The Happy Return

Chapter III

Polwheal was waiting with his dinner in the cabin. Hornblower meditated for a moment upon the desirability of a dinner of fat salt pork at noontide in the tropics. He was not in the least hungry, but the desire to appear a hero in the eyes of his steward overrode his excited lack of appetite. He sat down and ate rapidly for ten minutes, forcing himself to gulp down the distasteful mouthfuls. Polwheal, too, was watching every movement he made with desperate interest. Under his avid gaze he rose and walked through, stooping his head under the low deck, to his sleeping cabin and unlocked his desk.

“Polwheal!” he called.

“Sir!” said Polwheal instantly appearing at the door.

“Get out my best coat and put the new epaulettes on it. Clean white trousers—no, the breeches and the best white silk stockings. The buckled shoes, and see that the buckles shine. And the sword with the gold hilt.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Polwheal.

Back in the main cabin Hornblower stretched himself on the locker below the stern window and once more unfolded his secret Admiralty orders. He had read them so often that he almost knew them by heart, but it was prudent to make certain that he understood every word of them. They were comprehensive enough, in all conscience. Some Admiralty clerk had given his imagination loose rein in the wording of them. The first ten paragraphs covered the voyage up to the present; firstly the need for acting with the utmost possible secrecy so that no hint could reach Spain of the approach of a British frigate to the Pacific shores of her possessions. ‘You are therefore requested and required—’ to sight land as little as possible on the voyage, and ‘you are hereby entirely prohibited—’ from coming within sight of land at all in the Pacific until the moment of his arrival at the mouth of the Gulf of Fonseca. He had obeyed these orders to the letter, although there were few enough captains in the service who could have done and who would have done. He had brought his ship here all the way from England without seeing any land save for a glimpse of Cape Horn, and if he had allowed Crystal to have his way regarding the course to be set a week ago, the ship would have gone sailing into the Gulf of Panama, completely forfeiting all possibility of secrecy.

Hornblower wrenched his mind away from the argument regarding the amount of compass variation to be allowed for in these waters and forced himself to concentrate on a further study of his orders. ‘You are hereby requested and required—’ to form an alliance as soon as he reached the Gulf of Fonseca with Don Julian Alvarado, who was a large landowner with estates along the western shore of the bay. Don Julian intended, with the help of the British, to rise in rebellion against the Spanish monarchy. Hornblower was to hand over to him the five hundred muskets and bayonets, the five hundred pouchbelts, and the million rounds of small arm ammunition which were to be provided at Portsmouth, and he was to do everything which his discretion dictated to ensure the success of the rebellion. If he were to think it necessary, he could present to the rebels one or more of the guns of his ship, but the fifty thousand guineas in gold which were entrusted to him as well were only to be disbursed if the rebellion would fail without them, on pain of his being brought to a court-martial. He was to succour the rebels to the utmost of his power, even to the extent of recognising Don Julian Alvarado’s sovereignty over any territory that he might conquer, provided that in return Don Julian would enter into commercial treaties with His Britannic Majesty.

This mention of commercial treaties apparently had acted as an inspiration to the Admiralty clerk, for the next ten paragraphs dealt in highflown detail with the pressing necessity for opening Spanish possessions to British commerce. Peruvian balsam and logwood, cochineal and gold, were awaiting exchange for British manufactures. The clerk’s quill had fairly dipped with excitement as it penned these details in a fair round hand. Furthermore, there was an arm of the bay of Fonseca, called, it was believed, the Estero Real, which approached closely to the inland lake of Managua, which was thought to communicate with the lake of Nicaragua, which drained to the Caribbean by the river San Juan. Captain Hornblower was requested and required to do his utmost to open up this route across the isthmus to British commerce, and he was to guide Don Julian’s efforts in this direction.

It was only after Don Julian’s rebellion should be successful and all this accomplished that the orders went on to give Captain Hornblower permission to attack the treasure ships to be found in the Pacific, and moreover no shipping was to be interfered with if doing so should give offense to those inhabitants who might otherwise be favourable to the rebellion. For Captain Hornblower’s information it was noted that the Spaniards were believed to maintain in these waters a twodecked ship of fifty guns, by the name the Natividad, for the enforcement of the royal authority. Captain Hornblower was therefore requested and required to ‘take, sink, burn or destroy’ this ship at the first opportunity.

Lastly, Captain Hornblower was ordered to open communications as soon as might be convenient with the Rear Admiral commanding the Leeward Islands station for the purpose of receiving further orders.

Captain Hornblower folded up the crackling paper again and fell into contemplation. Those orders were the usual combination of the barely possible and the quite Quixotic, which a captain on detached service might expect to receive. Only a landsman would have given those opening orders to sail to the Gulf of Fonseca without sighting other land in the Pacific—only a succession of miracles (Hornblower gave himself no credit for sound judgment and good seamanship) had permitted of their being carried out.

Starting a rebellion in the Spanish American colonies had long been a dream of the British government—a dream which had been a nightmare to the British officers ordered to make it a reality. Admiral Popham and Admiral Stirling, General Beresford and General Whitelocke, had, during the last three years, all lost in honour and reputation in repeated efforts to raise rebellion on the River Plate.

Opening up a channel to British trade across the Isthmus of Darien had long been a similar dream cherished by Admiralty clerks with small scale maps before them and no practical experience. Thirty years ago Nelson himself, as a young captain, had nearly lost his life in command of an expedition up that very river San Juan which Hornblower was ordered to clear from its source.

And to crown it all was the casual mention of the presence of a fiftygun ship of the enemy. It was typical of Whitehall to send a thirtysix gun frigate so lightly to attack an enemy of nearly double that force. The British navy had been so successful in single ship duels during these wars that by now victory was expected of its ships against any odds. If by any chance the Natividad should overwhelm the Lydia no excuse would be accepted. Hornblower’s career would be wrecked. Even if the inevitable courtmartial did not break him, he would be left to languish on half pay for the rest of his life. Failure to capture the Natividad, failure to start a successful rebellion, failure to open the isthmus to trade—any one of these quite probable failures would mean a loss of reputation, of employment, of having to face his wife on his return condemned as a man inferior to his fellows.

Having contemplated all these gloomy possibilities Hornblower thrust them aside with determined optimism. First and foremost he must make contact with this Don Julian Alvarado, which seemed to be a duty involving some little interest and only small difficulty. Later there would be treasure ships to capture and prize money to be won. He would not allow himself to worry about the rest of the future. He heaved himself off the locker and strode back to his sleeping cabin.

Ten minutes later he stepped up on the quarterdeck; he noted with sardonic amusement how his officers tried without success to appear not to notice his splendid best coat with the epaulettes, his silk stockings, his shoes with the cut steel buckles, his cocked hat and his gold-hilted sword. Hornblower cast a glance at the fast nearing shore.

“Beat to quarters, Mr. Bush,” he said. “Clear for action.”

The roll of the drum set the ship into a wild fury as the watch below came tumbling up. Urged on by the cries and blows of the petty officers the crew flung themselves into the business of getting the ship ready for action. The decks were soused with water and strewn with sand; the bulkheads were knocked away; the fire parties took their places at the pumps; the boys ran breathless with cartridges for the guns; down below the purser’s steward who had been appointed acting surgeon was dragging together the midshipmen’s chests in the cockpit to make an operating table.

“We’ll have the guns loaded and run out, if you please, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower.

That was only a sensible precaution to take, seeing that the ship was about to sail before the wind straight into Spanish territory. The guns’ crews cast off the trappings of the breeches, tugged desperately at the train tackles to draw the guns inboard, rammed home the powder and the shot, depressed the gun muzzles, strained madly at the gun tackles, and ran the guns out through the opened ports.

“Ship cleared for action. Ten minutes twenty one seconds, sir,” said Bush as the last rumble died away. For the life of him he still could not tell whether this was an exercise or in earnest, and it gratified Hornblower’s vanity to leave him in doubt.

“Very good, Mr. Bush. Send a good man with the lead into the main chains, and make ready to anchor.”

The breeze off the sea was strengthening every minute now, and the Lydia’s speed was steadily increasing. With his glass from the quarterdeck Hornblower could see every detail of the entrance to the bay, and the broad westerly channel between Conchaquita Island and the westerly mainland which the chart assured him afforded twenty fathoms for five miles inland. But there was no trusting these Spanish charts.

“What have you in the chains, there?” called Hornblower.

“No ground with this line, sir.”

“How many fathom have you out? Pass along the deep sea line.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

A dead hush descended on the ship, save for the eternal harping of the rigging and the chatter of the water under the stern.

“No ground, sir, within a hundred fathom.”

The shore must be very steepto, then, because they were within two miles of land now. But there was no purpose in risking running aground under full sail.

“Get the courses in,” said Hornblower. “Keep that lead going in the chains, there.”

Under topsails alone the Lydia crept in towards land. Soon a cry from the chains announced that bottom had been reached in a hundred fathoms, and the depth diminished steadily at every cast. Hornblower would have been glad to know what was the state of the tide—if he was going aground at all it would be far better to do so on the flow than on the ebb—but there was no possible means of calculating that. He went halfway up the mizzen rigging to get a better view, everyone else in the ship save for the man in the chains was standing rigid in the blinding heat. They were almost in the entrance channel now. Hornblower sighted some driftwood afloat on the near side, and training his glass on it, he saw that it was floating in up the bay. The tide was making, then; better and better.

“By the deep nine,” chanted the leadsman.

So much for the Dago chart which indicated ten fathoms.

“And a half eight.”

The channel was shoaling fast. They would have to anchor soon in this case.

“And a half eight.”

Plenty of water still for the present. Hornblower called down to the helmsman, and the Lydia swung to starboard round the slight bend.

“And a half eight.”

Well enough still. The Lydia steadied on her new course.

“By the mark seven.”

Hornblower’s eyes searched the channel in an attempt to determine the line of deepest water.

“By the mark seven.”

An order from Hornblower edged the Lydia towards the further side. Bush quietly sent the men to the braces to trim the yards on the new course.

“And a half eight.”

That was better.

“By the deep nine.”

Better still. The Lydia was well up the bay now, and Hornblower could see that the tide was still making. They crept on over the glassy water, with the leadsman chanting monotonously, and the steep conical mountain in the middle of the bay drawing nearer.

“Quarter less eight,” called the leadsman.

“Are the anchors clear?” asked Hornblower.

“All clear, sir.”

“By the mark seven.”

No useful object could be served in going in farther.

“Let go the anchor.”

The cable roared through the hawsehole while the watch sprang to furl the topsails, and the Lydia swung round to wind and tide while Hornblower descended to the quarterdeck.

Bush blinked at him as at a miracle worker. Seven weeks after sighting the Horn, Hornblower had brought the Lydia straight in to her destination; he had arrived in the afternoon with the sea breeze and a flowing tide to bring him in, and if there were danger for them here nightfall would soon bring them the ebb tide and the land breeze to take them out again. How much was fluke and how much was calculation Bush could not guess, but as his opinion of Hornblower’s professional merit was far higher than Hornblower himself cherished he was inclined to give him more credit than was really his due.

“Keep the watch at quarters, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. “Dismiss the watch below.”

With the ship a mile from any possible danger and cleared for action there was no need to keep every man at his station. The ship broke into a cheerful buzz as the watch below lined the rails to stare out at this land of green jungle and grey rock, but Hornblower was puzzled for a moment, wondering what to do next. The excitement of bringing the ship into an unknown harbour had prohibited his usual careful planning of his next step. His mind was made up for him by a hail from the lookout.

“Deck there! Boat putting out from shore. Two points abaft the starboard beam.”

A double speck of white was creeping out towards them; Hornblower’s glass resolved it into an open boat under two tiny lateen sails, and as she drew nearer he could see that she was manned by half a dozen swarthy men wearing wide straw hats. She hoveto fifty yards away, and someone stood up in the stern sheets and shouted across the water with hands cupped round his mouth. It was Spanish that he spoke.

“Is that an English ship?” he asked.

“Yes. Come on board,” replied Hornblower. Two years as a prisoner of Spain had given him the opportunity of learning the language—he had long before decided that it was merely on account of this accomplishment that he had been selected for this special service.

The boat ran alongside and the man who had hailed scrambled lightly up the ladder to the deck. He stopped at the side and looked round him with a certain curiosity at the spotless decks and the rigid order which prevailed on every hand. He wore a sleeveless black waistcoat aflame with gold embroidery; beneath it a dirty white shirt, and on his legs dirty white trousers terminating raggedly just below the knees. His feet were bare, and in a red sash round his waist he carried two pistols and a short heavy sword. He spoke Spanish as his native tongue, but he did not look like a Spaniard; the black hair which hung over his ears was long, lustreless, and lank; there was a tinge of red in his brown complexion and a tinge of yellow in the whites of his eyes. A long thin moustache drooped from his upper lip. His eyes at once picked out the captain, gorgeous in his best coat and cocked hat, and he advanced towards him It was in anticipation of just such a meeting that Hornblower had donned his best, and he was pleased with his foresight now.

“You are the captain, sir?” asked the visitor.

“Yes. Captain Horatio Hornblower of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Lydia, at your service. And whom have I the pleasure of welcoming?”

“Manuel Hernandez, lieutenant general of el Supremo.”

“El Supremo?” asked Hornblower, puzzled. The name was a little difficult to render into English. Perhaps ‘The Almighty’ might be the nearest translation.

“Yes, of el Supremo. You were expected here four months, six months back.”

Hornblower thought quickly. He dared not disclose the reason of his coming to any unauthorized person, but the fact that this man knew he was expected seemed to indicate that he was a member of Alvarado’s conspiracy.

“It is not to el Supremo that I am ordered to address myself,” he temporized. Hernandez made a gesture of impatience.

“Our lord el Supremo was known to men until lately as His Excellency Don Julian Maria de Jesus de Alvarado y Moctezuma,” he said.

“Ah!” said Hornblower. “It is Don Julian that I want to see.”

Hernandez was clearly annoyed by this casual mention of Don Julian.

“El Supremo,” he said, laying grave accent on the name, “has sent me to bring you into his presence.”

“And where is he?”

“He is in his house.”

“And which is his house?”

“Surely it is enough, Captain, that you should know that el Supremo requires your attendance.”

“Do you think so? I would have you know, señor, that a captain of one of His Britannic Majesty’s ships is not accustomed to being at anyone’s beck and call. You can go, if you like, and tell Don Julian so.”

Hornblower’s attitude indicated that the interview was at an end. Hernandez went through an internal struggle, but the prospect of returning to face el Supremo without bringing the captain with him was not alluring.

“The house is there,” he said sullenly, at last, pointing across the bay. “On the side of the mountain. We must go through the town which is hidden behind the point to get there.”

“Then I shall come. Pardon me for a moment, General.”

Hornblower turned to Bush, who was standing by with the half puzzled, half admiring expression on his face so frequently to be seen when a man is listening to a fellow countryman talking fluency in an unknown language.

“Mr. Bush,” he said, “I am going ashore, and I hope I shall return soon. If I do not, if I am not back nor have written to you by midnight, you must take steps to ensure the safety of the ship. Here is the key of my desk. You have my orders that at midnight you are to read the government’s secret orders to me, and to act on them as you think proper.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush. There was anxiety in his face, and Hornblower realised with a thrill of pleasure that Bush was actually worried about his captain’s well being. “Do you think—is it safe for you on shore alone, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Hornblower, with honest indifference. “I must go, that is all.”

“We’ll bring you off, sir, safe and sound, if there is any hanky-panky.”

“You’ll see after the safety of the ship first,” snapped Hornblower, visualizing a mental picture of Bush with a valuable landing party blundering about in the feverhaunted jungles of Central America. Then he turned to Hernandez. “I am at your service, señor.”