Hornblower and the Hotspur h-3

by Cecil Scott Forester

  The evening breeze carried the sound of the salutes round the bay, as Hotspur’s carronade spoke out and Santa Catalina replied, and while the Spanish pilot guided Hotspur between the Pigs and the Sows—Hornblower had a suspicion that the Pigs were Sea Pigs, Porpoises, in Spanish—and the hands stood by to take in sail and drop anchor. There were ships of war lying at anchor already in the bay, and not the Spanish navy, whose masts and yards Hornblower could just make out in the inner harbours.

  “Estados Unidos,” said the Spanish naval officer, with a gesture towards the nearer frigate. Hornblower saw the Stars and Stripes, and the broad pendant at the main-topmast-head.

  “Mr. Bush! Stand by to render passing honours.”

  “Constitution. Commodore Preble,” added a Spanish officer.

  The Americans were fighting a war of their own, at Tripoli far up the Mediterranean; and presumably this Preble—Hornblower could not be sure of the exact name as he heard it—was the latest of a series of American commanders-in-chief. Drums beat and men lined the side and hats were lifted in salute as Hotspur wept by.

  “French frigate Felicite,” went on the Spanish officer, indicating the other ship of war.

  Twenty-two ports on a side—one of the big French frigates, but there was no need to pay her further attention. As enemies in a neutral harbour they would ignore each other, cut each other dead, as gentlemen would do if by unlucky chance they met in the interval between the challenge and the duel. Lucky that he did not have to give her further thought, too, seeing that the sight of the Constitution was causing modification in his other plans—the bye plot was intruding on the main plot again.

  “You can anchor here, Captain,” said the Spanish officer.

  “Helm-a-lee! Mr. Bush!”

  Hotspur rounded-to, her topsails were taken in with commendable rapidity, and the anchor cable roared out through the hawse. It was as well that the operation went through faultlessly, seeing that it was carried out under the eyes of the navies of three other nations. A flat report echoed round the bay.

  “Sunset gun! Take in the colours, Mr. Bush.”

  The Spanish officers were standing formally in line, hats in hand, as they bowed their farewells. Hornblower put on his politest manner and took off his hat with his politest bow as he thanked them and escorted them to the side.

  “Here comes your consul already,” said the naval officer just before he went down.

  In the gathering darkness a rowing skiff was heading out to them from the town, and Hornblower almost cut his final farewell short as he tried to recall what honours should be paid to a consul coming on board after sunset. The western sky was blood red, and the breeze dropped, and here in a bay it seemed breathless and stifling after the airy delights of the Atlantic. And now he had to deal with secrets of state and with Doughty.

  Recapitulating his worries to himself revived another one. There would now be a break in his letters to Maria; it might be months before she heard from him again, and she would fear the worst. But there was no time to waste in thinking. He had to act instantly.

  Chapter XXI

  With the wind dropping Hotspur had swung to her anchors, and now from the stern window of the chart-room USS Constitution was visible, revealed by her lights as she rode idly in slack water.

  “If you please, sir,” asked Doughty, as respectful as ever, “what is this place?”

  “Cadiz,” replied Hornblower; his surprise was only momentary at the ignorance of a prisoner immured below—it was possible that some even of the crew still did not know. He pointed through the cabin window. “And that’s an American frigate, the Constitution.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Until Hornblower had seen the Constitution at anchor he had been visualizing a drab future for Doughty, as a penniless refugee on the waterfront at Cadiz, not daring to ship as a hand before the mast in some merchant ship for fear of being pressed and recognized, starving at worst as a beggar, at best as a soldier enlisted in the ragged Spanish army. A better future than the rope, all the same. Now there was a better one still. Ships of war never had enough men, even if Preble did not need a good steward.

  Bailey came in from the cabin with the last bottle of claret.

  “Doughty will decant that,” said Hornblower. “And Doughty, see that those glasses are properly clean. I want them to sparkle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bailey, get for’ard to the galley. See that there’s a clear fire ready for the marrow bones.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  It was as simple as that as long as each move was well-timed. Doughty applied himself to decanting the claret while Bailey bustled out.

  “By the way, Doughy, can you swim?”

  Doughty did not raise his head.

  “Yes, sir,” his voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Thank you, sir.”

  Now the expected knock on the door.

  “Boat’s coming alongside, sir!”

  “Very well, I’ll come.”

  Hornblower hurried out on to the quarter-deck and down the gangway to greet the visitor. Darkness had fallen and Cadiz Bay was quite placid, like a dark mirror.

  Mr. Carron wasted no time; he hurried aft ahead of Hornblower with strides that equalled Hornblower’s at his hastiest. When he sat in a chair in the chart-room he seemed to fill the little place completely, for he was a big heavily built man. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and then readjusted his wig.

  “A glass of claret, sir?”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Carron still wasted no time, plunging into business while Hornblower filled the glasses.

  “You’re from the Channel Fleet?”

  “Yes, sir, under orders from Admiral Cornwallis.”

  “You know about the situation then. You know about the flota?” Carron dropped his voice at the last words.

  “Yes, sir. I’m here to take back the latest news to the frigate squadron.”

  “They’ll have to act. Madrid shows no sign of yielding.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Godoy’s terrified of Boney. The country doesn’t want to fight England but Godoy would rather fight than offend him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sure they’re only waiting for the flota to arrive and then Spain will declare war. Boney wants to use the Spanish navy to help out his scheme for invading England.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not that the Dons will be much help to him. There isn’t a ship here ready for sea. But there’s the Felicite here. Forty-four guns. You saw her, of course?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’ll warn the flota if she gets an inkling of what’s in the wind.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “My last news is less than three days old. The courier had a good journey from Madrid. Godoy doesn’t know yet that we’ve found out about the secret clauses in the treaty of San Ildefonso, but he’ll guess soon enough by the stiffening of our attitude.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So the sooner you get away the better. Here’s the despatch for the officer commanding the intercepting squadron. I prepared it as soon as I saw you coming into the Bay.”

  “Thank you, sir. He’s Captain Graham Moore in the Indefatigable.”

  Hornblower put the despatch into his pocket. He had been aware for some time of sounds and subdued voices from the cabin next door, and he guessed the reason. Now there was a knock and Bush’s face appeared round the door.

  “One moment, please, Mr. Bush. You ought to know I’m busy. Yes, Mr. Carron?”

  Bush was the only man in the ship who would dare to intrude at that moment, and he only if he thought the matter urgent.

  “You had better leave within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir. I was hoping you might sup with me this evening.”

  “Duty before pleasure, although I thank you. I’ll cross the bay now and make the arrangements with the Spanish authorities. The land breeze will start to make before long, a
nd that will take you out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make every preparation for weighing anchor. You know of the twenty-four hour rule?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Under the rules of neutrality a ship of one contending nation could not leave a neutral harbour until one whole day after the exit of a ship of another contending nation.

  “The Dons may not enforce it on the Felicite, but they’ll certainly enforce it on you if you give them the opportunity. Two-thirds of Felicite’s crew are in the taverns of Cadiz at this moment, so you must take your chance now. I’ll be here to remind the Dons about the twenty-four hour rule if she tries to follow you. I might delay her at least. The Dons don’t want to offend us while the flota’s still at sea.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir.”

  Carron was already rising to his feet, with Hornblower following his example.

  “Call the Consul’s boat,” said Hornblower as they emerged on to the quarter-deck, Bush still had something to say, but Hornblower still ignored him.

  And even when Carron had left there was still an order for Bush with which to distract him.

  “I want the small bower hove in, Mr. Bush, and heave short on the best bower.”

  “Aye aye, sir. If you please, sir—”

  “I want this done in silence, Mr. Bush. No pipes, no orders that Felicite can hear. Station two safe men at the capstan with old canvas to muffle the capstan pawls. I don’t want a sound.”

  “Aye aye, sir. But—”

  “Go and attend to that yourself personally, if you please, Mr. Bush.”

  No one else dare intrude on the captain as he strode the quarter-deck in the warm night. Nor was it long before the pilot came on board; Carron had certainly succeeded in hastening the slow process of the Spanish official mind. Topsails sheeted home, anchor broken out, Hotspur glided slowly down the bay again before the first gentle puffs of the nightly land breeze, with Hornblower narrowly watching the pilot. It might be a solution of the Spaniard’s problem if Hotspur were to take the ground as she went to sea, and Hornblower determined that should not happen. It was only after the pilot had left them and Hotspur was standing out to the south westward that he had a moment to spare for Bush.

  “Sir! Doughty’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  It was too dark on the quarter-deck for Hornblower’s face to be seen, and he tried his best to make his voice sound natural.

  “Yes, sir. He must have nipped out of the stern window of your cabin, sir. Then he could have lowered himself into the water by the rudder-pintles, right under the counter where no-one could see him, and then he must have swum for it, sir.”

  “I’m extremely angry about this, Mr. Bush. Somebody will smart for it.”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Well, Mr. Bush?”

  “It seems you left him alone in the cabin when the Consul came on board, sir. That’s when he took his chance.”

  “You mean it’s my fault, Mr. Bush?”

  ‘Well, yes, sir, if you want to put it that way.”

  “M’m. Maybe you’re right, even if I do say it.” Hornblower paused, still trying to be natural. “God, that’s an infuriating thing to happen. I’m angry with myself. I can’t think how I came to be so foolish.”

  “I expect you had a lot on your mind, sir.”

  It was distasteful to hear Bush standing up for his captain in the face of his captain’s self-condemnation.

  “There’s just no excuse for me. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “I’ll mark him as ‘R’ on the ship’s muster, sir.”

  “Yes. You’d better do that.”

  Cryptic initials in the ship’s muster rolls told various stories—‘D’ for ‘discharged’, ‘D D’ for ‘dead’, and ‘R’ for ‘run’—deserted.

  “But there’s some good news, too, Mr. Bush. In accordance with my orders I must tell you, Mr. Bush, in case of something happening to me, but none of what I’m going to say is to leak out to the ship’s company.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Treasure; prize money, doubloons and dollars. A Spanish treasure fleet. If there were anything that could take Bush’s mind off the subject of Doughty’s escape from justice it was this.

  “It’ll be millions, sir!” said Bush.

  “Yes. Millions.”

  The seamen in the five ships would share one quarter of the prize money—the same sum as would be divided between five captains—and that would mean six hundred pounds a man. Lieutenants and masters and captains of marines would divide one eighth. Fifteen thousand pounds for Bush, at a rough estimate.

  “A fortune, sir!”

  Hornblower’s share would be ten of those fortunes.

  “Do you remember, sir, the last time we captured a flota? Back in ‘99, I think it was, sir. Some our Jacks when they got their prize money bought gold watches an’ fried ‘em on Gosport Hard, just to show how rich they were.”

  “Well, you can sleep on it, Mr. Bush, as I’m going to try to do. But remember, not a word to a soul.”

  “No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

  The project might still fail. The flota might evade capture and escape into Cadiz; it might have turned back; it might never have sailed. Then it would be best if the Spanish government—and the world at large—did not know that such an attempt had ever been contemplated.

  These thoughts, and these figures, should have been stimulating, exciting, pleasant, but tonight, to Hornblower, they were nothing of the sort. They were Dead Sea fruit, turning to ashes in the mouth. Hornblower snapped at Bailey and dismissed him; then he sat on his cot, too low spirited even to be cheered by the swaying of the cot under his seat to tell him that Hotspur was at sea again, bound on a mission of excitement and profit. He sat with drooping head, deep in depression. He had lost his integrity, and that meant he had lost his self-respect. In his life he had made mistakes, whose memory could still make him writhe, but this time he had done far more. He had committed a breach of duty. He had connived at—he had actually contrived—the escape of a deserter, of a criminal. He had violated his sworn oath, and he had done so from mere personal reasons, out of sheer self-indulgence. Not for the good of the service, not for his country’s cause, but because he was a soft-hearted sentimentalist. He was ashamed of himself, and the shame was all the more acute when his pitiless self-analysis brought up the conviction that, if he could relive those past hours, he would do the same again.

  There were no excuses. The one he had used, that the Service owed him a life after all the perils he had run, was nonsense. The mitigating circumstance that discipline would not suffer, thanks to the new exciting mission, was of no weight. He was a self-condemned traitor; worse still, he was a plausible one, who had carried through his scheme with deft neatness that marked the born conspirator. That first word he had thought of was the correct one; integrity, and he had lost it. Hornblower mourned over his lost integrity like Niobe over her dead children.

  Chapter XXII

  Captain Graham Moore’s orders for the disposition of the frigate squadron so as to intercept the flota were so apt that they received even Hornblower’s grudging approval. The five ships were strung out on a line north and south to the limit of visibility. With fifteen miles between ships and with the northernmost and southernmost ships looking out to their respective horizons a stretch of sea ninety miles wide could be covered. During daylight they beat or ran towards America; during the night they retraced their course towards Europe, so that if by misfortune the flota should reach the line in darkness the interval during which it could be detected would be by that much prolonged. The dawn position was to be in the longitude of Cape St. Vincent—9° west—and the sunset position was to be as far to the west of that as circumstances should indicate as desirable.

  For this business of detecting the needle of the flota in the haystack of the Atlantic was a little more simple than might appear at first sight. The first point was that by t
he cumbrous law of Spain the flota had to discharge its cargo at Cadiz, and nowhere else. The second point was that the direction of the wind was a strong indication of the point of the compass from which the flota might appear. The third point was that the flota, after a long sea passage, was likely to be uncertain of its longitude; by sextant it could be reasonably sure of its latitude, and could be counted on to run the final stages of its course along the latitude of Cadiz—36° 30´ north—so as to make sure of avoiding the Portuguese coast on the one hand and the African coast on the other.

  So that in the centre of the British line, squarely on latitude 36° 30´ north, lay the Commodore in the Indefatigable, with the other ships lying due north and due south of him. A flag signal by day or a rocket by night would warn every ship in the line of the approach of the flota, and it should not be difficult for the squadron to concentrate rapidly upon the signalling ship, a hundred and fifty miles out from Cadiz with plenty of time and space available to enforce their demands.

  An hour before dawn Hornblower came out on deck, as he had done every two hours during the night—and every two hours during all the preceding nights as well. It had been a clear night and it was still clear now.

  “Wind nor’east by north, sir,” reported Prowse. “St Vincent bearing due north about five leagues.”

  A moderate breeze; all sail to the royals could be carried, although the Hotspur was under topsails, stealing along close-hauled on the port tack. Hornblower trained his telescope over the starboard beam, due south, in the direction where Medusa should be, next in line; Hotspur, as befitted her small importance, was the northernmost ship, at the point where it was least likely for the flota to appear. It was not quite light enough yet for Medusa to be visible.

  “Mr. Foreman, get aloft, if you please, with your signal book.”

  Of course every officer and man in Hotspur must be puzzled about this daily routine, this constant surveillance of a single stretch of water. Ingenious minds might even guess the true objective of the squadron. That could not be helped.