'You can look at me now,' said the duchess; but her petticoats only just fell in time as Hornblower looked round again. 'They're inside my shift, next my skin as I promised. With these Directory fashions no one wears stays any more. So I tied the rope round my waist outside my shift. One envelope is flat against my chest and the other against my back. Would you suspect anything?'
She turned round for Hornblower's inspection.
'No, nothing shows,' he said. 'I must thank Your Grace.'
'There is a certain thickening,' said the duchess, 'but it does not matter what the Spaniards suspect as long as they do not suspect the truth.'
Momentary cessation of the need for action brought some embarrassment to Hornblower. To discuss with a woman her shift and stays — or the absence of them — was a strange thing to do.
A watery sun, still nearly level, was breaking through the mist and shining in his eyes. The mainsail cast a watery shadow on the deck. With every second the sun was growing brighter.
'Here it comes,' said Hunter.
The horizon ahead expanded rapidly, from a few yards to a hundred, from a hundred yards to half a mile. The sea was covered with ships. No less than six were in plain sight, four ships of the line and two big frigates, with the red-and-gold of Spain at their mastheads, and, what marked them even more obviously as Spaniards, huge wooden crosses hanging at their peaks.
'Wear ship again, Mr Hunter,' said Hornblower. 'Back into the fog.'
That was the one chance of safety. Those ships running down towards them were bound to ask questions, and they could not hope to avoid them all. Le Rêve spun around on her heel, but the fog-bank from which she had emerged was already attenuated, sucked up by the thirsty sun. They could see a drifting stretch of it ahead, but it was lazily rolling away from them at the same time as it was dwindling. The heavy sound of a cannon shot reached their ears, and close on their starboard quarter a ball threw up a fountain of water before plunging into the side of a wave just ahead. Hornblower looked round just in time to see the last of the puff of smoke from the bows of the frigate astern pursuing them.
'Starboard two points,' he said to the helmsman, trying to gauge at one and the same moment the frigate's course, the direction of the wind, the bearing of the other ships, and that of the thin last nucleus of that wisp of fog.
'Starboard two points,' said the helmsman.
'Fore and main sheets!' said Hunter.
Another shot, far astern this time but laid true for line; Hornblower suddenly remembered the duchess.
'You must go below, Your Grace,' he said curtly.
'Oh, no, no, no!' burst out the duchess with angry vehemence. 'Please let me stay here. I can't go below to where that seasick maid of mine lies hoping to die. Not in that stinking box of a cabin.'
There would be no safety in that cabin, Hornblower reflected—Le Rêve's scantlings were too fragile to keep out any shot at all. Down below the water line in the hold the women might be safe, but they would have to lie flat on top of beef barrels.
'Sail ahead!' screamed the lookout.
The mist there was parting and the outline of a ship of the line was emerging from it, less than a mile away and on almost the same course as Le Rêve's. Thud — thud from the frigate astern. Those gunshots by now would have warned the whole Spanish fleet that something unusual was happening. The battleship ahead would know that the little sloop was being pursued. A ball tore through the air close by, with its usual terrifying noise. The ship ahead was awaiting their coming; Hornblower saw her topsails slowly turning.
'Hands to the sheets!' said Hornblower. 'Mr Hunter, jibe her over.'
Le Rêve came round again, heading for the lessening gap on the port side. The frigate astern turned to intercept. More jets of smoke from her bows. With an appalling noise a shot passed within a few feet of Hornblower, so that the wind of it made him stagger. There was a hole in the mainsail.
'Your Grace,' said Hornblower, 'those aren't warning shots—'
It was the ship of the line which fired them, having succeeded in clearing away and manning some of her upper-deck guns. It was as if the end of the world had come. One shot hit Le Rêve's hull, and they felt the deck heave under their feet as a result as if the little ship were disintegrating. But the mast was hit at the same moment, stays and shrouds parting, splinters raining all round. Mast, sails, boom, gaff and all went from above them over the side to windward. The wreckage dragged in the sea and turned the helpless wreck round with the last of her way. The little group aft stood momentarily dazed.
'Anybody hurt?' asked Hornblower, recovering himself.
'On'y a scratch, sir,' said one voice.
It seemed a miracle that no one was killed.
'Carpenter's mate, sound the well,' said Hornblower and then, recollecting himself, 'No, damn it. Belay that order. If the Dons can save the ship, let 'em try.'
Already the ship of the line whose salvo had done the damage was filling her topsails again and bearing away from them, while the frigate which had pursued them was running down on them fast. A wailing figure came scrambling out of the afterhatch way. It was the duchess's maid, so mad with terror that her seasickness was forgotten. The duchess put a protective arm round her and tried to comfort her.
'Your Grace had better look to your baggage,' said Hornblower. 'No doubt you'll be leaving us shortly for other quarters with the Dons. I hope you will be more comfortable.'
He was trying desperately hard to speak in a matter-of-fact way, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if he were not soon to be a prisoner of the Spaniards; but the duchess saw the working of the usually firm mouth, and marked how the hands were tight clenched.
'How can I tell you how sorry I am about this?' asked the duchess, her voice soft with pity.
'That makes it the harder for me to bear,' said Hornblower, and he even forced a smile.
The Spanish frigate was just rounding-to, a cable's length to windward.
'Please, sir,' said Hunter.
'Well?'
'We can fight, sir. You give the word. Cold shot to drop in the boats when they try to board. We could beat 'em off once, perhaps.'
Hornblower's tortured misery nearly made him snap out 'Don't be a fool', but he checked himself. He contented himself with pointing to the frigate. Twenty guns were glaring at them at far less than point-blank range. The very boat the frigate was hoisting out would be manned by at least twice as many men as Le Rêve carried — she was no bigger than many a pleasure yacht. It was not odds of ten to one, or a hundred to one, but odds of ten thousand to one.
'I understand, sir,' said Hunter.
Now the Spanish frigate's boat was in the water, about to shove off.
'A private word with you, please, Mr Hornblower,' said the duchess suddenly.
Hunter and Winyatt heard what she said, and withdrew out of earshot.
'Yes, Your Grace?' said Hornblower.
The duchess stood there, still with her arm round her weeping maid, looking straight at him.
'I'm no more of a duchess than you are,' she said.
'Good God!' said Hornblower. 'Who — who are you, then?'
'Kitty Cobham.'
The name meant a little to Hornblower, but only a little.
'You're too young for that name to have any memories for you, Mr Hornblower, I see. It's five years since last I trod the boards.'
That was it. Kitty Cobham the actress.
'I can't tell it all now,' said the duchess — the Spanish boat was dancing over the waves towards them. 'But when the French marched into Florence that was only the last of my misfortunes. I was penniless when I escaped from them. Who would lift a finger for a onetime actress — one who had been betrayed and deserted? What was I to do? But a duchess — that was another story. Old Dalrymple at Gibraltar could not do enough for the Duchess of Wharfedale.'
'Why did you choose that title?' asked Hornblower in spite of himself.
'I knew of her,' said the du
chess with a shrug of the shoulders. 'I knew her to be what I played her as. That was why I chose her — I always played character parts better than straight comedy. And not nearly so tedious in a long role.'
'But my despatches!' said Hornblower in a sudden panic of realization. 'Give them back, quick.'
'If you wish me to,' said the duchess. 'But I can still be the duchess when the Spaniards come. They will still set me free as speedily as they can. I'll guard those despatches better than my life — I swear it, I swear it! In less than a month I'll deliver them, if you trust me.'
Hornblower looked at the pleading eyes. She might be a spy, ingeniously trying to preserve the despatches from being thrown overboard before the Spaniards took possession. But no spy could have hoped that Le Rêve would run into the midst of the Spanish fleet.
'I made use of the bottle, I know,' said the Duchess. 'I drank. Yes, I did. But I stayed sober in Gibraltar, didn't I? And I won't touch a drop, not a drop, until I'm in England I'll swear that, too. Please, sir — please. I beg of you. Let me do what I can for my country.'
It was a strange decision for a man of nineteen to have to make — one who had never exchanged a word with an actress in his life before. A harsh voice overside told him that the Spanish boat was about to hook on.
'Keep them, then,' said Hornblower. 'Deliver them when you can.'
He had not taken his eyes from her face. He was looking for a gleam of triumph in her expression. Had he seen anything of the sort he would have torn the despatches from her body at that moment. But all he saw was the natural look of pleasure, and it was then that he made up his mind to trust her — not before.
'Oh, thank you, sir,' said the duchess.
The Spanish boat had hooked on now, and a Spanish lieutenant was awkwardly trying to climb aboard. He arrived on the deck on his hands and knees, and Hornblower stepped over to receive him as he got to his feet. Captor and captive exchange bows. Hornblower could not understand what the Spaniard said, but obviously they were formal sentences that he was using. The Spaniard caught sight of the two women aft and halted in surprise; Hornblower hastily made the presentation in what he hoped was Spanish.
'Señor el tenente Espanol,' he said. 'Señora la Duquesa de Wharfedale.'
The title clearly had its effect; the lieutenant bowed profoundly, and his bow was received with the most lofty aloofness by the duchess. Hornblower could be sure the despatches were safe. That was some alleviation of the misery of standing here on the deck of his water-logged little ship, a Prisoner of the Spaniards. As he waited he heard, from far to leeward, roll upon roll of thunder coming up against the wind. No thunder could endure that long. What he could hear must be the broadsides of ships in action — of fleets in action. Somewhere over there by Cape St Vincent the British fleet must have caught the Spaniards at last. Fiercer and fiercer sounded the roll of the artillery. There was excitement among the Spaniards who had scrambled on to the deck of Le Rêve, while Hornblower stood bareheaded waiting to be taken into captivity.
Captivity was a dreadful thing. Once the numbness had worn off Hornblower came to realize what a dreadful thing it was. Not even the news of the dreadful bartering which the Spanish navy had received at St Vincent could relieve the misery and despair of being a prisoner. It was not the physical conditions — ten square feet of floor space per man in an empty sail loft at Ferrol along with other captive warrant officers — for they were no worse than what a junior officer often had to put up with at sea. It was the loss of freedom, the fact of being a captive, that was so dreadful.
There were four months of it before the first letter came through to Hornblower; the Spanish government, inefficient in all ways, had the worst postal system in Europe. But here was the letter, addressed and re-addressed, now safely in his hands after he had practically snatched it from a stupid Spanish non-commissioned officer who had been puzzling over the strange name. Hornblower did not know the handwriting, and when he broke the seal and opened the letter the salutation made him think for a moment that he had opened someone else's letter.
'Darling Boy,' it began. Now who on earth would call him that? He read on in a dream.
'Darling Boy,
I hope it will give you happiness to hear that what you gave me has reached its destination. They told me, when I delivered it, that you are a prisoner, and my heart bleeds for you. And they told me too that they were pleased with you for what you had done And one of those admirals is a shareholder in Drury Lane. Whoever would have thought of such a thing? But he smiled at me, and I smiled at him. I did not know he was a shareholder then, and I only smiled out of the kindness of my heart. And all that I told him about my dangers and perils with my precious burden were only histrionic exercises, I am afraid. Yet he believed me, and so struck was he by my smile and my adventures, that he demanded a part for me from Sherry, and behold, now I am playing second lead, usually a tragic mother, and receiving the acclaim of the groundlings. There are compensations in growing old, which I am discovering too. And I have not tasted wine since I saw you last, nor shall I ever again. As one more reward, my admiral promised me that he would forward this letter to you in the next cartel — an expression which no doubt means more to you than to me. I only hope that it reaches you in good time and brings you comfort in your affliction.
I pray nightly for you.
Ever your devoted friend,
Katharine Cobham.'
Comfort in his affliction? A little, perhaps. There was some comfort in knowing that the despatches had been delivered; there was some comfort in a second-hand report that Their Lordships were pleased with him. There was comfort even in knowing that the duchess was re-established on the stage. But the sum total was nothing compared with his misery.
Here was a guard come to bring him to the commandant and beside the commandant was the Irish renegade who served as interpreter. There were further papers on the commandant's desk — it looked as if the same cartel which had brought in Kitty Cobham's note had brought in letters for the commandant.
'Good afternoon, sir,' said the commandant, always polite offering a chair.
'Good afternoon, sir, and many thanks,' said Hornblower. He was learning Spanish slowly and painfully.
'You have been Promoted.' said the Irishman in English
'W-what?' said Hornblower.
'Promoted,' said the Irishman. 'Here is the letter—"The Spanish authorities are informed that on account of his meritorious service the acting-commission of Mr Horatio Hornblower, midshipman and acting-lieutenant, has been confirmed. Their Lordships of the Admiralty express their confidence that Mr Horatio Hornblower will be admitted immediately to the privileges of commissioned rank." There you are, young man.'
'My felicitations, sir,' said the commandant.
'Many thanks, sir,' said Hornblower.
The commandant was a kindly old gentleman with a pleasant smile for the awkward young man. He went on to say more, but Hornblower's Spanish was not equal to the technicalities he used, and Hornblower in despair looked at the interpreter.
'Now that you are a commissioned officer,' said the latter, you will be transferred to the quarters for captured officers.'
'Thank you,' said Hornblower.
'You will receive the half pay of your rank.'
'Thank you.'
'And your parole will be accepted. You will be at liberty to visit in the town and the neighbourhood for two hours each day on giving your parole.'
'Thank you,' said Hornblower.
Perhaps, during the long months which followed, it was some mitigation of his unhappiness that for two hours each day his parole gave him freedom; freedom to wander in the streets of the little town, to have a cup of chocolate or a glass of wine — providing he had any money — making polite and laborious conversation with Spanish soldiers or sailors or civilians. But it was better to spend his two hours wandering over the goat paths of the headland in the wind and the sun, in the companionship of the sea, which might alleviate the
sick misery of captivity. There was slightly better food, slightly better quarters. And there was the knowledge that now he was a lieutenant, that he held the King's commission, that if ever, ever, the war should end and he should be set free he could starve on half pay — for with the end of the war there would be no employment for junior lieutenants. But he had earned his promotion. He had gained the approval of authority, that was something to think about on his solitary walks.
There came a day of south-westerly gales, with the wind shrieking in from across the Atlantic. Across three thousand miles of water it came, building up its strength unimpeded on its way, and heaping up the sea into racing mountain ridges which came crashing in upon the Spanish coast in thunder and spray. Hornblower stood on the headland above Ferrol harbour, holding his worn greatcoat about him as he leaned forward into the wind to keep his footing. So powerful was the wind that it was difficult to breathe while facing it. If he turned his back he could breathe more easily, but then the wind blew his wild hair forward over his eyes, almost inverted his greatcoat over his head, and furthermore forced him into little tottering steps down the slope towards Ferrol, whither he had no wish to return at present. For two hours he was alone and free, and those two hours were precious. He could breathe the Atlantic air, he could walk, he could do as he liked during that time. He could stare out to sea; it was not unusual to catch sight, from the headland, of some British ship of war which might be working slowly along the coast in the hope of snapping up a coasting vessel while keeping a watchful eye upon the Spanish naval activity. When such a ship went by during Hornblower's two hours of freedom, he would stand and gaze at it, as a man dying of thirst might gaze at a bucket of water held beyond his reach; he would note all the little details, the cut of the topsails and the style of the paint, while misery wrung his bowels. For this was the end of his second year as a prisoner of war. For twenty-two months, for twenty-two hours every day, he had been under lock and key, herded with five other junior lieutenants in a single room in the fortress of Ferrol. And today the wind roared by him, shouting in its outrageous freedom. He was facing into the wind; before him lay Corunna, its white houses resembling pieces of sugar scattered over the slopes. Between him and Corunna was all the open space of Corunna Bay, flogged white by the wind, and on his left hand was the narrow entrance to Ferrol Bay. On his right was the open Atlantic; from the foot of the low cliffs there the long wicked reef of the Dientes del Diablo — the Devil's Teeth — ran out to the northward, square across the path of the racing rollers driven by the wind. At half-minute intervals the rollers would crash against the reef with an impact that shook even the solid headland on which Hornblower stood, and each roller dissolved into spray which was instantly whirled away by the wind to reveal again the long black tusks of the rocks.
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