Lieutenant Hornblower h-2

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “Aye aye, sir. And a temporary suspension of hostilities while they are being handed over, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Bush, reluctantly. It was a matter necessarily arising out of the previous one, but it had a suspicious sound to it, now that Hornblower had suggested the possibility of further negotiations.

  So the day proceeded to wear into afternoon. A full hour was consumed in haggling over the wording of the parole under which the captured soldiers were to be released. It was two o’clock before agreement was reached, and later than that before Bush, standing by the main gate, watched the women troop out through it, carrying their bundles of belongings. The boat could not possibly carry them all; two trips had to be made with them before the male prisoners, starting with the wounded, could begin. To rejoice Bush’s heart the Renown appeared at last round the point; with the sea breeze beginning to blow she came nobly up the bay.

  And here came Hornblower again, clearly so weary that he could hardly drag one foot after another, to touch his hat to Bush.

  “Renown knows nothing about the suspension of hostilities, sir,” he said. “She’ll see the boat crossing full of Spanish soldiers, an’ she’ll open fire as sure as a gun.”

  “How are we to let her know?”

  “I’ve been discussing it with Ortega, sir. He’ll lend us a boat and we can send a message down to her.”

  “I suppose we can.”

  Sleeplessness and exhaustion had given an edge to Bush’s temper. This final suggestion, when Bush came to consider it, with his mind slowed by fatigue, was the last straw.

  “You’re taking altogether too much on yourself, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “Damn it, I’m in command here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hornblower, standing at attention, while Bush gazed at him and tried to reassemble his thoughts after this spate of ill temper. There was no denying that Renown had to be informed; if she were to open fire it would be in direct violation of an agreement solemnly entered into, and to which he himself was a party.

  “Oh, hell and damnation!” said Bush. “Have it your own way, then. Who are you going to send?”

  “I could go myself, sir. Then I could tell Mr. Buckland everything necessary.”

  “You mean about—about—” Bush actually did not like to mention the dangerous subject.

  “About the chance of further negotiations, sir,” said Hornblower stolidly. “He has to know sooner or later. And while Ortega’s still here—”

  The implications were obvious enough, and the suggestion was sensible.

  “All right. You’d better go, I suppose. And mark my words, Mr. Hornblower, you’re to make it quite clear that I’ve authorised no negotiations of the sort you have in mind. Not a word. I’ve no responsibility. You understand?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Chapter XII

  Three officers sat in what had been the commanding officer’s room in Fort Samaná; in fact, seeing that Bush was now the commanding officer there, it could still be called the commanding officer’s room. A bed with a mosquito net over it stood in one corner; at the other side of the room Buckland, Bush, and Hornblower sat in leather chairs. A lamp hanging from a beam overhead filled the room with its acrid smell, and lit up their sweating faces. It was hotter and stuffier even than it was in the ship, but at least here in the fort there was no brooding knowledge of a mad captain the other side of the bulkhead.

  “I don’t doubt for one moment,” said Hornblower, “that when Villanueva sent Ortega here to open negotiations about the prisoners he also told him to put out a feeler regarding this evacuation.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” said Buckland.

  “Well, sir, put Yourself in Ortega’s position. Would you say a word about a subject of that importance if you weren’t authorised to? If you weren’t expressly ordered to, sir?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Buckland.

  No one could doubt that who knew Buckland, and for himself it was the most convincing argument.

  “Then Villanueva had capitulation in mind as soon as he knew that we had captured this fort and that Renown would be able to anchor in the bay. You can see that must be so, sir.”

  “I suppose so,” said Buckland, reluctantly.

  “And if he’s prepared to negotiate for a capitulation he must either be a poltroon or in serious danger, sir.”

  “Well—”

  “It doesn’t matter which is true, sir, whether his danger is real or imaginary, from the point of view of bargaining with him.”

  “You talk like a sea lawyer,” said Buckland. He was being forced by logic into taking a momentous decision, and he did not want to be, so that in his struggles against it he used one of the worst terms of opprobrium in his vocabulary.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Hornblower. “I meant no disrespect. I let my tongue run away with me. Of course it’s for you to decide where your duty lies, sir.”

  Bush could see that that word ‘duty’ had a stiffening effect on Buckland.

  “Well, then, what d’you think lies behind all this?” asked Buckland. That might be intended as a temporising question, but it gave Hornblower permission to go on stating his views.

  “Villanueva’s been holding this end of the island against the insurgents for months now, sir. We don’t know how much territory he holds, but we can guess that it’s not much—only as far as the crest of those mountains across the bay, probably. Powder—lead—flints—shoes—he’s probably in need of all of them.”

  “Judging by the prisoners we took, that’s true, sir,” interrupted Bush. It would be hard to ascertain the motives that led him to make this contribution to the discussion; perhaps he was only interested in the truth for its own sake.

  “Maybe it is,” said Buckland.

  “Now you’ve arrived, sir, and he’s cut off from the sea. He doesn’t know how long we can stay here. He doesn’t know what your orders are.”

  Hornblower did not know either, commented Bush to himself, and Buckland stirred restlessly at the allusion.

  “Never mind that,” he said.

  “He sees himself cut off, and his supplies dwindling. If this goes on he’ll have to surrender. He would rather start negotiations now, while he can still hold out, while he has something to bargain with, than wait until the last moment and have to surrender unconditionally, sir.”

  “I see,” said Buckland.

  “And he’d rather surrender to us than to the blacks, sir,” concluded Hornblower.

  “Yes indeed,” said Bush. Everyone had heard a little about the horrors of the servile rebellion which for eight years had deluged this land with blood and scorched it with fire. The three men were silent for a space as they thought about the implications of Hornblower’s last remark.

  “Oh, very well then,” said Buckland at length. “Let’s hear what this fellow has to say.”

  “Shall I bring him in here, sir? He’s been waiting long enough. I can blindfold him.”

  “Do what you like,” said Buckland with resignation.

  A closer view, when the handkerchief had been removed, revealed Colonel Ortega as a younger man than he might have been thought at a distance. He was very slender, and he wore his threadbare uniform with some presence at elegance. A muscle in his left cheek twitched continually. Buckland and Bush rose slowly to their feet to acknowledge the introductions Hornblower made.

  “Colonel Ortega says he speaks no English,” said Hornblower.

  There was only the slightest extra stress on the word ‘says’, and only the slightest lingering in the glance that Hornblower shot at his two superiors as he said it, but it conveyed a warning.

  “Well, ask him what he wants,” said Buckland.

  The conversation in Spanish was formal; obviously all the opening remarks were cautious fencing as each speaker felt for the weaknesses in the other’s position and sought to conceal his own. But even Bush was aware of the moment when the vague sentences ended and definite proposals began. Ortega was bea
ring himself as a man conferring a favour; Hornblower like someone who did not care whether a favour was conferred or not. In the end he turned to Buckland and spoke in English.

  “He has terms for a capitulation pat enough,” he said.

  “Well?”

  “Please don’t let him guess what you think, sir. But he suggests a free passage for the garrison. Ships—men—civilians. Passports for the ships while on passage to a Spanish possession—Cuba or Puerto Rico, in other words, sir. In exchange he’ll hand over everything intact. Military stores. The battery across the bay. Everything.”

  “But—” Buckland struggled wildly to keep himself from revealing his feelings.

  “I haven’t said anything to him worth mentioning, so far, sir,” said Hornblower.

  Ortega had been watching the byplay keenly enough, and now he spoke again to Hornblower, with his shoulders back and his head high. There was passion in his voice, but what was more at odds with the dignity of his bearing was a peculiar gesture with which he accentuated one of his remarks—a jerk of the hand which called up the picture of someone vomiting.

  “He says otherwise he’ll fight to the last,” interposed Hornblower. “He says Spanish soldiers can be relied upon to die to the last man sooner than submit to dishonour. He says we can do no more to them than we’ve done already—that we’ve reached the end of our tether, in other words, sir. And that we daren’t stay longer in the island to starve him out because of the yellow fever—the vomito negro, sir.”

  In the whirl of excitement of the last few days Bush had forgotten all about the possibility of yellow fever. He found that he was looking concerned at the mention of it, and he hurriedly tried to assume an appearance of indifference. A glance at Buckland showed his face going through exactly the same transitions.

  “I see,” said Buckland.

  It was an appalling thought. If yellow fever were to strike it might within a week leave the Renown without enough men to work her sails.

  Ortega broke into passionate speech again, and Hornblower translated.

  “He says his troops have lived here all their lives. They won’t get yellow jack as easily as your men, and many of them have already had it. He has had it himself, he says, sir.”

  Bush remembered the emphasis with which Ortega had tapped his breast.

  “And the blacks believe us to be their enemies, because of what happened in Dominica, sir, so he says. He could make an alliance with them against us. They could send an army against us here in the fort tomorrow, then. But please don’t look as if you believe him, sir.”

  “Damn it to hell,” said Buckland, exasperated. Bush wondered vaguely what it was that had happened in Dominica. History—even contemporary history—was not one of his strong points.

  Again Ortega spoke.

  “He says that’s his last word, sir. An honourable proposal and he won’t abate a jot, so he says. You could send him away now that you’ve heard it all and say that you’ll give him an answer in the morning.”

  “Very well.”

  There were ceremonious speeches still to be made. Ortega’s bows were so polite that Buckland and Bush were constrained, though reluctantly, to stand and endeavour to return them. Hornblower tied the handkerchief round Ortega’s eyes again and led him out.

  “What do you think about it?” said Buckland to Bush.

  “I’d like to think it over, sir,” replied Bush.

  Hornblower came in again while they were still considering the matter. He glanced at them both before addressing himself to Buckland.

  “Will you be needing me again tonight, sir?”

  “Oh, damn it, you’d better stay. You know more about these Dagoes than we do. What do you think about it?”

  “He made some good arguments, sir.”

  “I thought so too,” said Buckland with apparent relief.

  “Can’t we turn the thumbscrews on them somehow, sir?” asked Bush.

  Even if he could not make suggestions himself, he was too cautious to agree readily to a bargain offered by a foreigner, even such a tempting one as this.

  “We can bring the ship up the bay,” said Buckland. “But the channel’s tricky. You saw that yesterday.”

  Good God! it was still only yesterday that the Renown had tried to make her way in under the fire of redhot shot. Buckland had had a day of comparative peace, so that the mention of yesterday did not appear as strange to him.

  “We’ll still be under the fire of the battery across the bay, even though we hold this one,” said Buckland.

  “We ought to be able to run past it, sir,” protested Bush “We can keep over to this side.”

  “And if we do run past? They’ve warped their ships right up the bay again. They draw six feet less of water than we do—and if they’ve got any sense they’ll lighten ‘em so as to warp ‘em farther over the shallows. Nice fools we’ll look if we come in an’ then find ‘em out of range, an’ have to run out again under fire. That might stiffen ‘em so that they wouldn’t agree to the terms that fellow just offered.”

  Buckland was in a state of actual alarm at the thought of reporting two fruitless repulses.

  “I can see that,” said Bush, depressed.

  “If we agree,” said Buckland, warming to his subject, “the blacks’ll take over all this end of the island. This bay can’t be used by privateers then. The blacks’ll have no ships, and couldn’t man ‘em if they had. We’ll have executed our orders. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hornblower?”

  Bush transferred his gaze. Hornblower had looked weary in the morning, and he had had almost no rest during the day. His face was drawn and his eyes were rimmed with red.

  “We might still be able to—to put the thumbscrews on ‘em, sir,” he said.

  “How?”

  “It’d be risky to take Renown into the upper end of the bay. But we might get at ‘em from the peninsula here, all the same, sir, if you’d give the orders.”

  “God bless my soul!” said Bush, the exclamation jerked out of him.

  “What orders?” asked Buckland.

  “If we could mount a gun on the upper end of the peninsula we’d have the far end of the bay under fire, sir. We wouldn’t need hot shot—we’d have all day to knock ‘em to pieces however much they shifted their anchorage.”

  “So we would, by George,” said Buckland. There was animation in his face. “Could you get one of these guns along there?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, sir, an’ I’m afraid we couldn’t. Not quickly, at least. Twentyfourpounders. Two an’ a half tons each. Garrison carriages. We’ve no horses. We couldn’t move ‘em with a hundred men over those gullies, four miles or more.”

  “Then what the hell’s the use of talking about it?” demanded Buckland.

  “We don’t have to drag a gun from here, sir,” said Hornblower. “We could use one from the ship. One of those long ninepounders we’ve got mounted as bow chasers. Those long guns have a range pretty nearly as good as these twenty-fours, sir.”

  “But how do we get it there?”

  Bush had a glimmering of the answer even before Hornblower replied.

  “Send it round in the launch, sir, with tackle and cables, near to where we landed yesterday. The cliff’s steep there. And there are big trees to attach the cables to. We could sway the gun up easy enough. Those ninepounders only weigh a ton.”

  “I know that,” said Buckland, sharply.

  It was one thing to make unexpected suggestions, but it was quite another to tell a veteran officer facts with which he was well acquainted.

  “Yes, of course, sir. But with a ninepounder at the top of the cliff it wouldn’t be so difficult to move it across the neck of land until we had the upper bay under our fire. We wouldn’t have to cross any gullies. Half a mile—uphill, but not too steep, sir—and it would be done.”

  “And what d’you think would happen then?”

  “We’d have those ships under fire, sir. Only a ninepounder, I know, but they’r
e not built to take punishment. We could batter ‘em into wrecks in twelve hours’ steady fire. Less than that, perhaps. An’ I suppose we could heat the shot if we wanted to, but we wouldn’t have to. All we’d have to do would be to open fire, I think, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “The Dons wouldn’t risk those ships, sir. Ortega spoke very big about making an alliance with the blacks, but that was only talking big, sir. Give the blacks a chance an’ they’ll cut every white throat they can. An’ I don’t blame ‘em—excuse me, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “Those ships are the Dons’ only way of escape. If they see they’re going to be destroyed they’ll be frightened. It would mean surrendering to the blacks—that or being killed to the last man. And woman, sir. They’d rather surrender to us.”

  “So they would, by jingo,” said Bush.

  “They’d climb down, d’ye think?”

  “Yes—I mean I think so, sir. You could name your own terms, then. Unconditional surrender for the soldiers.”

  “It’s what we said at the start,” said Bush. “They’d rather surrender to us than to the blacks, if they have to.”

  “You could allow some conditions to salve their pride, sir,” said Hornblower. “Agree that the women are to be conveyed to Cuba or Puerto Rico if they wish. But nothing important. Those ships would be our prizes, sir.”

  “Prizes, by George!” said Buckland.

  Prizes meant prize money, and as commanding officer he would have the lion’s share of it. Not only that—and perhaps the money was the smallest consideration—but prizes escorted triumphantly into port were much more impressive than ships sunk out of sight of the eyes of authority. And unconditional surrender had a ring of finality about it, proof that the victory gained could not be more complete.

  “What do you say, Mr. Bush?” asked Buckland.

  “I think it might be worth trying, sir,” said Bush.

  He was fatalistic now about Hornblower. Exasperation over his activity and ingenuity had died of surfeit. There was something of resignation about Bush’s attitude, but there was something of admiration too. Bush was a generous soul, and there was not a mean motive in him. Hornblower’s careful handling of his superior had not been lost on him, and Bush was decently envious of the tact that had been necessary. Bush realistically admitted to himself that even though he had fretted at the prospect of agreeing to Ortega’s terms he had not been able to think of a way to modify them, while Hornblower had. Hornblower was a very brilliant young officer, Bush decided; he himself made no presence at brilliance, and now he had taken the last step and had overcome his suspicions of brilliance. He made himself abandon his caution and commit himself to a definite opinion.