Hornblower in the West Indies

The Guns Of Carabobo

She was exactly like a British ship of war; naturally, perhaps, since she had been one most of her life until she was sold out of the service. Now, as she came up into the harbour, she could pass without question for a man-o’-war brig except that she flew the Royal Yacht Squadron burgee instead of a commission pendant. Hornblower put down the telescope through which he had been watching, curiously, her progress into Kingston harbour, and referred again to Barbara’s letter, two months old now, which had arrived a fortnight ago.

My dearest husband (wrote Barbara. She sometimes misused her superlatives; that ‘dearest’, strictly, implied that she had at least three husbands, even though it also implied that Hornblower rated highest of the three).

Hornblower had to read the letter through to the end, although it contained no further reference to Mr. Charles Ramsbottom, but he returned again to the opening paragraph. It was the first time he had ever seen this new word ‘millionaire’, which occurred twice. He disliked it on sight. It was inconceivable that a man should have a million pounds, and presumably not in broad estates but in factories and in stocks and shares, probably with a huge holding in Consols and an immense balance at the bank as well. The existence of millionaires, whether in Society or not, was something as distasteful as the word itself now called into existence. And this one had been charming to Barbara—he was not too sure if that really constituted a recommendation. He picked up the telescope again and watched the brig come to an anchor. The rapidity with which she took in sail showed that she carried a large crew. Hornblower, as a Commander-in-Chief of a squadron and accountable to the niggardly Lords of the Admiralty for every penny expended, knew perfectly well what this sort of thing cost. This Mr. Ramsbottom, to indulge himself in his naval toy, was expending enough money to maintain a thousand families in bread and beer and bacon.

The brig rounded-to and anchored very neatly indeed; if she had been a vessel included in his command he would have grunted with grudging satisfaction. As it was he grunted with a mixture of envy and derision and turned away to await the inevitable call in the seclusion of Admiralty House.

When it came he fingered the visiting card with its plain ‘Mr Charles Ramsbottom’ and found some small satisfaction in deciding that he had at last come across a name more unlovely than his own. But the owner of the name, when he was ushered in, made a better impression. In his very early twenties, he was small and slight and—for what it was worth—strikingly handsome, with black hair and eyes and what could only be described as ‘chiselled features’ deeply tanned after weeks at sea; not at all what might be expected of a Bradford wool manufacturer, while his dark-green coat and formal white breeches were in quiet good taste.

“My wife wrote to me about you, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said Hornblower.

“That was very kind of Lady Hornblower. But of course she is kindness personified. May I present my letters of introduction from Lord Liverpool and Bishop Wilberforce, My Lord?”

Barbara was perfectly right, then, in predicting that Ramsbottom would win favour with both political parties—here were letters from the Prime Minister himself and a prominent member of the Opposition. Hornblower glanced through them, and was conscious of an undernote of cordiality despite their formal wording.

“Excellent, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said Hornblower. He tried to adopt the tone which he presumed would be adopted by a man who had just read a letter of introduction from the Prime Minister. “Is there any way in which I can be of service to you?”

“None that I am aware of at present, My Lord. I must complete with water and stores, naturally, but my purser is a capable man. I intend to continue my voyage through these charming islands.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower, soothingly. He could not imagine why anyone should voluntarily spend any time in these waters where piracy was still smouldering, nor why anyone should wish to visit countries where malaria and yellow fever were endemic, and where civil war, revolution, and massacre claimed even heavier toll.

“You find the Bride of Abydos a comfortable ship?” asked Hornblower.

Those eighteen-gun brigs of the Royal Navy were notoriously unpleasant craft, crowded and crank.

“Comfortable enough, My Lord, thank you,” answered Ramsbottom. “I lightened her by changing the armament; she mounts only twelve guns now—two long sixes and ten carronades, twenty-four-pounders instead of thirty-two-pounders.”

“So you could still deal with a pirate?”

“Oh, yes indeed, My Lord. And with the reduction in weight on deck—a full ten tons—and modifications in her sail plan I have made a seaworthy craft of her, I believe and hope.”

“I’m sure you have, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said Hornblower. It was likely enough; the brigs-of-war were naturally crammed with guns and warlike stores to the limit of stability and human endurance, so that a moderate reduction in dead weight might bring profound results in comfort and handiness.

“It would give me the greatest pleasure,” went on Mr. Ramsbottom, “if I could induce Your Lordship to visit me on board. It would indeed be an honour, and would gratify my crew. Perhaps I could even persuade Your Lordship to dine on board?”

“We can discuss that after you have dined with me, Mr. Ramsbottom,” replied Hornblower, remembering his manners and his obligation to invite to dinner any bearer of a reasonable introduction.

“You are most kind, My Lord,” said Mr. Ramsbottom. “I must, of course, present my introductions to His Excellency at the earliest opportunity.”

There was something quite winning about Mr. Ramsbottom’s smile as he said this, an awareness and a tolerance of the rules of social etiquette. A visitor to Jamaica would normally be bound to pay his respects first to the Governor, but Ramsbottom was no ordinary visitor; as captain of a ship his first call was due to the Naval authorities, to Hornblower, in fact. A trivial point, as his smile implied, but, etiquette being etiquette, trivial points demanded strict attention.

By the time Ramsbottom took his leave he had made a very good impression on the reluctant Hornblower. He had talked sensibly about ships and the sea, he was easy and natural in his manner, and not in the least like Lord Byron, who was probably more responsible than anyone else for the growing fad for yachting among the wealthy. Hornblower was even prepared to forgive him for having ‘won some small portion’ of Barbara’s heart. And in the course of his several days’ stay in Jamaica Hornblower really came to like the young man, especially after having lost two pounds to him in a desperate tussle at whist and then winning ten pounds back in another tussle where admittedly Ramsbottom encountered a run of bad luck. Jamaican society gave Ramsbottom a warm welcome; even the Governor looked on him with approval, and the Governor’s wife, Lady Hooper, was loud in her praises of his excellent manners and considerate ways.

“I wouldn’t have expected it of a Bradford manufacturer’s son,” said Hooper, grudgingly.

“Are you dining on board the Bride of Abydos, sir?” asked Hornblower.

“I am going there to dinner,” answered Hooper, who enjoyed food, “but seeing that it is only a yacht I have little hope of dining.”

Hornblower arrived on board early, at Ramsbottom’s suggestion, so as to have time to inspect the vessel. He was received in Navy fashion with sideboys attending the side and a long flourish on boatswain’s pipes as he stepped on board. He looked keenly about him even while he shook Ramsbottom’s hand. He could not have said he was not in a King’s ship, as his eye took in the gleaming white deck, the ropes coiled in perfect symmetry, the gleaming trophy of pikes and cutlasses against the bulkhead, the brass winking in the sunshine, the disciplined orderly crew in blue jumpers and white trousers.

“May I present my officers, My Lord?” asked Ramsbottom.

They were two half-pay lieutenants, hardbitten men; as Hornblower shook their hands he told himself that if it had not been for a dozen strokes of luck he himself might still be a lieutenant, perhaps eking out his half-pay by serving in a rich man’s yacht. As Ramsbottom led him forward he recognised one of the hands standing at attention by a gun.

“You were with me in the Renown, out here in 1800,” he said.

“Yes, sir. My Lord, so I was, sir.” The man grinned with uneasy pleasure as he shyly took Hornblower’s outstretched hand. “And Charlie Kemp, sir, My Lord, over there, sir, ‘e was with you in the Baltic. And Bill Cummings, up on the fo’c’sle, ‘e was foretopman in the Lydia round the Horn with you sir, My Lord.”

“Glad to see you again,” said Hornblower. That was true, but he was equally glad that he had not been under the necessity of remembering names. He moved on.

“You seem to have a Navy crew, Mr. Ramsbottom,” he remarked.

“Yes, My Lord. They are nearly all man-o’-wars men.”

In these years of peace and depression it would be easy enough to recruit a crew, thought Hornblower. Ramsbottom might be considered to be doing a public service in providing easy employment for these men who had deserved well of their country. Listening to the sharp orders given as the crew was put through their paces Hornblower could not suppress a smile. It was a harmless enough fad, he supposed, for Ramsbottom to indulge himself in playing at commanding a ship of war.

“You have a most efficient ship and a well-trained crew, Mr. Ramsbottom,” he said.

“It is a pleasure to hear Your Lordship say so.”

“You have seen no service yourself?”

“None, My Lord.”

There was a certain degree of surprise still to be found in the fact that in this year of 1821 there were to be found grown men, even heads of families, who nevertheless had been too young to see service in the wars that had devastated the world for a whole generation. It made Hornblower feel like a centenarian.

“Here come further guests, My Lord, if you will pardon me.”

Two planters—Hough and Doggart—and then the Chief Justice of the island. So the arrival of the Governor would make a dinner party of six, three officials and three men in private life. They gathered under the awning, which, stretched across the main boom, shaded the quarterdeck, and watched the reception of His Excellency.

“Do you think the dinner will come up to the ceremonial?” asked Doggart.

“Ramsbottom’s purser bought two tons of ice yesterday,” said Hough.

“At sixpence a pound that bids fair,” commented Doggart.

Jamaica was the centre of a small trade in ice, brought down from New England in fast schooners. Cut and stored away in deep places during the winter, it was hurried to the Caribbean insulated in a packing of sawdust. At the height of summer it commanded fantastic prices. Hornblower was interested; he was more interested still in the sight of a seaman down in the waist steadily turning a crank. It did not seem a very hard labour, although unremitting. He could not for the life of him think of what function that crank could play in the life of the ship. The guests made their bows to His Excellency, and at his suggestion seated themselves in the comfortable chairs. A steward appeared at once passing round glasses of sherry.

“Excellent, by George!” exclaimed the Governor after his first cautious sip. “None of your Olorosos, none of your sweet sticky dark sherries.”

The Governor by virtue of his reputed royal blood as well as in consequence of his position could make remarks that well might appear rude in another man. But the sherry was indeed delightful; pale, dry, infinitely delicate in flavour and bouquet, cool but not chilled. A new sound struck on Hornblower’s ear, and he turned and looked forward. At the foot of the mainmast a small orchestra had struck up, of various stringed instruments whose names he had never bothered to learn except for the fiddle. If it were not for the intrusion of this horrible music there could be nothing more delightful than to sit under an awning on the deck of a well-found ship with the sea breeze just beginning to come in, drinking this excellent sherry. The Governor made a small gesture which brought a fresh glass promptly to him.

“Ah!” said the Governor. “You keep a good orchestra, Mr. Ramsbottom.”

It was well known that the royal family inherited a taste for music.

“I must thank Your Excellency,” said Ramsbottom, and the glasses went round again before he turned an ear to the murmured words of the steward. “Your Excellency, My Lord, gentlemen, dinner is served.”

They filed down the companion; apparently every bulkhead had been taken down in the after part of the ship to make a cabin spacious though, low. The carronades on either side struck a subdued warlike note in a scene of luxury, for there were flowers everywhere; the dining table stood in the centre concealed under a glittering linen cloth. Wind scoops at the scuttles helped to deflect the trade wind into the cabin, which, under the double shade of the awning and the deck, was pleasantly cool, but Hornblower’s eye at once caught sight of a couple of strange objects, like small wheels, set in two scuttles and ceaselessly whirling round. Then he knew why the seaman was turning that crank in the waist; he was driving these two wheels, which by some ingenious mechanism propelled currents of air from outside into the cabin, acting like windmill vanes but in the opposite sense.

Seated at the table in accordance with the courteous indications of their host, the guests awaited the serving of the dinner. The first course made its appearance—two ample dishes set in dishes even more ample filled with cracked ice. The inner dishes held a grey granular substance.

“Caviare!” exclaimed His Excellency, helping himself liberally after his first astonished stare.

“I hope it is to your taste, sir,” said Ramsbottom. “And I hope you will accompany it with some of the vodka here. It is the same as is served at the Russian Imperial table.”

Conversation regarding caviare and vodka occupied the attention of all during the first course. The last time Hornblower had tasted the combination was during the defence of Riga in 1812; the experience enabled him to add his quota to the conversation. The next course made its appearance.

“You gentlemen are accustomed to this dish,” said Ramsbottom, “but I need not apologise for it. It is, I believe, one of the delicacies of the Islands.”

It was flying fish.

“Certainly no need to apologise when it is served like this,” commented His Excellency. “Your chef de cuisine must be a man of genius.”

The sauce that came with it had the merest hint of mustard.

“’Ock or Champagne, My Lord?” murmured a voice in Hornblower’s ear. Hornblower had already heard the Governor answer the same question with ‘I’ll try the hock first’. The champagne was dry and insidiously delicate, an ideal companion for the food. The great eaters of antiquity, Nero or Vitellius or Lucullus, had never known what it was like to partake of champagne and flying fish.

“You’ll be living differently from this soon, Hornblower,” said His Excellency.

“No doubt about that, sir.”

Ramsbottom, between them, looked a polite inquiry.

“Your Lordship’s going to sea?”

“Next week,” replied Hornblower. “I take my squadron to sea for exercises before the coming of the hurricane season.”

“Of course that would be necessary to maintain efficiency,” agreed Ramsbottom. “The exercises will last for long?”

“A couple of weeks or more,” said Hornblower. “I have to keep my men accustomed to hard tack and salt pork and water from the cask.”

“And yourself too,” chuckled the Governor.

“Myself too,” agreed Hornblower ruefully.

“And you take your whole squadron, My Lord?” asked Ramsbottom.

“All I can. I work ‘em hard and try to make no exceptions.”

“A good rule, I should think,” said Ramsbottom.

The soup that followed the flying fish was a fiery mulligatawny, well adapted to West Indian palates.

“Good!” was the Governor’s brief comment after his first spoonful. The champagne went round again and conversation became livelier and livelier, and Ramsbottom deftly kept it going.

“What news from the mainland, sir?” he asked the Governor. “This fellow Bolivar—is he making any progress?”

“He fights on,” answered the Governor. “But Spain hurries out reinforcements whenever her own troubles permit. The government at Caracas is looking for the arrival of more at this moment, I believe. Then they may be able to conquer the plains and drive him out again. You know he was a refugee here in this very island a few years ago?”

“Indeed, sir?”

All the guests at the table were interested in the desperate civil war that was being fought on the mainland. Massacre and murder, blind heroism and devoted self-sacrifice, loyalty to the King and thirst for independence—all these were to be found in Venezuela; war and pestilence were laying waste the fertile plains and depopulating the crowded cities.

“How will the Spaniards stand now that Maracaibo has revolted, Hornblower?” asked the Governor.

“It’s not a serious loss, sir. As long as they have the use of La Guaira their sea communications remain open—the roads are so bad that Caracas has always made use of La Guaira to preserve contact with the outside world; it’s only an open roadstead but it provides good anchorage.”

“Has Maracaibo revolted, Your Excellency?” asked Ramsbottom mildly.

“The news came this morning. A feather in Bolivar’s cap after his recent defeats. His army must have been growing disheartened.”

“His army, sir?” This was the Chief Justice speaking. “Half his men are British infantry.”

Hornblower knew that to be true. British veterans formed the backbone of Bolivar’s army. The llaneros—the men of the Venezuelan plains—supplied him with a brilliant cavalry, but not with the material for permanent conquest.

“Even British infantry could grow disheartened in a hopeless cause,” said the Governor, solemnly. “The Spaniards control most of the coast—ask the Admiral here.”

“That’s so,” agreed Hornblower. “They’ve made it hard for Bolivar’s privateers.”

“I hope you’re not going to venture into that turmoil, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said the Governor.

“They’ll make short work of you if you do,” added the Chief Justice. “The Dons will tolerate no interference. They’ll snatch you up and you’ll languish in a Spanish prison for years before we can extricate you from King Ferdinand’s clutches. Unless jail fever carries you off first. Or they hang you as a pirate.”

“I have certainly no intention of venturing near the mainland,” said Ramsbottom. “At least not while this war continues. It is a pity, because Venezuela was my mother’s country, and it would give me pleasure to visit it.”

“Your mother’s country, Mr. Ramsbottom?” asked the Governor.

“Yes, sir. My mother was a Venezuelan lady. There I would be Carlos Ramsbottom y Santona.”

“Most interesting,” remarked the Governor.

And more grotesque than Horatio Hornblower. It was significant of the worldwide interests of British commerce that a Bradford woollen manufacturer should have a Venezuelan mother. At any rate it accounted for Ramsbottom’s dark, almost swarthy, good looks.

“I can very well wait until peace is settled one way or the other,” said Ramsbottom off-handedly. “There will be other voyages to make. Meanwhile, sir, let me call your attention to this dish here.”

The main course had now arrived on the table, roast chickens and a leg of pork as well as the dish that Ramsbottom indicated. What lay in it was concealed by poached eggs covering the surface.

“A made dish?” asked the Governor, doubtfully. His tone indicated that at this stage of the dinner he looked rather for a substantial roast.

“Please try it, sir,” said Ramsbottom coaxingly.

The Governor helped himself and tasted cautiously.

“Pleasant enough,” he decided. “What is it?”

“A ragout of preserved beef,” answered Ramsbottom. “Can I persuade you gentlemen to try it? My Lord?”

At least it was something new; it was like nothing Hornblower had ever tasted before—certainly not in the least like the beef preserved in brine which he had eaten for twenty years.

“Extremely good,” said Hornblower. “How is it preserved?”

Ramsbottom made a gesture to the waiting steward, who laid a square box, apparently of iron, upon the table. It weighed heavy in Hornblower’s hand.

“Glass serves equally well,” explained Ramsbottom, “but it is not as convenient on shipboard.”

The steward was now at work upon the iron box with a stout knife. He cut it open and prized back the top and offered it for inspection.

“A tinned box,” went on Ramsbottom, “sealed at a high temperature. I venture to suggest that this new method will make a noticeable difference to the food supply on shipboard. This beef can be eaten cold on removal from the box, or it can be hashed as you have it here.”

“And the poached egg?” asked the Governor.

“That was the inspiration of my cook, sir.”

Discussion of this new invention—and of the excellent Burgundy served with this course—distracted attention from the troubles of Venezuela, and even from Ramsbottom’s Venezuelan mother. Conversation became general, and somewhat disjointed, as the wine flowed. Hornblower had drunk as much as he desired, and, with his habitual dislike of excess, contrived to avoid drinking more. It was noticeable that Ramsbottom remained sober as well, cool and quiet-voiced, while the other faces grew redder and redder, and the cabin echoed to the roaring toasts and the bursts of inconsequential song. Hornblower guessed that his host was now finding the evening as tedious as he himself found it. He was glad when at last His Excellency rose, supporting himself by the table, to take his leave.

“A damned good dinner,” he said. “And you’re a damned good host, Ramsbottom. Wish there were more like you.”

Hornblower shook hands.

“It was very good of you to come, My Lord,” said Ramsbottom. “I regret that I must take this opportunity to say goodbye to Your Lordship.”

“You are sailing soon?”

“In a couple of days, I expect, My Lord. I trust you will find your squadron exercises satisfactory.”

“Thank you very much. Where will you head for now?”

“I shall beat back through the Windward channel, My Lord. Perhaps I shall see something of the Bahamas.”

“Be careful of your navigation there. I must wish you good luck and a pleasant voyage. I shall write to my wife and tell her of your visit.”

“Please give Lady Hornblower my best wishes and respects, My Lord.”

Ramsbottom’s good manners persisted to the end; he remembered to send round his cards ‘Pour prendre congé’ before he left, and mothers of unmarried daughters much regretted his leaving. Hornblower saw the Bride of Abydos in the early dawn reaching to the eastward to round Morant Point with the land breezes, and then forgot about her in the bustle of taking his squadron to sea for exercises.

It never failed to raise a wry smile on his face when he looked about him at ‘His Majesty’s ships and vessels in the West Indies’ under his command. In wartime he would have had a powerful fleet; now he had three small frigates and a motley collection of brigs and schooners. But they would serve his purpose; in his scheme the frigates became three-deckers and the brigs seventy-fours and the schooners frigates. He had a van, a centre, and a rear; he cruised in formation ready to meet the enemy, with rasping reprimands soaring up his signal halliards when any ship failed to keep station; he cleared for action and he turned by divisions into fighting line ahead; he tacked to double on the imaginary enemy’s line. In pitch darkness he would burn blue lights with the signal ‘Enemy in sight’, so that a score of captains and a thousand seamen came tumbling from their beds to deal with the non-existent foe.

Without warning he would hang out a signal putting the most junior lieutenants in command of their respective ships, and then he would plunge into intricate manoeuvres calculated to turn the anxious substantive captains, looking helplessly on, grey with anxiety—but those junior lieutenants might some day be commanding ships of the line in a battle on which the destiny of England might depend, and it was necessary to steel their nerves and accustom them to handle ships in dangerous situations. In the middle of sail drill he would signal ‘Flagship on fire. All boats away.’ He called for landing parties to storm non-existent batteries on some harmless, uninhabited cay, and he inspected those landing parties once they were on shore, to the last flint in the last pistol, with a rigid disregard for excuses that made men grind their teeth in exasperation. He set his captains to plan and execute cutting-out expeditions, and he commented mordantly on the arrangements for defence and the methods of attack. He paired off his ships to fight single-ship duels, sighting each other on the horizon and approaching ready to fire the vital opening broadside; he took advantage of calms to set his men to work towing and sweeping in desperate attempts to overtake the ship ahead. He worked his crews until they were ready to drop, and then he devised further tasks for them to prove to them that they still had one more effort left in them, so that it was doubtful whether ‘Old Horny’ was mentioned more often with curses or with admiration.

It was a toughened squadron that Hornblower led back to Kingston; but while Clorinda was still working up into the harbour a shore boat came pulling out to her, with on board an aide-de-camp of the Governor’s with a note for Hornblower.

“Sir Thomas, would you have the kindness to call away my barge?” asked Hornblower.

There was much apparent need for haste, for the note from Government House said, briefly:

Hornblower naturally had no idea of what had happened in Venezuela for the last two weeks and more. He made no guess while the carriage took him up to Government House at its best pace, and in any case if he had tried he would never have succeeded in coming near to the truth.

“What is all this, Hornblower?” were the Governor’s opening words to him. “What authority have you for blockading the Venezuelan coast? Why was I not informed?”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” replied Hornblower, indignantly.

“But—Damn it, man, I’ve the proof here. I’ve Dutchmen and Spaniards and half the nations of the earth here all protesting about it.”

“I assure you, sir, I have taken no action on the Venezuelan coast. I have not been within five hundred miles of it.”

“Then what does this mean?” shouted the Governor. “Look here at this!”

He held some papers up with one hand and slapped wildly at them with the other, so that Hornblower had some difficulty in taking them from him. Hornblower was bewildered already; he was more bewildered still as he read. One paper was an official dispatch in French, from the Dutch Governor of Curaçao; the other was larger and clearer, and he read it first. It was a big sheet of paper with bold writing.

Having read this document Hornblower was able to spare a second glance at the other. It was a vigorous protest from the Dutch Governor at Curaçao demanding explanations, apologies, the immediate withdrawal of the blockade, and exemplary compensation. Hornblower stared at Hooper in astonishment.

“This is in legal form,” he said, indicating the proclamation, “but I never signed it. This is not my signature.”

“Then—?” spluttered Hooper. “I thought you might be acting under secret orders from London.”

“Of course not, sir.” Hornblower stared at Hooper for another long second before the explanation came to him. “Ramsbottom!”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been posing as me, or as one of my officers at least. Is the Dutch officer who brought this available?”

“He’s waiting in the next room. There’s a Spaniard there, too, sent over in a fishing boat by Morillo from La Quaira.”

“Can we have them in, sir?”

The Dutchman and the Spaniard were men full of indignation, which was not abated in the least by their presentation to the Admiral responsible, in their minds, for this trouble. The Dutchman spoke fluent English, and it was to him that Hornblower first addressed himself.

“How was this proclamation delivered?” he asked.

“By one of your ships. By one of your officers.”

“What ship?”

“The brig-of-war Desperate.”

“I have no such ship. There’s none in the Navy List. Who brought it?”

“The captain.”

“Who was he? What was he like?”

“He was an officer. A Commander, with epaulettes.”

“In uniform?”

“In full uniform.”

“Young? Old?”

“Very young.”

“Small? Slender? Handsome?”

“Yes.”

Hornblower exchanged a glance with Hooper.

“And this brig, the Desperate. About a hundred and seventy tons, bowsprit sieved nearly level, mainmast stepped rather far aft?”

“Yes.”

“That settles it, sir,” said Hornblower to Hooper, and, to the Dutchman, “you’ve been fooled, I’m sorry to say. This man was an impostor. This proclamation is a forgery.”

The Dutchman stamped with annoyance. He was unable to find words to express himself in a foreign tongue for some moments. Finally from his splutterings emerged a name, which he repeated until it was understandable.

“The Helmond! The Helmond!”

“What is the Helmond, sir?” asked Hornblower.

“One of our ships. Your ship—this Desperate—captured her.”

“A valuable ship?”

“She had on board the guns for the Spanish Army. Two batteries of field artillery, guns, limbers, ammunition, everything.”

“Piracy!” exclaimed Hooper.

“It sounds like it,” said Hornblower.

The Spanish officer had been standing by impatiently, apparently only half understanding the English conversation. Hornblower turned to him, and, after desperately trying to recapture his half-forgotten Spanish, entered upon a limping explanation. The Spaniard replied volubly, so volubly that more than once Hornblower had to ask him to speak more slowly. Ramsbottom had come sailing into La Guaira and had brought his precious proclamation with him. At the merest hint that the British Navy was instituting a blockade no ship had dared to stir on the South American coast, except for the Helmond. She had been badly needed. Bolivar was marching on Caracas; a battle was imminent on which depended the entire Spanish control of Venezuela. Morillo and the Spanish army were in need of artillery. Now not only were they left destitute, but with this news it could be taken as certain that those guns, those two batteries of field artillery, were in Bolivar’s hands. The Spanish officer wrung his hands in despair.

Hornblower translated briefly for the Governor’s benefit, and Hooper shook his head in sympathy.

“Bolivar has those guns. No doubt about it. Gentlemen, I much regret this occurrence. But I must impress upon you that His Majesty’s Government assumes no responsibility for it. If your chiefs took no steps to detect this impostor—”

That touched off a new explosion. The British Government should make sure that no impostor wore its uniform or posed as an officer in its service. It called for all Hooper’s elephantine tact to quiet down the angry officers.

“If you will permit me to consult with the Admiral, gentlemen, we may reach some satisfactory conclusion.”

Alone with the Governor again Hornblower struggled with a smile; he had never outgrown his tendency to laugh during a crisis. There was something amusing in the thought that a cocked hat and a pair of epaulettes should change the course of a war; it was a tribute to the power of the Navy that a single tiny ship should exert such enormous pressure.

“Ramsbottom and his Venezuelan mother!” said Hooper. “It’s not merely piracy, it’s high treason. We shall have to hang him.”

“M’m,” said Hornblower. “He probably holds a privateering commission from Bolivar.”

“But masquerading as a British officer? Forging official documents?”

“That was a ruse of war. An American officer deceived the Portuguese authorities in Brazil in much the same way in 1812.”

“I’ve heard some things about you, too,” added Hooper with a grin.

“No doubt, sir. In war a belligerent who believes what he’s told is a fool.”

“But we’re not belligerents.”

“No, sir. And we’ve suffered no loss. The Dutch and the Spaniards have only themselves to blame.”

“But Ramsbottom’s a subject of His Majesty.”

“Quite true, sir. But if he holds Bolivar’s commission he can do things as an officer of the revolutionary forces which he could not do as a private person.”

“D’ye mean to suggest we ought to allow him to continue this blockade of his? Nonsense, man.”

“Of course not, sir. I’ll arrest him, and I’ll send his ship in for adjudication, at the first opportunity. But a friendly Power has asked you, sir, the representative of His Majesty, if you have instituted a blockade. You must do everything in your power to demonstrate the truth.”

“Now for once you’re talking like a sensible man. We must send word at once to Curaçao and Caracas. That will be your immediate duty. You’d better go in person.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll sail with the land breeze. Have you any further instructions for me, sir?”

“None whatever. What goes on on the high seas is your affair, not mine. You’re answerable to the Cabinet through the Admiralty. I don’t envy you, frankly.”

“No doubt I’ll survive, sir. I’ll sail for La Guaira, and send another vessel to Curaçao. Perhaps if Your Excellency were to write official replies to the enquiries addressed to you they would be ready by the time I sail?”

“I’ll draft ‘em now.” The Governor could not repress one further outburst. “This Ramsbottom—and his corned beef and caviare!”

“He used a sprat to catch a mackerel, Your Excellency,” said Hornblower.

So it came about that the crew of HMS Clorinda did not spend that night in the debauchery of Kingston as they had expected. Instead they worked until dawn completing with stores and water, so hard that they had no breath to spare to curse the Admiral who did these things to them. In the very first light of morning they warped their ship out with the aid of the faint puffs of the land breeze, and Clorinda, her Admiral’s flag flying at the mizzen, headed close-hauled to the south-eastward on her thousand-mile voyage to La Guaira. She had on board Brigadier-General Don Manuel Ruiz, Morillo’s representative, to whom Hornblower had offered a passage back to his headquarters. The man was in a fever to return and put an end to Ramsbottom’s blockade; it was clear that the royal forces in Venezuela were hard pressed. He had no thought for anything else during that voyage. The lovely sunsets meant to him merely that another day had gone by without his reaching his destination. The gallant way in which Clorinda held her course, close-hauled, shouldering the long rollers aside in showers of spray, held no fascination for him, for she was not flying before the wind at her best speed. At noon each day, when the ship’s position was pricked off on the chart, he would look long and despairingly, estimating by eye the further distance to be traversed. He had not had sufficient experience at sea to acquire the knack of resigning himself to the influence of forces beyond human control. When the wind drew southerly and foul, as it did for two days consecutively, he was clearly on the verge of accusing Hornblower of being in league with his enemies, and made no attempt to understand Hornblower’s soothing explanation that on the starboard tack on which Clorinda was compelled to lie they were making easting which might be invaluable in possible later eventualities. He resented the caution of Captain Fell which led to Clorinda’s shortening sail as they entered the dangerous proximity of Grand Cay, and at dawn next day he was climbing the foremast shrouds as high as he dared, looking out for the first sight of the mountains of Venezuela—and even then he did not recognise as land the blue streak which he saw.

A shore boat came out to them before ever they dropped anchor, and there was an urgent conference on Clorinda’s quarterdeck between Ruiz and the officer it brought out.

“My General is in Carabobo,” said Ruiz to Hornblower. “A battle is going to be fought. Bolivar is marching on Puerto Cabello, and my General has taken the army to meet him.”

“Where is Ramsbottom and his ship?”

Ruiz looked to the arrival for the information.

“Near Puerto Cabello.”

That was, of course, the likeliest place, a hundred miles or less to the westward, a roadstead where supplies might possibly be landed, and an ideal situation for intercepting all communications between Curaçao and La Guaira.

“Then I shall head for Puerto Cabello,” said Hornblower. “You can accompany me if you wish, Don Manuel. The wind is fair and I’ll land you there quicker than a horse would carry you.”

Ruiz hesitated for a moment; he knew all about horses and he was suspicious about ships. But the advantage was so obvious that he accepted.

“Very well, then,” said Hornblower. “Sir Thomas, we’ll hoist that anchor again, if you would be so kind. Set a course for Puerto Cabello.”

Now Clorinda had the lusty trade wind on her quarter, her best point of sailing; she had her studding sails out and every possible stitch of canvas out, and she flew along. A horse at full gallop might go faster, but no horse could do as Clorinda was doing and maintain full speed for hour after hour, nor could any horse ever attain full speed on the mountain tracks of the Maritime Andes. Naturally, no amount of speed could satisfy Ruiz. With telescope to his eye he watched the distant coast go by until his weary eye was almost blind, and then he paced about the quarterdeck, trickles of sweat running down his forehead and cheeks as the sun, climbing to its noontide height, blazed vertically down on him. He turned a suspicious eye on Hornblower when the crew of Clorinda poured aloft to take in sail.

“We are going in to shore now, General,” explained Hornblower soothingly.

The leadsmen were in the chains as Clorinda headed in towards the roadstead. In the middle of their chant Ruiz suddenly turned to Hornblower and stood rigid, listening to another, more distant, sound.

“Cannons!” he said.

Hornblower strained his ears. The faintest, almost imperceptible noise, and then silence, save for the sound of the ship through the water and the bustle of preparing to come to an anchor.

“Order the ‘still’ for a moment, if you please, Sir Thomas.”

Now the leadsmen ceased their chant, and every man in Clorinda stood silent, even though the wind still played through the rigging and the sea chattered alongside. A very distant, flat detonation. Another. Two more.

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. You may carry on now.”

“Cannons!” repeated Ruiz, glaring at Hornblower. “They are fighting the battle.”

Somewhere on the outskirts of Puerto Cabello Royalists and Republicans were locked in combat. And those guns that they had heard? They might well be those that the Helmond had carried, now in the hands of the insurgents and firing upon their legal owners. The fact that artillery was being employed indicated a pitched battle, no petty skirmish. Over there the fate of Venezuela was being decided. Ruiz was pounding his fist into his open palm.

“Sir Thomas, kindly have a boat ready to land the General without delay.”

As the gig pulled away from Clorinda’s side Hornblower looked up at the sun, called up before his mind’s eye the chart of the Venezuelan coast, and reached a further decision. As always in the Service, a long, dull interval had heralded a period of activity. As the gig came skimming back again he was ready with his next order.

“Will you be so good as to make sail again, Sir Thomas? We can continue to search to the westward for Ramsbottom while daylight lasts.”

It was desirable to obtain the earliest possible news of the result of the battle, but it was also, or more, desirable to lay hands on Ramsbottom as quickly as might be. They had not sighted him between La Guaira and Puerto Cabello; he could not be much farther along the coast. The sun was descending now, dazzling the lookouts as they peered towards it while Clorinda continued her course along the shores of the province of Carabobo. Not so far ahead the land trended abruptly northward to San Juan Point—a lee shore. It was curious that Ramsbottom should have gone even this far to leeward; unless he had put up his helm and headed clear away, guessing that his period of grace was at an end.

“Deck, there!” The lookout at the fore-topgallant masthead was hailing. “There’s summat on the port bow, just in sight. Right in the eye of the sun. But it may be a ship, sir. A ship’s masts an’ yards, sir, with no sail set.”

It would be incredible that Ramsbottom had anchored here on this dangerous lee shore. But incredible things have to be done in war. Clorinda had long ago taken in her studding sails. Now after a sharp order from Fell, and five minutes’ activity on the part of her crew, she was gliding along under topsails and headsails alone. The sun sank into a bank of cloud, suffusing it with scarlet.

“Deck there! Two ships, sir. At anchor. One of ‘em’s a brig, sir.”

A brig! Ramsbottom almost for certain. Now with the sun behind the cloud it was possible to train a telescope in the direction indicated. There they were, sharp and clear against the sunset, silhouetted in black against the scarlet cloud, the masts and yards of a ship and a brig at anchor. Sir Thomas was looking to Hornblower for orders.

“Approach as close as you consider advisable, if you please, Sir Thomas. And a boarding party ready to take possession.”

“An armed boarding party, My Lord?”

“As you please. He’ll never dare to oppose us by force.”

The guns of the brig were not run out, there were no boarding nettings rigged. In any case the little brig stood no chance in an unsheltered anchorage against a frigate.

“I’ll anchor if I may, My Lord.”

“Certainly.”

That was the Bride of Abydos, without a doubt. No mistaking her at all. And the other one? Most likely the Helmond. With the revolt of Maracaibo this part of the coast had fallen into the power of the insurgents. The batteries of field artillery that she had carried could be rafted ashore here—there was a beach in that little cove where it would be possible—and delivered to the insurgent army gathering for its march on Puerto Cabello. Ramsbottom, his task completed, would presumably be prepared to brazen it out, pleading—as Hornblower had already guessed—some privateering commission from Bolivar.

“I’ll go with the boarding party, Sir Thomas.”

Fell shot a questioning glance. Admirals had no business boarding strange craft from small boats, not only when bullets might fly, but when one of the infinite variety of accidents possible in small boats might lead to an elderly and not so active senior officer being dropped overside and never coming up again, with endless trouble later for the captain. Hornblower could follow Fell’s train of thought, but he was not going to wait quiescent on Clorinda’s quarterdeck until a report came back from the Bride of Abydos—not when a word would give him the power of finding out several minutes earlier.

“I’ll get your sword and pistols, My Lord,” said Gerard.

“Nonsense!” said Hornblower. “Look there!”

He had kept his telescope trained on the anchored ships, and had detected a significant activity around them. Boats were pulling hastily away from both of them and heading for the shore. Ramsbottom seemed to be absconding.

“Come along!” said Hornblower.

He ran to the ship’s side and leaped for the boat’s falls; sliding down, clumsily, cost him some of the skin from his soft palms.

“Cast off! Pull!” he ordered as Gerard tumbled in beside him. “Pull!”

The boat swung away from the ship’s side, soared giddily up a swell and down again, the men throwing their weight on the oars. But the boat that was leaving the Bride of Abydos was not being handled in the man-o’-war fashion one would have expected of Ramsbottom. The oars were being plied without any co-ordination; the boat swung round on the swell, and then as somebody caught a crab swung round again. In next to no time Hornblower found himself alongside the struggling craft. The men at the oars were not the spruce seamen he had seen on board the Bride of Abydos. They were swarthy men clothed in rags. Nor was that Ramsbottom in the stern-sheets. Instead, it was someone with a heavy black moustache wearing some vestiges of a blue and silver uniform. The reddening sunset glared down upon him.

“Who are you?” demanded Hornblower, and then repeated the question in Spanish.

The boat had ceased its struggles and was lying on its oars, rising and falling on the swell.

“Lieutenant Perez of the First Regiment of Infantry of the Army of Greater Colombia.”

Greater Colombia. That was what Bolivar called the republic he was trying to establish by his rebellion against Spain.

“Where is Mr. Ramsbottom?”

“The Admiral has been on shore for the last week.”

“The Admiral?”

“Don Carlos Ramsbottom y Santona, Admiral of the Navy of Greater Colombia.” An Admiral; no less.

“What were you doing on board that ship?”

“I was taking care of her until Your Excellency came.”

“Is there nobody on board, then?”

“Nobody.”

The boats soared up a swell and sank down again. It was a sickly thing to do, not conducive to logical thought. He had been prepared to arrest Ramsbottom, but it would be another matter to arrest a lieutenant of infantry, in territorial waters.

“Where is the crew of the ship?”

“On shore with the Admiral. With the army.”

Fighting for Bolivar, presumably. And presumably as artillerymen serving the stolen guns.

“Very well. You may go.”

It was sufficient to make sure of the Bride of Abydos; there was no purpose in laying hands on men of Bolivar’s army who had only been obeying the orders of their superiors.

“Lay me alongside the brig.”

In the fading light the deck of the Bride of Abydos was not in too great disorder. The departing crew had apparently left everything shipshape, and the caretaking party of South American soldiers had not disturbed anything—although below deck it would probably be a different story. But what would have happened if a gale had blown up in this perilous anchorage on a lee shore would not bear thinking about. Presumably Ramsbottom had not cared what happened to his little ship once he had brought off his coup.

“Ahoy! Ahoy!”

Someone was hailing through a speaking trumpet from the other ship. Hornblower took the speaking trumpet from its becket by the wheel and hailed back.

“I am Admiral Lord Hornblower of His Britannic Majesty’s Service. I am coming aboard.”

It was almost dark when he mounted to the deck of the Helmond, to be welcomed by the light of a couple of lanterns. The captain who greeted him was a thick-set man speaking excellent English with a marked accent, Dutch, presumably.

“You have not arrived too soon, sir,” was his uncompromising beginning, not the way to address any officer of the Royal Navy, certainly not an Admiral and a Peer.

“I’ll thank you to be civil,” snapped Hornblower, his temper frayed.

Two angry men faced each other in the wavering light, and then the Dutchman realised that it would be better to restrain his ill-temper in dealing with someone who, after all, had the power on this lonely coast to enforce any orders he might issue.

“Please come below, sir,” he said. “Perhaps a glass of Schnapps—?”

It was a comfortable, well-furnished cabin in which Hornblower was offered a seat and a glass.

“I was glad when I saw your topsails, sir,” said the Dutch captain. “For ten days I have been through misery. My ship—my cargo—this shore—”

The disjointed words conveyed the anxieties of finding himself in the hands of the insurgents, and of being compelled to anchor off a lee shore with an armed guard on board.

“What happened?” asked Hornblower.

“That damned little brig fired a shot across my bows with Bonaire still in sight. They boarded me when I hove-to. Put an armed party on board. I thought she was one of yours, a ship-of-war. They brought me here and anchored, and the army came out to us. That was when I knew she was not a ship-of-war, not British.

“Then they took your cargo?”

“They did. Twelve nine-pounder field guns, with limbers and caissons and horse harness. One ammunition waggon. One repair cart with tools. Two thousand rounds of ammunition. One ton of gunpowder in kegs. Everything.” The Dutchman was obviously quoting verbatim from his bill of lading.

“How did they get it ashore?”

“On rafts. Those Britishers worked like madmen. And there were seamen among them.”

It was a handsome admission, hardly grudging. Presumably keg-pontoons had been employed; Hornblower told himself that he would have tackled the problem of getting the cargo on to the beach in that way, at least. Presumably a good deal of unskilled labour had been provided on shore by the insurgent forces, but that hardly detracted from the achievement.

“And then every single man went off with the guns?” asked Hornblower.

“Every man. Not too many for twelve guns.”

Not too many. The Bride of Abydos carried a crew of some seventy-five men—hardly sufficient, in fact, to man two batteries in action.

“And they left a Venezuelan guard on board?”

“Yes. You saw them go when you came. They kept me here, at anchor on a lee shore.”

That, of course, was to prevent the Dutchman spreading the news of the fraud that had been practised.

“Those—those brigands knew nothing about ships.” The Dutchman was continuing his tale of tribulation. “The Desperate started dragging her anchor once. I had to send my own men—”

“You were lucky they didn’t burn your ship,” said Hornblower. “Luckier still they didn’t plunder it. You’re lucky not to be in some prison on shore.”

“That may be so, but—”

“As it is, sir,” said Hornblower, rising, “you are free. You can use the land breeze to make an offing. Tomorrow night you can anchor in Willemstadt.”

“But my cargo, sir? I have been detained. I have been in danger. My country’s flag—?”

“Your owners can take action as they please. I understand that Ramsbottom is a wealthy man. He can be sued for damages.”

“But—but—” The Dutchman could find no words that would express adequately his feelings regarding both his recent treatment and Hornblower’s scant sympathy.

“Your Government can address protests, of course. To the Government of Greater Colombia, or to King Ferdinand.” Hornblower kept his face expressionless as he made the ridiculous suggestion. “I must congratulate you, sir, on your escape from very serious dangers. I trust you will have a prosperous voyage home.”

He had freed the Helmond, and he had laid hands on the Bride of Abydos. That much he had accomplished so far, said Hornblower to himself as the boat took him back to Clorinda. The Governments at home could squabble over the legal details, if they cared to go to the trouble. What the Cabinet and the Admiralty would think about his actions he could not imagine; he was conscious of a slight chill of apprehension when his mind dwelt upon that side of the situation. But an Admiral could not show apprehension to anyone, certainly not to a captain as stupid as Sir Thomas Fell.

“I’ll be obliged, Sir Thomas,” he said, when he regained Clorinda’s deck, “if you will send a prize crew on board the brig. Would you please be good enough to instruct the officer whom you put in command to keep company with us? We shall sail for Puerto Cabello again as soon as it is convenient to you.”

Fell might be stupid, but he was a capable seaman. Hornblower could leave to him the anxious business of making his way back along the coast at night; the land breeze, fluky and unpredictable though it might be, afforded an opportunity which must not be missed of regaining the precious miles that had been squandered to leeward. Hornblower could go down into his stifling cabin and compose himself to sleep. It had been a busy day, and he was physically weary. He lay on his cot with the sweat trickling irritatingly over his ribs, trying to persuade his mind to cease from debating the situation. The British public was turning a kindly eye on the struggle for liberty that was being waged in every corner of the world. British volunteers were playing their part—Richard Church had been leading the Greek rebellion against the Turks for years now; Cochrane was at this very moment fighting in the Pacific for South American independence. For that matter, as he knew, thousands of British soldiers were serving in the ranks of Bolivar’s army just over there on the mainland. Private fortunes in England had been lavished in the cause of liberty, just as Ramsbottom had been lavishing his.

But none of this was any indication as to how the British Cabinet would react; national policy might well be at odds with national opinion. And the Lords of the Admiralty could be counted upon to be as unpredictable as ever. And that was equally true of His Majesty King George IV; Hornblower suspected that the First Gentleman of Europe had long ago forsaken his half-hearted liberalism. The near future might hold a severe reprimand for His Majesty’s Commander-in-Chief in the West Indies; it might even hold disavowal and recall.

Hornblower’s mind had now attained the comforting certainty that the future was uncertain, and that nothing he could do during the next few hours could change it. With that, he might well have gone to sleep; he was, in fact, on the point of dozing off when he brushed what he thought was a trickle of sweat from his bare ribs. It was not sweat. A flurry against his fingers told him it was a cockroach crawling over his skin, and he started up in disgust. The Caribbean was notorious for its cockroaches, but he had never grown to tolerate them. He walked across in the darkness and opened the door to the after cabin, admitting light from the lamp that swung there, and this revealed a dozen of the disgusting creatures scuttling about.

“My Lord?” It was the faithful Gerard hurrying out of bed as soon as he heard his Admiral stirring.

“Go back to bed,” said Hornblower.

He put on the silk nightshirt with the elaborate smocking down the front which had been laid out for him, and went on deck. The moon had risen now, and Clorinda was creeping steadily along with the land breeze now blowing fresh abeam. Cockroaches had driven away all thought of his troubles; he could lean against the rail and contemplate the beauties of the beautiful night with placidity. It fell calm at dawn, but half an hour later a fortunate slant of wind enabled Clorinda, and the Bride of Abydos a mile astern, to hold their course for Puerto Cabello; the town on its peninsula was already in sight through the telescope and Clorinda approached rapidly. There were fishing boats setting out from the town, small craft which were using oars to enable them to get to seaward despite the unfavourable wind. Something about them appeared strange in the telescope, and as Clorinda drew up to them it became apparent that they were crowded with people, ridiculously overloaded. But they plied their oars unceasingly, and boldly rounded the peninsula into the open sea, turning eastward towards La Guaira.

“I think General Morillo has lost his battle,” said Hornblower.

“Indeed, My Lord?” said Fell, deferentially.

“And I think there are plenty of people in Puerto Cabello who have no desire to be found there when El Liberador comes marching in,” added Hornblower.

He had heard that the war of independence was being waged with Spanish ferocity, that even Bolivar’s reputation had been clouded by executions and massacres. Here was a proof of it. But those crowded boats were also a proof that Puerto Cabello was expected to fall to Bolivar. He had won his battle of Carabobo; a victory in the open field so close to Caracas meant the certain collapse of the royal cause. Carabobo would be the Yorktown of the South American war of independence; no doubt about that. Presumably Ramsbottom would consider the loss of the Bride of Abydos as a small thing compared with the freeing of a continent.

It was necessary that all this should be confirmed without doubt, however. The Cabinet would be anxious for early and firsthand information regarding the situation in Venezuela.

“Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower, “I shall go ashore.”

“You’ll have an armed guard, My Lord?”

“As you will,” said Hornblower. A dozen seamen with muskets would hardly save him from the clutches of a conquering army, but agreement saved him from argument and reproachful looks.

By the time Hornblower set foot on the pier in the blinding sunlight the little harbour was deserted. Not a fishing boat was left, nor was there a human being in sight. He pressed on, his guard tramping behind him and Gerard at his side. The long, winding street was not quite deserted; there were a few women, a few old men, a few children to be seen, peering out of the houses. Then away to his right he heard a brief rattle of musketry, the reports sounding flat in the heavy, damp air. Now here came a ghastly column of sick and wounded, half-naked, hobbling along the road; some fell down to struggle to their feet again, and some, under Hornblower’s very eyes, fell, not to rise again, and of these some managed to roll to the side of the road while others lay still while their staggering comrades stumbled over them. Wounded, half-naked, barefooted, crazy with fever or bending double with abdominal pains, they came reeling along the road, while behind them the rattle of musketry came nearer and nearer. At the heels of the last of the wounded came the first of the rearguard, soldiers whose rags were faintly reminiscent of the blue and white of the Spanish royal army. Hornblower made a mental note that the royal forces still could provide a disciplined rearguard, and so were not in total rout, but the rearguard was woefully small, a couple of hundred men, perhaps; they were not keeping good order, but they were fighting a steady fight, biting open their cartridges, ramming home their charges, spitting their bullets into their musket barrels, and waiting in ones and twos behind cover to get a fair shot at their pursuers. A dozen officers, their drawn swords flashing in the sun, were among them. The mounted officer-in-command caught sight of Hornblower and his party and reined round his horse in astonishment.

“Who are you?” he shouted.

“English,” replied Hornblower.

But before another word could be exchanged the firing in the rear increased in intensity; not only that, but suddenly from out of a side lane level with the rearguard appeared a dozen horsemen, lancers, their spear points reflecting the sun, and the rearguard broke in disorder, running wildly down the road to escape being cut off. Hornblower saw a lance point enter between the shoulders of a running man, saw him fall on his face, sliding over the surface of the road for a yard before the lance point tore its way out again, leaving him struggling like a broken-backed animal. Over him swept the skirmishers of the insurgent advanced guard, a swarm of men of every shade of colour, running, loading, and firing. There was a moment when the air was full of bullets.

“My Lord—” expostulated Gerard.

“That’s all right. It’s all over now,” said Hornblower.

The fight had swept past them up the road; no one had paid them any attention save for the single question of the mounted Spanish officer. The small column of infantry marching in regular order behind the skirmishers saw them, however, saw the glittering gold, the epaulettes, and the cocked hats. Again a mounted officer wheeled towards them with the same question, to receive the same answer from Hornblower.

“Ingleses?” repeated the officer. “English? Why—you’re a British Admiral!”

“Commanding the British Squadron in West Indian waters,” said Hornblower.

“A pleasure to see you, sir. William Jones, late Captain, Twenty-Third Foot, now Major commanding a battalion in the Army of Greater Colombia.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Major.”

“Pardon me, but I must attend to my duties,” said Jones, wheeling his horse again.

“Hooray for England!” yelled someone in the marching ranks, and he was answered by a thin cheer; half of these ragged scarecrows must have been British, mingled indiscriminately with Negroes and South Americans. The cavalry followed them, regiment after regiment, a flood of men and horses filling the road like a river brimming its banks. Lancers and light horse, sore-backed horses and lame horses; most of the men had coiled ropes at their saddle bows, and they were all ragged and drooping in their saddles with fatigue; from the appearance of both men and beasts they had marched far and fought hard, and now they were pressing on to the limit of their strength after their defeated foe. A thousand men had passed, estimated Hornblower, judging the column as well as he could, when a new sound came to his ears through the monotonous trampling of the horses’ hoofs. A thumping and a jingling, loud and irregular. Here came the guns, dragged along by weary horses; at the heads of the horses walked men, ragged and bearded—they were wearing the remains of blue jumpers and white trousers. It was the crew of the Bride of Abydos. One of them lifted his weary head and recognised the party at the roadside.

“Good old Horny!” he shouted; his voice was thin with fatigue and sounded like an old man’s.

In the mounted officer riding alongside Hornblower recognised one of Ramsbottom’s lieutenants; he sat his plodding horse like a sailor, and raised his arm in a weary salute. One gun clattered by, and another followed it. The guns of Carabobo, which had won the independence of a continent.

Hornblower realised that he had not yet seen Ramsbottom, whom he would have expected to be at the head of the artillery column, but as the realisation came to him he saw something now beside the second gun. It was a horse litter, extemporised from two poles and some sheets of canvas. It was slung from two horses, one fore and one aft; the bight of canvas between the poles was shaded by an awning spread above it, and lying in the trough was a man, a smallish man, black-bearded, lying feebly against pillows behind his back. A seaman walked at the head of each horse, and with the plodding step of the animals the litter lurched and rolled, and the black-bearded man lurched and rolled at the same time. Yet he was able to takenote of the group by the roadside, and he made an effort to sit up, and he called an order to the seamen leading the horses which caused them to turn out of the road and stop by Hornblower.

“Good morning, My Lord,” he said; he spoke shrilly, like someone hysterical.

Hornblower had to look twice and more to recognise him. The black beard, the feverish eyes, the shocking dead pallor upon which the tan looked like some unnatural coating, all made identification difficult.

“Ramsbottom!” exclaimed Hornblower.

“The very same but a little different,” said Ramsbottom, with a cackling laugh.

“Are you wounded?” asked Hornblower; at the moment the words passed his lips he perceived that Ramsbottom’s left arm was concealed in a roll of rags—Hornblower had been looking so intently at the face that the arm had escaped his notice until then.

“I have made my sacrifice in the cause of liberty,” said Ramsbottom, with the same laugh—it might have been a laugh of derision or a laugh of mere hysteria.

“What happened?”

“My left hand lies on the field of Carabobo,” cackled Ramsbottom. “I doubt if it has received Christian burial.”

“Good God!”

“Do you see my guns? My beautiful guns. They tore the Dons apart at Carabobo.”

“But you—what treatment have you received?”

“Field surgery, of course. Boiling pitch for the stump. Have you ever felt boiling pitch, My Lord?”

“My frigate is anchored in the roadstead. The surgeon is on board—”

“No—oh no. I must go on with my guns. I must clear El Liberador’s path to Caracas.”

The same laugh. It was not derision—it was something the opposite. A man on the edge of delirium keeping a desperate hold on his sanity so as not to be diverted from his aim. Nor was it a case of a man laughing lest he weep. He was laughing lest he should indulge in heroics.

“Oh, you can’t—”

“Sir! Sir! My Lord!”

Hornblower swung round. Here was a midshipman from the frigate touching his hat, agitated by the urgency of his message.

“What is it?”

“Message from the cap’n, My Lord. Ships-of-war in sight in the offing. A Spanish frigate an’ what looks like a Dutch frigate, My Lord. Bearing down on us.”

Desperate news indeed. He must have his flag flying in Clorinda to meet these strangers, but it was a maddening moment in which to be told about it. He turned back to Ramsbottom and back again to the midshipman, his customary quickness of thought not as apparent as usual.

“Very well,” he rasped. “Tell the captain I’m coming immediately.”

“Aye aye, My Lord.” He turned again to Ramsbottom.

“I must go,” he said. “I must—”

“My Lord,” said Ramsbottom. Some of his feverish vitality had left him. He was leaning back again on his pillows, and it took him a second or two to gather his strength to speak again, and when he did the words lagged as he uttered them. “Did you capture the Bride, My Lord?”

“Yes.” He must end this; he must get back to his ship.

“My bonny Bride. My Lord, there’s another keg of caviare in the after lazarette. Please enjoy it, My Lord.”

The cackling laugh again. Ramsbottom was still laughing as he lay back with his eyes closed, not hearing the hurried ‘goodbye’ which Hornblower uttered as he turned away. It seemed to Hornblower as if that laugh followed him while he hastened to the pier and down into the boat.

“Shove off! Put your backs into it!”

There lay Clorinda at anchor, with the Bride of Abydos close to her. And there, undoubtedly, were the topsails of two frigates heading in towards them. He scrambled up the ship’s side with hardly a moment to spare for the compliments with which he was received. He was too busy taking in the tactical situation, the trend of the shore, the position of the Bride of Abydos, the approach of the strangers.

“Hoist my flag,” he ordered, curtly, and then, recovering his poise, with the customary elaborate politeness, “Sir Thomas, I’d be obliged if you’d get springs on the cable, out of the after ports on both sides.”

“Springs, My Lord? Aye aye, My Lord.”

Cables passed through the after ports to the anchor cable; by hauling in on one or the other with the capstan he could turn the ship to bring her guns to bear in any direction. It was only one of the many exercises Hornblower had put his crews through during the recent manoeuvres. It called for heavy, closely co-ordinated labour on the part of the hands. Orders were bellowed; warrant and petty officers ran at the heads of their different parties to rouse out the cables and drag them aft.

“Sir Thomas, please order the brig to kedge closer in. I want her inshore of us.”

“Aye aye, My Lord.”

Now it became apparent that there was some time in hand. The approaching frigates, hull up now when a glass was trained on them from the quarterdeck, were shortening sail, and then, even while Hornblower held them in the field of his telescope, he saw their main-topsails suddenly broaden as they were swung round. They were heaving-to, and a moment later he saw a boat lowered from the Dutch frigate and pull to the Spanish one. That would mean a consultation, presumably. Thanks to the difference of language they could hardly be expected to agree on a course of action by signal nor even by speaking trumpet.

“The Spaniard’s wearing a commodore’s broad pendant, Sir Thomas. Will you please be ready to salute it as soon as he salutes my flag?”

“Aye aye, My Lord.”

The consultation took some little time, the second half of one sandglass and the beginning of the next. A monstrous creaking down below, and a clanking of the capstan, told that the springs were being tested. Clarinda swung a trifle to starboard, and then a trifle to port.

“Springs are tested and ready, My Lord.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. Now will you be good enough to send the hands to quarters and clear for action?”

“Clear for action? Aye aye, My Lord.”

It was a detestable nuisance to take this precaution. It meant that his bedding and books and personal equipment down below would be swept away in a horrible muddle that might take days to straighten. But on the other hand, if those frigates came down determined to fight, his reputation would never survive being unready for them. It would be chaos to try to clear away the guns and bring up cartridges while actually under fire; the battle—if there were to be a battle—would be lost before it was begun. And there was something of the old thrill about these preparations; the pealing of the whistles, the hoarse cries of the petty officers, the orderly rush of the men to the guns, the tramp of the marines to the quarterdeck, and the sharp order of their officer as they dressed into a rigid line.

“Ship cleared for action, My Lord.”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. Stand by, if you please.”

There would have been just time even if the strangers had come instantly down and gone into action without parley. By a rapid use of his springs he would rake the first-comer thoroughly enough to have made her captain wish he had never been born. Now he must wait, and the ship’s company, standing by their guns, must wait with him, the matches smouldering in their tubs, the fire parties standing by with their buckets, the powder boys, cartridge carriers in hand, waiting to start their race from powder magazine to guns and back again.

“Here they come, My Lord!”

Those topsails were narrowing again; those masts were coming into line. Now the frigates’ bows were pointed straight at Clorinda as they came towards her. Hornblower held them steady in his telescope; no guns were run out, he could see, but it was impossible to tell if they were cleared for action. Nearer and nearer; now they were almost within extreme random cannon shot. At that moment there was a puff of smoke from the Spaniard’s starboard bow, and for the life of him Hornblower could not check a gulp of excitement. The breeze blew the puff away, and then the puff was replaced by another; as the second appeared, the heavy thud of the first discharge came to Hornblower’s ears. There was a momentary temptation to plunge into the luxury of mental arithmetic, involving the speed of sound conveyed over water, and the five seconds’ interval between saluting guns, and the distance between the ships, but it had to be foregone.

“You may return the salute to the broad pendant, Sir Thomas.”

“Aye aye, My Lord.”

Thirteen guns for a Rear Admiral’s flag; eleven for a Commodore; twenty-four guns, one hundred and twenty seconds, exactly two minutes; those ships, approaching at four miles in the hour would be a cable’s length closer at the end of the salutes, within distant gunshot.

“Sir Thomas, I would be glad if you would take several turns upon the starboard spring.”

“Aye aye, My Lord.”

The violent creaking made itself heard again, and Clorinda turned herself to present her broadside towards the newcomers. No harm whatever in letting them know that a hot reception was awaiting them if they intended mischief; it might save much trouble later.

“They’re taking in sail, my Lord!”

So he could see for himself, but there was nothing to be gained by saying so. The two ships obviously had heavy crews, judging by the rapidity with which sail was got in. Now round they went, up into the wind. Hornblower believed he could hear the roar of the cables as they anchored. It seemed like a decisive moment, and Hornblower was about to mark it by shutting up his telescope with a snap when he saw a boat lowering from the Spaniard.

“I fancy we’ll be having a visitor shortly,” said Hornblower.

The boat seemed to fly over the glittering water; the men at the oars were pulling like madmen—presumably the eternal desire of the men of one navy to show another navy what they could do.

“Boat ahoy!” hailed the officer of the watch.

The Spanish officer in the sternsheets, conspicuous by his epaulettes, hailed back; Hornblower could not be sure of what he said, but the letter that was waved at the same time told the story.

“Receive him on board, if you please, Sir Thomas.”

The Spanish lieutenant looked sharply round him as he came over the ship’s side; no harm in his seeing the men at quarters and the preparations made. He picked out Hornblower at once, and with a salute and a bow presented his letter.

Su excellencia el Almirante Sir Hornblower, said the superscription.

Hornblower broke the seal; he could read the Spanish of the letter easily enough.

In Spanish naval usage, Hornblower knew, ‘Brigadier’ was equivalent to ‘Commodore’.

“I’ll write a reply,” said Hornblower. “Sir Thomas, please make this gentleman welcome. Come with me, Gerard.”

Down below, with the ship cleared for action, it was a nuisance to hunt up writing paper and ink; it was even more of a nuisance to have to compose a letter in Spanish, for in writing misspellings and bad grammar would be far more evident than in speech. Luckily the Brigadier’s letter itself supplied most of the spelling and the tricky conditional form.

Sealing wax and seal and candle had to be discovered; it would never do to appear careless about these formalities.

“Very well,” said Hornblower, giving grudging approval of the second impression after the failure of the first attempt. “Take a boat to the Bride of Abydos as quick as lightning and see if there’s any of that sherry left which Ramsbottom served at his dinner party.”

The Brigadier, when he came up Clorinda’s side, to be received with the appropriate compliments, was followed by another figure in cocked hat and epaulettes. Hornblower bowed and saluted and introduced himself.

“I took the liberty of asking Captain Van der Maesen, of the Royal Netherlands Navy, to accompany me,” said the Brigadier.

“It is with much pleasure that I welcome Captain Van der Maesen on board,” said Hornblower. “Perhaps you gentlemen will accompany me below. I regret very much that we will not be very comfortable, but, as you see, I have been exercising my crew in their duties.”

A screen had been hurriedly run across the after part of the frigate, and the table and chairs replaced. The Brigadier sipped with increasing and astonished appreciation at the glass of wine offered him. Inevitably several minutes passed in desultory conversation—Spanish was the one language the three had in common—before the Brigadier began to discuss business.

“You have a beautiful ship here, milord,” he said. “I regret much to find you in company with a pirate.”

“You mean the Bride of Abydos, señor?”

“Naturally, milord.”

Hornblower saw a trap opening before him.

“You call her a pirate, señor?”

“What do you call her, milord?”

“I am waiting to hear your opinion, señor.” It was important not to commit himself.

“Her actions call for explanation, milord. She has captured and plundered a Dutch ship. That can be interpreted as an act of piracy. On the other hand it might be said she is operating under a so-called commission issued by the rebels in Venezuela. In the one case Captain Van der Maesen will seize her as a pirate. On the other, if she is a privateer, I will seize her as an enemy of my country.”

“In neither case, señor, has a court of law determined her status. In the meanwhile, gentlemen, she is in my possession.”

Hats were in the ring now. Hornblower met the eyes of the others with the least expression he could manage. Of one thing he was certain, that whatever might be eventually decided regarding the Bride of Abydos neither the British Government nor the British public would approve of his tamely allowing her to be taken out of his hands.

“Milord, I have assured Captain Van der Maesen of my support in any action he may decide to take, and he has given me the same assurance.”

The Dutch captain confirmed this with a nod and a half-intelligible sentence. Two to one, in other words; odds that Clorinda could not hope to face.

“Then I hope, gentlemen, I hope very sincerely indeed, that you decide upon approving of my course of action.”

It was the politest way of defying them that he could think of.

“I find it very hard to believe, milord, that you extend the I protection of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy to pirates, or to privateers in a war in which His Majesty is neutral.”

“You may have noticed, señor, that the Bride of Abydos is flying His Britannic Majesty’s flag. Of course, you understand that as a naval officer I cannot permit that flag to be hauled down.”

There it was, the ultimate defiance. Ten minutes from now and the guns might be firing. Ten minutes from now and this deck might be littered with dead and wounded. He might be dead himself. The Spaniard looked at the Dutchman and back to Hornblower.

“We would much regret taking strong action, milord.”

“I am delighted to hear that, señor. That confirms me in my decision. We can part the best of friends.”

“But—”

The Brigadier had not intended his last sentence to be interpreted as a sign of yielding. He had been uttering, he thought, a further threat. Hornblower’s interpretation of it left him speechless for a moment.

“I am overjoyed to find that we are in agreement, gentlemen. Perhaps we can drink the healths of our sovereigns in another glass of this wine, señor—and may I take this opportunity of acknowledging the debt the rest of the world owes to your country for such an exquisite production?”

By taking their withdrawal for granted he was giving them a chance of withdrawing gracefully. The bitter moment of admitting that they had been outfaced had come and gone before they had realised it. Once more the Spaniard and the Dutchman exchanged unavailing glances, and Hornblower seized the opportunity to pour more wine.

“To His Most Catholic Majesty, señor. To His Majesty the King of the Netherlands.”

He held his glass high. They could not refuse that toast, even though the Brigadier’s mouth still opened and shut as he struggled to find words for his emotions. Common politeness forced the Brigadier to complete the toast, as Hornblower waited, glass in hand.

“To His Britannic Majesty.”

They drank together.

“This has been a delightful visit, gentlemen,” said Hornblower. “Another glass? No? It cannot be that you are leaving so soon? But I expect you have many duties calling for your attention.”

As the side boys, white-gloved, formed up at the entry port, and the bosun’s mates pealed upon their whistles, and the ship’s company, still at their guns, stood to attention, in compliment to the departing visitors, Hornblower could spare a moment to glance round. Those side boys and bosun’s mates and gun’s crews might be facing imminent death at this moment if that interview had taken a more stormy course. He deserved their gratitude, but of course he would never receive it. Shaking hands with the Brigadier he made the final clarification of the situation.

“A prosperous voyage, señor. I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again. I shall be sailing for Kingston as soon as the land breeze serves.”

One of Barbara’s regular letters, received months later, helped to round off the incident.

My dearest husband, (wrote Barbara as usual, and, as usual Hornblower read those words with a smile. There were several sheets to the letter, and the first sheet contained much of interest to Hornblower, but it was not until the second sheet that Barbara began her usual society and professional gossip.)