder, adjusted his star, and was ready to face the next situation. The darkness of evening was descending, but it had not brought much relief from the heat; on the contrary, the drawing-room of Mr. Sharpe’s house was brightly lit with wax candles that made it feel like an oven. Sharpe was awaiting him, wearing a black coat; his ruffled shirt made his bulky form appear larger than ever. Mrs Sharpe, sweeping in in turquoise blue, was of much the same size; she curtseyed deeply in response to Hornblower’s bow when Sharpe presented him, and made him welcome to the house in a French whose soft tang rang pleasantly on Hornblower’s ears.
“A little refreshment, My Lord?” asked Sharpe.
“Not at present, thank you, sir,” said Hornblower hastily.
“We are expecting twenty-eight guests beside Your Lordship and Mr. Gerard,” said Sharpe. “Some of them Your Lordship already met during Your Lordship’s official calls today. In addition there are—”
Hornblower did his best to keep the list of names in his mind with mental labels attached. Gerard, who came in and found himself a secluded chair, listened intently.
“And there will be Cambronne, of course,” said Sharpe.
“Indeed?”
“I could hardly give a dinner party of this magnitude without inviting the most distinguished foreign visitor, after Your Lordship, present in this city.”
“Of course not,” agreed Hornblower.
Yet six years of peace had hardly stilled the prejudices established during twenty years of war, there was something a little unnatural about the prospect of meeting a French General on friendly terms, especially the late commander-in-chief of Bonaparte’s Imperial Guard, and the meeting might be a little strained because Bonaparte was under lock and key in St. Helena and complaining bitterly about it.
“The French Consul-General will accompany him,” said Sharpe. “And there will be the Dutch Consul-General, the Swedish—”
The list seemed interminable; there was only just time to complete it before the first of the guests was announced. Substantial citizens and their substantial wives; the naval and military officers whom he had already met, and their ladies; the diplomatic officers; soon even that vast drawing-room was crowded, men bowing and women curtseying. Hornblower straightened up from, a bow to find Sharpe at his elbow again.
“I have the honour of making two distinguished figures acquainted with each other,” he said, in French.
“Son Excellence Rear Admiral Milord Hornblower, Chevalier de l’Ordre Militaire du Bain. Son Excellence le Lieutenant-General le Comte de Cambronne, Grand Cordon de la Legion d’Honneur.”
Hornblower could not help being impressed, even at this moment, at the neat way in which Sharpe had evaded the thorny question of whom to introduce to whom, a French General and count and an English Admiral and peer. Cambronne was an immensely tall bean-pole of a man. Across one lean cheek and the beaky nose ran a purple scar—perhaps the wound he had received at Waterloo; perhaps a wound received at Austerlitz or Jena or any other of the battles in which the French Army had overthrown nations. He was wearing a blue uniform covered with gold lace, girt about with the watered red silk ribbon of the Legion of Honour, a vast plaque of gold on his left breast.
“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Hornblower in his best French.
“No more enchanted than I am to make yours, milord,” replied Cambronne. He had a cold, greeny-grey eye with a twinkle in it; a grey cat’s-whisker moustache adorned his upper lip.
“The Baroness de Vautour,” said Sharpe. “The Baron de Vautour, His Most Christian Majesty’s Consul-General.”
Hornblower bowed and said again that he was enchanted. His Most Christian Majesty was Louis XVIII of France, using the Papal title conferred on his house centuries earlier.
“The Count is being mischievous,” said Vautour. He indicated Cambronne’s star. “He is wearing the Grand Eagle, given him during the last régime. Officially the Grand Cordon has been substituted, as our host very properly said.”
Vautour called attention to his own star, a more modest affair. Cambronne’s displayed an immense eagle of gold, the badge of the now defunct French Empire.
“I won this on the field of battle,” said Cambronne.
“Don Alphonso de Versage,” said Sharpe. “His Most Catholic Majesty’s Consul-General.”
This was the representative of Spain, then. A word or two with him regarding this pending cession of Florida might be informative, but Hornblower had hardly time to exchange formal courtesies before another presentation was being made. It was some time before Hornblower had a breathing space, and could look round the pretty scene in the candlelight, with the uniforms and the broadcloth coats, the bare arms and shoulders of the women in their bright gowns and flashing jewellery, and the two Sharpes moving unobtrusively through the throng marshalling their guests in order of precedence. The entrance of the Governor and his lady was the signal for the announcement of dinner.
The dining-room was as vast as the drawing-room; the table with covers for thirty-two stood comfortably in it with ample room all round for the numerous footmen. The candlelight was more subdued here, but it glittered impressively on the silver which crowded the long table. Hornblower, seated between the Governor’s lady and Mrs Sharpe, reminded himself that he must be alert and careful regarding his table manners; it was the more necessary to be alert because he had to speak French on one side of him and English on the other. He looked dubiously at the six different wine glasses that stood at each place—the sherry was already being poured into the first of the glasses. He could see Cambronne seated between two pretty girls and obviously making himself pleasant to both of them. He did not look as if he had a care in the world; if he were meditating a filibustering expedition it did not weigh very heavily on his mind.
A steaming plate of turtle soup, thick with gobbets of green fat. This was to be a dinner served in the Continental fashion which had come in after Waterloo, with no hodge-podge of dishes set out on the table for the guests to help themselves. He spooned cautiously at the hot soup, and applied himself to making small talk with his dinner partners. Dish succeeded dish, and soon he had to face in the hot room the delicate question of etiquette as to whether it was more ungentlemanly to mop the sweat from his face or to leave it there, flowing and visible; his discomfort decided him in the end to mop, furtively. Now Sharpe was catching
his eye, and he had to rise to his feet, striving to make his stupefied brain work while the buzz of conversation died down. He raised his glass.
“The President of the United States,” he said; he had been about to continue, idiotically, ‘Long may he reign.’ He checked himself with a jerk and went on, “Long may the great nation of which he is President enjoy prosperity and the international amity of which this gathering is symbolic.”
The toast was drunk with acclaim, with nothing said about the fact that over half the continent Spaniards and Spanish-Americans were busy killing each other. He sat down and mopped again. Now Cambronne was on his feet.
“His Britannic Majesty George the Fourth, King of Great Britain and Ireland.”
The toast was drunk and now it was Hornblower’s turn again, as evidenced by Sharpe’s glance. He stood up, glass in hand, and began the long list.
“His Most Christian Majesty. His Most Catholic Majesty. His Most Faithful Majesty.” That disposed of France and Spain and Portugal. “His Majesty the King of the Netherlands.”
For the life of him he could not remember who came next. But Gerard caught his despairing eye and gave a significant jerk of his thumb.
“His Majesty the King of Sweden,” gulped Hornblower. “His Majesty the King of Prussia.”
A reassuring nod from Gerard told him that he had now included all the nations represented, and he plucked the rest of his speech out of the whirlpool of his mind.
“Long may Their Majesties reign, in increasing honour and glory.”
Well, that was over, and he could sit down again. But now the Governor was on his feet, speaking in rhetorical phrases, and it broke in upon Hornblower’s dulled intelligence that his own health was the next to be drunk. He tried to listen. He was aware of keen glances shot at him from around the table when the Governor alluded to the defence of this city of New Orleans from the ‘misguided hordes’ who had assailed it in vain—the allusion was perhaps inevitable even though it was over six years since the battle—and he tried to force a smile. At long last the Governor reached his end.
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