“Thank you, My Lord.”
“Now about this drogue. What do you suggest, Sir Thomas?”
“It need be no more than a large sea anchor. A bolt of No 1 canvas, sewn into a funnel, one end larger than the other.”
“It would have to be reinforced even so. Not even No 1 canvas could stand the strain with Estrella going at twelve knots.”
“Yes, My Lord, I was sure of that. Bolt-ropes sewn in in plenty. That would be easy enough, of course. We have a spare bob-stay chain on board. That could be sewn round the mouth of the drogue—”
“And could be attached to the Estrella to take the main strain.”
“Yes, My Lord. That was what I thought.”
“It would serve to keep the drogue under water out of sight as well.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Fell found Hornblower’s quickness in grasping the technical points vastly encouraging. His nervousness was now replaced by enthusiasm.
“And where would you propose to attach this drogue, Sir Thomas?”
“I was thinking—Spendlove suggested, My Lord—that it might be passed over one of the lower pintles of the rudder.”
“It would be likely to tear the rudder clean away when exerting its full force.”
“That would serve our purpose equally well, My Lord.”
“Of course, I understand.”
Fell walked across the cabin to where the great cabin window stood open wide.
“You can’t see her from here as we lie now, My Lord,” he said. “But you can hear her.”
“And smell her,” said Hornblower, standing beside him.
“Yes, My Lord. They’re hosing her out at present. But you can hear her, as I said.”
Over the water came very plainly to them, along with the miasma of her stench, the continued wailing of the wretched slaves; Hornblower fancied he could even hear the clanking of the leg irons.
“Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower, “I think it would be very desirable if you would put a boat overside to row guard round the ship tonight.”
“Row guard, My Lord?” Fell was not very quick in the uptake. In the peace-time Navy it was unnecessary to take elaborate precautions against desertion.
“Oh, yes, most certainly. Half these men would be overside swimming for the shore as soon as night falls. Surely you understand that, Sir Thomas. We must restrain their passion to desert from this brutal service. And in any case a guard-boat will prevent the sale of liquor through the gun-ports.”
“Er—yes, I suppose so, My Lord.” But Fell clearly had not grasped the implications of the suggestion, and Hornblower had to elaborate.
“Let us set a boat-rowing guard now, before nightfall. I can explain to the authorities why it is necessary. Then when the time comes—”
“We’ll have a boat ready in the water!” Enlightenment had broken in on Fell at last.
“Attracting no attention,” supplemented Hornblower.
“Of course!”
The red sunset showed Fell’s face lit up with animation.
“It would be best if you gave that order soon, Sir Thomas. But meanwhile there’s little time to spare. We must have this drogue in the making before we go ashore.”
“Shall I give the orders, My Lord?”
“Spendlove has figures at his fingertips. He can work out the measurements. Would you be kind enough to send for him, Sir Thomas?”
The cabin was soon crowded with people as the work was put in hand. Spendlove came first; after him Gerard was sent for, and then Sefton, the first-lieutenant. Next came the sail-maker, the armourer, the carpenter, and the boatswain. The sail-maker was an elderly Swede who had been forced into the British Navy twenty years ago in some conscienceless action of the press gang, and who had remained in the service ever since. His wrinkled face broke into a grin, like a shattered window, as the beauties of the scheme dawned upon him when he was told about it. He just managed to restrain himself from slapping his thigh with glee when he remembered he was in the august presence of his Admiral and his captain. Spendlove was busy sketching out with pencil and paper a drawing of the drogue, with Gerard looking over his shoulder.
“Perhaps even I might make a contribution to this scheme,” said Hornblower, and everyone turned to look at him; he met Spendlove’s eye with a glassy stare that forbade Spendlove to breathe a word to the effect that the whole scheme was his original idea.
“Yes, My Lord?” said Fell.
“A length of spun yarn,” said Hornblower, “made fast to the tail of the drogue and led for’rard and the other end secured to the chain. Just a single strand, to keep it tail end forward while Estrella gets under way. Then when she sets all sail and the strain comes—”
“The yarn will part!” said Spendlove. “You’re right, My Lord. Then the drogue will take the water—”
“And she’ll be ours, let’s hope,” concluded Hornblower.
“Excellent, My Lord,” said Fell.
Was there perhaps a mild condescension, a tiny hint of patronage, in what he said? Hornblower felt that there was, and was momentarily nettled at it. Already Fell was quite convinced that the whole scheme was his own—despite his handsome earlier admission that Spendlove had contributed—and he was generously allowing Hornblower to add a trifling suggestion. Hornblower allayed his irritation with cynical amusement at the weaknesses of human nature.
“In this stimulating atmosphere of ideas,” he said, modestly, “one can hardly help but be infected.”
“Y-yes, My Lord,” said Gerard, eyeing him curiously. Gerard was too sharp altogether, and knew him too well. He had caught the echo of mock-modesty in Hornblower’s tone, and was on the verge of guessing the truth.
“No need for you to put your oar in, Mr. Gerard,” snapped Hornblower. “Do I have to recall you to your duty? Where’s my dinner, Mr. Gerard? Do I always have to starve while I’m under your care? What will Lady Barbara say when she hears you allow me to go hungry?”
“I beg pardon, My Lord,” spluttered Gerard, entirely taken aback. “I’d quite forgotten—you’ve been so busy, My Lord—”
His embarrassment was intense; he turned this way and that in the crowded cabin as if looking about him for the missing dinner.
“No time now, Mr. Gerard,” said Hornblower. Until the need for distracting Gerard’s attention had arisen he had been equally forgetful of the need for dinner. “Let’s hope His Excellency will offer us some small collation.”
“I really must beg your pardon, My Lord,” said Fell, equally embarrassed.
“Oh, no matter, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower, waving the apologies aside testily. “You and I are in the same condition. Let me see that drawing, Mr. Spendlove.”
He was continually being led into playing the part of a peppery old gentleman, when he knew himself to be nothing of the sort. He was able to mellow again as they went once more through the details of the construction of the drogue, and he gave his approval.
“I believe, Sir Thomas,” he said, “that you have decided to entrust the work to Mr. Sefton during our absence ashore?” Fell bowed his agreement.
“Mr. Spendlove will remain under your orders, Mr. Sefton. Mr. Gerard will accompany Sir Thomas and me. I don’t know what you have decided, Sir Thomas, but I would suggest that you bring a lieutenant and a midshipman with you to His Excellency’s reception.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
“Mr. Sefton, I am sure I can trust you to have this work completed by the time of our return, early in the middle watch, I fancy?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
So there it was all settled, except for the dreary interval of waiting. This was just like war-time, standing by with a crisis looming in the near future.
“Dinner, My Lord?” suggested Gerard, eagerly. He wanted no dinner. He was weary now that all was settled and the tension easing.
“I’ll call for Giles if I want some,” he said, looking round the crowded cabin. He wanted to dismiss the horde of people,
and sought words to do so politely.
“Then I’ll attend to my other duties, My Lord,” said Fell, suddenly and surprisingly tactful.
“Very well, Sir Thomas, thank you.”
The cabin emptied itself rapidly; Hornblower was able by a mere look to put an end to Gerard’s tendency to linger. Then he could sink back into his chair and relax, sturdily ignoring Giles when he came in with another lighted lamp for the darkening cabin. The ship was full of the sound of the business of watering, sheaves squealing in blocks, pumps clanking, hoarse orders; the noise was sufficiently distracting to prevent his thoughts maintaining any regular course. He was in half a doze when a knock on the door preceded the arrival of a midshipman.
“Cap’n’s respects, My Lord, and the shore boat is approaching.”
“My compliments to the captain, and I’ll be on deck at once.”
The shore boat was bright with a lantern hanging over the stern-sheets in the midst of the darkness of the harbour. It lit up Mendez-Castillo’s resplendent uniform. Down the side they went, midshipman, lieutenants, captain, Admiral, in the reversed order of naval precedence, and powerful strokes of the oars carried them over the black water towards the city, where a few lights gleamed. They passed close by the Estrella; there was a light hanging in her rigging, but apparently she had completed her watering, for there was no activity about her.
Nevertheless, there came a continuous faint wailing from up her open hatchways. Perhaps the slaves there were mourning the departure of those of them who had been taken from them; perhaps they were voicing their apprehension at what the future held in store for them. It occurred to Hornblower that these unfortunate people, snatched from their homes, packed into a ship whose like they had never seen before, guarded by white men (and white faces must be as extraordinary to them as emerald green ones would be to a European) could have no idea at all of what lay in store for them, any more than he himself would have if he were to be abducted to another planet.
“His Excellency,” said Mendez-Castillo beside him, “has had pleasure in deciding to receive Your Excellency with full ceremonial.”
“That is most kind of His Excellency,” replied Hornblower, recalling himself to his present duties with an effort, and expressing himself in Spanish with even more effort.
The tiller was put over and the boat turned abruptly round a corner, revealing a brightly-lit jetty, with a massive gateway beyond. The boat ran alongside and half a dozen uniformed figures stood to attention as the party climbed on shore.
“This way, Your Excellency,” murmured Mendez-Castillo.
They passed through the gateway into a courtyard lit by scores of lanterns, which shone on ranks of soldiers drawn up in two treble lines. As Hornblower emerged into the courtyard a shouted order brought the muskets to the present, and at the same moment a band burst into music. Hornblower’s tone-deaf ear heard the jerky braying, and he halted at attention with his hand to the brim of his cocked hat, his fellow officers beside him, until the deafening noise—echoed and multiplied by the surrounding walls—came to an end.
“A fine military appearance, Major,” said Hornblower, looking down the rigid lines of white cross-belts.
“Your Excellency is too kind. Would Your Excellency please proceed to the door in front?”
An imposing flight of steps, lined on either side with more uniforms; beyond that an open doorway and a vast room. A prolonged whispered conference between Mendez-Castillo and an official beside the door, and then their names blared out in resounding Spanish—Hornblower had long given up hope of ever hearing his name pronounced intelligibly by a foreign tongue.
The central figure in the room rose from his chair—which was almost a throne—to receive the British Commander-in-Chief standing. He was a much younger man than Hornblower had expected, in his thirties, dark complexioned, with a thin, mobile face and a humorous expression at odds with his arrogant hooked nose. His uniform gleamed with gold lace, with the Order of the Golden Fleece on his breast.
Mendez-Castillo made the presentations; the Englishmen bowed deeply to the representative of His Most Catholic Majesty and each received a polite inclination in return. Mendez-Castillo ventured so far as to murmur their host’s titles—probably a breach of etiquette, thought Hornblower, for it should be assumed that visitors were fully aware of them.
“His Excellency the Marques de Ayora, Captain-General of His Most Catholic Majesty’s dominion of Puerto Rico.”
Ayora smiled in welcome.
“I know you speak Spanish, Your Excellency,” he said. “I have already had the pleasure of hearing you do so.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency?”
“I was a major of migueletes under Claros at the time of the attack on Rosas. I had the honour of serving beside Your Excellency—I remember Your Excellency well. Your Excellency would naturally not remember me.”
It would have been too flagrant to pretend he did, and Hornblower was for once at a loss for a word, and could only bow again.
“Your Excellency,” went on Ayora, “has changed very little since that day, if I may venture to say so. It is eleven years ago.”
“Your Excellency is too kind.” That was one of the most useful phrases in polite language.
Ayora had a word for Fell—a compliment on the appearance of his ship—and a supplementary smile for the junior officers. Then, as if it were a moment for which he had been waiting, Mendez-Castillo turned to them.
“Perhaps you gentlemen would care to be presented to the ladies of the company?” he said; his glance passed over Hornblower and Fell and took in only the lieutenants and the midshipmen. Hornblower translated, and saw them depart a little nervously under Mendez-Castillo’s escort.
Ayora, etiquette and Spanish training notwithstanding, wasted no time in coming to the point the moment he found himself alone with Hornblower and Fell.
“I watched your pursuit of the Estrella del Sur today through my telescope,” he said, and Hornblower once more found himself at a loss for a word; a bow and a smile also seemed out of place in this connection. He could only look blank.
“It is an anomalous situation,” said Ayora. “Under the preliminary convention between our governments the British Navy has the right to capture on the high seas Spanish ships laden with slaves. But once within Spanish territorial waters those ships are safe. When the new convention for the suppression of the slave trade is signed then those ships will be forfeit to His Most Catholic Majesty’s government, but until that time it is my duty to give them every protection in my power.”
“Your Excellency is perfectly correct, of course,” said Hornblower. Fell was looking perfectly blank, not understanding a word of what was said, but Hornblower felt that the effort of translating was beyond him.
“And I fully intend to carry out my duty,” said Ayora, firmly.
“Naturally,” said Hornblower.
“So perhaps it would be best to come to a clear understanding regarding future events.”
“There is nothing I would like better, Your Excellency.”
“It is clearly understood, then, that I will tolerate no interference with the Estrella del Sur while she is in waters under my jurisdiction?”
“Of course I understand that, Your Excellency,” said Hornblower.
“The Estrella wishes to sail at the first light of morning tomorrow.”
“That is what I expected, Your Excellency.”
“And for the sake of the amity between our governments it would be best if your ship were to remain in this harbour until after she sails.”
Ayora’s eyes met Hornblower’s in a steady stare. His face was perfectly expressionless; there was no hint of a threat in that glance. But a threat was implied, the ultimate hint of superior strength was there. At Ayora’s command a hundred thirty-two-pounders could sweep the waters of the harbour. Hornblower was reminded of the Roman who agreed with his Emperor because it was ill arguing with the master of thirty legions. He adopted the same
pose as far as his acting ability allowed. He smiled the smile of a good loser.
“We have had our chance and lost it, Your Excellency,” he said. “We can hardly complain.”
If Ayora felt any relief at his acquiescence it showed no more plainly than his previous hint of force.
“Your Excellency is most understanding,” he said.
“Naturally we are desirous of taking advantage of the land breeze to leave tomorrow morning,” said Hornblower, deferentially. “Now that we have refilled with water—for the opportunity of doing so I have to thank Your Excellency—we would not like to trespass too far upon Your Excellency’s hospitality.”
Hornblower did his best to maintain an appearance of innocence under Ayora’s searching stare.
“Perhaps we might hear what Captain Gomez has to say,” said Ayora, turning aside to summon someone close at hand. He was a young man, strikingly handsome, dressed in plain but elegant blue clothes with a silver-hiked sword at his side.
“May I present,” said Ayora, “Don Miguel Gomez y Gonzalez, Captain of the Estrella del Sur?”
Bows were exchanged.
“May I felicitate you on the sailing qualities of your ship, Captain?” said Hornblower.
“Many thanks, señor.”
“Clorinda is a fast frigate, but your ship is superior at all points of sailing.” Hornblower was not too sure about how to render that technical expression into Spanish, but apparently he contrived to make himself understood.
“Many thanks again, señor.”
“And I could even venture”—Hornblower spread his hands deprecatingly—“to congratulate her captain on the brilliance with which he managed her.”
Captain Gomez bowed, and Hornblower suddenly checked himself. These high-flown Spanish compliments were all very well, but they could be overdone. He did not want to give the impression of a man too anxious to please. But he was reassured by a glance at the expression on Gomez’s face. He was actually simpering; that was the only word for it. Hornblower mentally classified him as a young man of great ability and well pleased with himself. Another compliment would not be one too many.
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