The Happy Return

Chapter VII

The Captain of the Lydia was taking his usual morning walk on the quarterdeck of his ship. Half a dozen Spanish officers had attempted, on his first appearance, to greet him with formal courtesy, but they had been hustled away by the Lydia’s crew, indignant that their captain’s walk, sacrosanct after so many months, should be disturbed by mere prisoners.

The captain had a good deal to think about, too—so much, in fact, that he could spare no time to rejoice in the knowledge that his frigate last night, in capturing a twodecker without losing a man, had accomplished a feat without precedent in the long annals of British naval history. He wanted instead to think about his next move. With the capture of the Natividad he was lord of the South Sea. He knew well enough that the communications by land were so difficult that the whole trade—the whole life, it might he said—of the country depended upon the coastwise traffic; and now not a boat could move without his licence. In fifteen years of warfare he had learned the lessons of sea power. There was at least a chance now that with Alvarado’s aid he might set the whole of Central America into such a flame that the Spanish Government would rue the day when they had decided to throw in their lot with Bonaparte.

Hornblower paced up and down the sanded deck. There were other possibilities, too. North westward along the coast lay Acapulco, whither came and whence departed yearly galleons bearing a million sterling in treasure. The capture of a galleon would at a stroke make him a wealthy man—he could buy an estate in England then; could buy a whole village and be a squire, with the country folk touching their hats to him as he drove by in his coach. Maria would like that, although he could not imagine Maria playing the part of a great lady with any grace.

Hornblower tore his mind away from the contemplation of Maria snatched from her Southsea lodgings and settled in a country home. To the east was Panama, with its stored silver from Peru, its pearling fleet, its whitewashed golden altar which had escaped Morgan but would not escape him. A blow there, at the central knot of the transcontinental communications, would be the best strategy perhaps, as well as being potentially profitable. He tried to think about Panama.

Forward Sullivan, the redhaired Irish vagabond, was perched on a carronade slide with his fiddle, and round him a dozen sailors, their horny feet flapping on the deck, were setting to partners. Twenty-five guineas apiece, at least, the men would get as prize money for the capture of Natividad, and they were already spending it in imagination. He looked across to where the Natividad swung at anchor. Her waist was black with her crew, crammed on her upper deck. On her old-fashioned poop and quarterdeck he could see the red coats and shakoes of his marines, and he could see, too, the carronades pointing down into the waist and the men posted beside them with lighted matches. Gerard, whom he had left on board as prizemaster, had served in a Liverpool slaver in his day and knew well how to keep a ship full of hostile humanity in subjection—although, parted from their officers, Hornblower for one did not anticipate trouble from the crew.

Hornblower knew that he must make up his mind about what to do with the Natividad, and more especially with his prisoners. He could not hand them over to the tender mercies of el Supremo; his own crew would hardly permit that. He tried to think about the problem. A long line of pelicans came flying by, more rigid in their formation that the Channel fleet at drill. A frigate bird, superb with its forked tail, came wheeling above them with motionless wings, and having obviously decided that they were not worth plundering, swooped away again towards the island where the cormorants were fishing industriously. The sun was already hot and the water of the bay was as blue as the sky above.

Hornblower cursed sun and pelicans and frigate birds as he tried to concentrate on the problems before him. He paced moodily up and down the deck another half dozen times. Then Midshipman Knyvett barred his way, touching his hat.

“What the devil is it now?” snapped Hornblower.

“Boat coming alongside, sir. Mr—Mr. Hernandez on board.”

That was only to be expected.

“Very good,” said Hornblower, and went down the gangway to greet Hernandez as he came up the side. Hernandez wasted no time on felicitations for the late victory. In the service of el Supremo apparently even Spanish-Americans grew abrupt and businesslike.

“El Supremo wishes to see you at once, Captain,” said Hernandez. “My boat is waiting.”

“Indeed,” said Hornblower. He knew well that dozens of his brother captains in the British service would be infuriated at such a cavalier message. He toyed with the idea of sending back to tell el Supremo to come out to the ship himself if he wanted to interview her captain. But he knew that it would be foolish to imperil his cordial relations with the shore, upon which so much of his success depended, upon a mere question of dignity. The captain of the Natividad could afford to overlook the presumption of others.

A compromise suggested itself to him; he could keep Hernandez waiting for an hour or two so as to bolster up his own dignity. But his commonsense rejected the notion. Hornblower hated compromises, and this one would only (like most compromises) irritate one side and do no good to the other. Far better to put his pride in his pocket and to come at once.

“Certainly,” he said. “My duties leave me free at the moment.”

But this time, at least there was no need to dress up for the occasion. There was no call to put on his best silk stockings and his buckled shoes. The capture of the Natividad was a clearer proof of his bona fides than any gold-hilted sword.

It was only while giving final orders to Bush that Hornblower remembered that last night’s success gave him adequate grounds for not flogging the erring Jenkins and Poole, and for not reprimanding Galbraith. That was an enormous relief, anyway. It helped to clear away the clouds of depression which always tended to settle on him after every success. It cheered him up as he mounted the minute horse which awaited him on shore, and rode past the mountain of stinking animal intestines, and along the avenue of dead men, up to el Supremo’s house.

The appearance of el Supremo, sitting in his canopied chair on his dais, seemed for all the world to indicate that he had been sitting there, immobile, since the occasion four days ago (it seemed more like a month) when Hornblower had left him.

“So you have already done what I wished you to do, Captain?” were his opening words.

“I captured the Natividad last night,” said Hornblower.

“And the provisioning of your ship is, I understand, complete?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” said el Supremo, “you have done what I wanted. That is what I said before.”

In the face of such sublime self-assurance there was no point in arguing.

“This afternoon,” said el Supremo, “I shall proceed with my plan for the capture of the city of El Salvador and the man who calls himself Captain General of Nicaragua.”

“Yes?” said Hornblower.

“There are fewer difficulties before me now, Captain. You may not be aware that the roads between here and El Salvador are not as good as roads might be. At one place the path goes up one hundred and twenty seven steps cut in the lava between two precipices. It is difficult for a mule, to say nothing of a horse, to make the journey, and an evilly disposed person armed with a musket could cause much trouble.”

“I expect he could,” said Hornblower.

“However,” said el Supremo, “El Salvador lies less than ten miles from the sea, and there is a good road from the city to its port of La Libertad. This afternoon I shall sail with five hundred men in the two ships to La Libertad. As this town is no more than a hundred miles away I shall reach there at dawn tomorrow. Tomorrow evening I shall dine in El Salvador.”

“Ho-h’m,” said Hornblower. He was wondering how best to present in argument the difficulties he could see ahead.

“You killed very few of the crew of the Natividad, Captain?” asked el Supremo, and thereby approaching directly some of the difficulties Hornblower had in mind.

“Eleven killed,” said Hornblower. “And eighteen wounded, of whom four seem unlikely to recover.”

“So you left enough to work the ship?”

“Ample, señor, if—”

“That is what I wanted. And, Captain, human beings in addressing me do not use the expression ‘señor’. That is insufficiently honorific. I am el Supremo.”

Hornblower could only bow in reply. El Supremo’s marvellous manner was like a stone wall.

“The navigating officers are still alive?” went on el Supremo.

“Yes,” said Hornblower; and, because he could see trouble close ahead and was anxious to keep it to a minimum, he added, with a gulp, “Supremo.”

“Then,” said el Supremo, “I will take the Natividad into my service. I will kill the executive officers and replace them with men of my own. The others and the common sailors will serve me.”

There was nothing intrinsically impossible in what el Supremo suggested; Hornblower knew from experience that the Spanish navy, old fashioned as always, maintained a rigid distinction (such as was fast dying out in our own service) between the officers who worked the ship and the gentlemen who commanded it. And Hornblower had no doubt whatever as to what choice the seamen and sailing master would make if asked to choose between death by torture and serving el Supremo.

Nor could it be denied that el Supremo’s suggestion was in many ways a good one; to transport five hundred men in the Lydia alone would be difficult, to say the least, while the Lydia by herself would find it impossible to blockade completely all the thousand miles of coast—two ships would cause far more than twice as much trouble to the enemy in that way. Yet to hand over the Natividad meant starting an endless and probably unsuccessful argument with the lords of the Admiralty on the question of prize money. And he could not in honour hand over the Spanish officers to the death el Supremo had in mind for them. He had to think quickly.

“The Natividad is the prize of my King,” he said. “Perhaps he would not be pleased if I let her go.”

“He certainly would be displeased if he knew you had offended me,” said el Supremo. His eyebrows came closer together, and Hornblower heard Hernandez beside him take a quick breath. “I have noticed before, Captain Hornblower, that you have verged upon disrespect towards me, and I have been mild enough to attribute it to your foreign breeding.”

Hornblower was still thinking hurriedly. A little more opposition would cause this madman to order him out for execution, and if her captain were killed the Lydia would certainly not fight for el Supremo. There would indeed be a complicated situation in the Pacific, and the Lydia, with friends neither among the rebels nor among the government, would probably never reach home again—especially with the unimaginative Bush in command. England would lose a fine frigate and a fine opportunity. He must sacrifice his prize money, the thousand pounds or so with which he had wanted to dazzle Maria’s eyes. But at all costs he must keep his prisoners alive.

“I am sure it is my foreign breeding which is to blame, Supremo,” he said. “It is difficult for me to express in a foreign tongue all the delicate shades of meaning which it is necessary to convey. How could it possibly be imagined that I could be lacking in respect to el Supremo?”

El Supremo nodded. It was satisfactory to see that a madman who attributed almightiness to himself was naturally inclined to accept the grossest flattery at its face value.

“The ship is yours, Supremo,” went on Hornblower, “she has been yours since my men first set foot on her deck last night. And when in the future a vast Armada sails the Pacific under el Supremo’s direction I only wish it to be remembered that the first ship of that fleet was taken from the Spaniards by Captain Hornblower at el Supremo’s orders.”

El Supremo nodded again, and then turned to Hernandez.

“General,” he said, “make arrangements for five hundred men to go on board the ships at noon. I will sail with them and so will you.”

Hernandez bowed and departed; it was easy to see that there was no chance of el Supremo doubting his own divinity as a result of disrespect or hesitation on the part of his subordinates. His lightest order, whether it dealt with a thousand pigs or five hundred men, was obeyed instantly. Hornblower made his next move at once.

“Is the Lydia,” he asked, “to have the honour of carrying el Supremo to La Libertad? My crew would greatly appreciate die distinction.”

“I am sure they would,” said el Supremo.

“I hardly venture to ask it,” said Hornblower, “but could my officers and I aspire to the honour of your dining with us before our departure?”

El Supremo considered for a moment.

“Yes,” he said, and Hornblower had to suppress the sigh of relief he was on the point of drawing. Once el Supremo was on board the Lydia it might be possible to deal with him with less difficulty.

El Supremo clapped his hands, and instantly, as though by clockwork, a knocking at the brass-studded door heralded the arrival of the swarthy major-domo. He received in a single sentence orders for the transfer of el Supremo’s household to the Lydia.

“Perhaps,” said Hornblower, “you will permit me to return to my ship now to make arrangements for your reception, Supremo.”

He received another nod in reply.

“At what time shall I be at the beach to receive you?”

“At eleven.”

Hornblower, as he came out into the patio, thought with sympathy of the oriental vizier who never came out of the royal presence without feeling to see if his head were still on his shoulders. And on the Lydia’s deck, the moment the twittering of the pipes had died away, Hornblower was giving his orders.

“Have those men taken below at once,” he said to Bush, pointing to the Spanish prisoners. “Put them in the cable tier under guard. Call the armourer and have them put in irons.”

Bush made no attempt to conceal his surprise, but Hornblower wasted no time on explanations to him.

“Señores,” he said, as the officers came by him. “You are going to be harshly treated. But believe me, if you are as much as seen during the next few days you will be killed. I am saving your lives for you.”

Next Hornblower turned back to his first lieutenant.

“Call all hands, Mr. Bush.”

The ship was filled with the sound of horny feet pattering over pine boards.

“Men!” said Hornblower. “There is coming aboard today a prince of this country who is in alliance with our own gracious King. Whatever happens—mark my words, whatever happens–he is to be treated with respect. I will flog the man who laughs, or the man who does not behave towards Señor el Supremo as he would to me. And we shall be sailing tonight with this gentleman’s troops on board. You will look after them as if they were Englishmen. And better than that. You would play tricks on English soldiers. The first man to play a trick on any of these men I shall flog within the hour. Forget their colour. Forget their clothes. Forget that they cannot speak English, and remember only what I say to you. You can pipe down now, Mr. Bush.”

Down in the cabin Polwheal was waiting faithfully with the dressing gown and towel for his captain’s bath, which ought according to time table have been taken two hours back.

“Put out my best uniform again,” snapped Hornblower. “And I want the after cabin ready for a state dinner for eight at six bells. Go for’rard and bring my cook to me.”

There was plenty to do. Bush and Rayner the first and fourth lieutenants, and Simmonds the marine officer, and Crystal the master, had to be invited to the dinner and warned to be ready in full dress. Plans had to be made for the accommodation of five hundred men on board the two frigates.

Hornblower was just looking across to the Natividad, where she swung with her white ensign over the red and gold of Spain, wondering what steps he should take with regard to her, when a boat came running gaily out to him from the shore. The leader of the party which came on board was a youngish man of less than middle height, slight of figure and lithe as a monkey, with a mobile smile and an expression of indefeatable good humour. He looked more Spanish than American. Bush brought him up to where Hornblower impatiently trod his quarterdeck. Making a cordial bow, the newcomer introduced himself.

“I am Vice-Admiral Don Cristobal de Crespo,” he said.

Hornblower could not help but look him up and down. The Vice-Admiral wore gold earrings, and his gold embroidered coat did not conceal the raggedness of the grey shirt beneath. At least he wore boots, of soft brown leather, into which were tucked his patched white trousers.

“Of el Supremo’s service?” asked Hornblower.

“Of course. May I introduce my officers. Ship-captain Andrade. Frigate-captain Castro. Corvette-captain Carrera. Lieutenants Barrios and Barillas and Cerno. Aspirants Diaz—”

The dozen officers introduced under these resounding titles were barefooted Indians, the red sashes round their waists stuck full of pistols and knives. They bowed awkwardly to Hornblower; one or two of them wore expressions of brutish cruelty.

“I have come,” said Crespo, amiably, “to hoist my flag in my new ship Natividad. It is el Supremo’s wish that you should salute it with the eleven guns due to a vice-admiral.”

Hornblower’s jaw dropped a little at that. His years of service had grained into him despite himself a deep respect for the details of naval pageantry, and he was irked by the prospect of giving this ragged-shirted rascal as many guns as Nelson ever had. With an effort he swallowed his resentment He knew he had to go through with the farce to the bitter end if he was to glean any success. With an empire at stake it would be foolish to strain at points of ceremony.

“Certainly, Admiral,” he said. “It gives me great happiness to be one of the first to congratulate you upon your appointment.”

“Thank you, Captain. There will be one or two details to attend to first,” said the vice-admiral. “May I ask if the executive officers of the Natividad are on board here or are still in the Natividad?”

“I greatly regret,” said Hornblower, “that I dropped them overboard this morning after courtmartial.”

“That is indeed a pity,” said Crespo. “I have el Supremo’s orders to hang them at the Natividad’s yardarms. You did not leave even one?”

“No one, Admiral. I am sorry that I received no orders from el Supremo on the subject.”

“There is no help for it, then. Doubtless there will be others. I will go on board my ship, then. Perhaps you will be good enough to accompany me so as to give orders to your prize crew?”

“Certainly, Admiral.”

Hornblower was curious to see how el Supremo’s subordinates would deal with the problem of changing the allegiance of a whole ship’s crew. He gave hurried orders to the gunner for the saluting of the flag when it should be hoisted in the Natividad, and went down into the boat with the new officers.

On board the Natividad Crespo swaggered on to the quarterdeck. The Spanish sailing master and his mates were grouped there, and under their startled eyes he walked up to the image of the Virgin and Child beside the taffrail and tossed it overboard. At a sign from him one of the aspirants hauled down the Spanish and British ensigns from the peak. Then he turned upon the navigating officers. It was a dramatic scene on that crowded quarterdeck in the brilliant sunshine. The British marines stood in rigid line in their red coats, with ordered arms. The British seamen stood by their carronades, matches smouldering, for no orders had yet relieved them of their duty. Gerard came over and stood beside Hornblower.

“Which is the sailing master?” demanded Crespo.

“I am,” quavered one of the Spaniards.

“Are you his mates?” rasped Crespo, and received frightened nods in reply.

All trace of humour had disappeared from Crespo’s expression. He seemed to expand and dilate with cold anger.

“You,” he said, pointing at the youngest. “You will now hold up your hand and declare your faith in our lord el Supremo. Hold up your hand.”

The boy obeyed as if in a trance.

“Now repeat after me. ‘I swear—’”

The boy’s face was white. He tried to look round at his superior officer, but his gaze was held by Crespo’s glaring eyes.

“’I swear,’” said Crespo, more menacingly. The boy’s mouth opened and shut without a sound. Then convulsively he freed himself from the hypnotic stare. His hand wavered and came down, and he looked away from Crespo’s pointing right forefinger. Instantly Crespo’s left hand shot out; so quick was the motion that no one could see until afterwards that it held a pistol from his sash. The shot rang out, and the boy, with a pistol ball in his stomach, fell to the deck writhing in agony. Crespo disregarded his convulsions and turned to the next man.

“You will now swear,” he said.

He swore at once, repeating Crespo’s words in quavering tones. The half dozen sentences were very much to the point; they declared the omnipotence of el Supremo, testified to the speaker’s faith, and in a single sweeping blasphemy denied the existence of God and the virginity of the Mother of God. The others followed his example, repeating the words of the oath one after the other, while no one paid any attention to the dying boy at their feet. Crespo only condescended to notice him after the conclusion of the ceremony.

“Throw that overboard,” he said curtly. The officers only hesitated a moment under his gaze, and then one stooped and lifted the boy by his shoulders, another by his feet, and they flung the still living body over the rail.

Crespo waited for the splash, and then walked forward to the quarterdeck rail with its peeling gilt. The herded crew in the waist listened dumbly to his uplifted voice. Hornblower, gazing down at them, saw that there would be small resistance to Crespo’s missionary efforts. To a man the crew were of non-European blood; presumably during the many years of the Natividad’s commission in the Pacific the original European crew had quite died out. Only officers had been replaced from Spain; fresh hands had been recruited from the native races. There were Chinese among them, as Hornblower recognised, and negroes, and some whose physiognomy was unfamiliar to him—Philipinos.

In five minutes of brilliant speaking Crespo had won them all over. He made no more attempt to enunciate the divinity of el Supremo than was involved in the mention of his name. El Supremo, he said, was at the head of a movement which was sweeping the Spaniards from the dominion of America. Within the year the whole of the New World from Mexico to Peru would be at his feet. There would be an end of Spanish misrule, or brutal domination, of slavery in mine and field. There would be land for the asking for everybody, freedom and happiness under the benign supervision of el Supremo. Who would follow him?

They all would seemingly. Crespo had them all cheering wildly at the end of his speech. Crespo came back to Hornblower.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “I think there is no more need for the presence of your prize crew. My officers and I will be able to attend to any insubordination which may arise later.”

“I think you will be quite able to,” said Hornblower, a little bitterly.

“Some of them may not easily be enlightened when the time comes for that,” said Crespo, grinning.

Pulling back to the Lydia Hornblower thought bitterly about the murder of the Spanish master’s mate. It was a crime which he ought to have prevented—he had gone on board the Natividad expressly to prevent cruelty and he had failed. Yet he realised that that kind of cruelty would not have the bad effect on his own men that a coldblooded hanging of the officers would have done. The crew of the Natividad was being forced to serve a new master against their will—but the pressgang had done the same for three-quarters of the crew of the Lydia. Flogging and death were the punishments meted out to Englishmen who refused to obey the orders of officers who had arbitrarily assumed command over them—English sailors were not likely to fret unduly over Dagoes in the same position, even though with English lower-class lack of logic they would have been moved to protest against a formal hanging of officers.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a gun from the Natividad, instantly answered by another from the Lydia. He almost sprang to his feet in the sternsheets of the launch, but a glance over his shoulder reassured him. A new flag was now flying from the Natividad’s peak. Blue with a yellow star in the middle, he saw. The sound of the saluting guns rolled slowly round the bay; the salute was still being fired as he went up the Lydia’s side. Mr. Marsh, the gunner, was pacing up and down the foredeck mumbling to himself—Hornblower guessed at the jargon.

“If I hadn’t been a born bloody fool I shouldn’t be here. Fire seven. I’ve left my wife; I’ve left my home and everything that’s dear. Fire eight.”

Half an hour later Hornblower was at the beach to meet el Supremo, who came riding down, punctual to the minute, a ragged retinue of a dozen riding with him. El Supremo did not condescend to present his suite to the captain, but bowed and stepped straight into the launch; his suite introduced themselves, in a string of meaningless names, in turn as they came up to Hornblower. They were all nearly pure Indians; they were all Generals save for one or two Colonels, and they were all clearly most devotedly attached to their master. Their whole bearing, every little action of theirs, indicated not merely their fear of him but their admiration—their love, it might be said.

At the gangway sideboys and boatswain’s mates and marines were ready to receive el Supremo with distinguished military formality, but el Supremo astonished Hornblower as he was about to go up the ladder, with the casual words—

“The correct salute for me, Captain, is twenty-three guns.”

That was two more guns than His Majesty King George himself would receive. Hornblower stared for a moment, thought wildly of how he could refuse, and finally salved his conscience with the notion that a salute of that number of guns would be entirely meaningless. He sent a message hurriedly to Mr. Marsh ordering twenty-three guns—it was odd, the way in which the ship’s boy almost reduplicated Hornblower’s reactions, by staring, composing his features, and hurrying off comforted by the thought that it was the Captain’s re-ponsibility and not his own. And Hornblower could hardly repress a grin as he thought of Marsh’s certain astonishment, and the boiling exasperation in his voice when he reached—“If I hadn’t been a born bloody fool I shouldn’t be here. Fire twenty-three.”

El Supremo stepped on to the quarterdeck with a keen glance round him, and then, while Hornblower looked at him, the interest faded from his face and he lapsed into the condition of abstracted indifference in which Hornblower had seen him before. He seemed to listen, but he looked over the heads of Bush and Gerard and the others as Hornblower presented them. He shook his head without a word when Hornblower suggested that he might care to inspect the ship. There was a little awkward pause, which was broken by Bush addressing his captain.

“Natividad hoisting another flag to the main yardarm, sir. No it’s not, it’s—”

It was the body of a man, black against the blue sky, rising slowly, jerking and twisting as it rose. A moment later another body rose at the other end of the yard. All eyes instinctively turned towards el Supremo. He was still gazing away into the distance, his eyes focused on nothing, yet everyone knew he had seen. The English officers cast a hasty glance at their captain for guidance, and followed his lead in lapsing into an uncomfortable pose of having noticed nothing. Disciplinary measures in a ship of another nation could be no affair of theirs.

“Dinner will be served shortly, Supremo,” said Hornblower with a gulp. “Would you care to come below?”

Still without a word el Supremo walked over to the companion and led the way. Down below his lack of stature was made apparent by the fact that he could walk upright. As a matter of fact, his head just brushed the deck beams above him, but the nearness of the beams did nothing to make him stoop as he walked. Hornblower became conscious of a ridiculous feeling that el Supremo would never need to stoop, that the deck beams would raise themselves as he passed rather than commit the sacrilege of bumping his head—that was how el Supremo’s quiet dignity of carriage affected him.

Polwheal and the stewards assisting him, in their best clothes, held aside the screens which still took the place of the discarded bulkheads, but at the entrance to the cabin el Supremo stopped for a moment and said the first words which had passed his lips since he came on board.

“I will dine alone here,” he said. “Let the food be brought to me.”

None of his suite saw anything in the least odd about his request—Hornblower, watching their expressions, was quite sure that their unconcern was in no way assumed. El Supremo might have been merely blowing his noise for all the surprise they envinced.

It was all a horrible nuisance, of course. Hornblower and his other guests had to dine in makeshift fashion in the gunroom mess, and his one linen tablecloth and his one set of linen napkins, and the two last bottles of his old Madeira remained in the after cabin for el Supremo’s use. Nor was the meal improved by the silence that prevailed most of the time; el Supremo’s suite were not in the least talkative, and Hornblower was the only Englishman with conversational Spanish. Bush tried twice, valiantly, to make polite speeches to his neighbours, putting a terminal ‘o’ on the ends of his English words in the hope that so they might be transmuted into Spanish, but the blank stares of the men he addressed reduced him quickly to stammering inarticulation.

Dinner was hardly finished; everyone had hardly lighted the loose brown cigars which had been part of the stores handed over to the Lydia when a new messenger arrived from the shore and was brought in by the bewildered officer of the watch who could not understand his jabbering talk. The troops were ready to come on board. With relief Hornblower put away his napkin and went on deck, followed by the others.

The men whom the launch and the cutter, plying steadily between ship and shore, brought out, were typical Central American soldiers, barefooted and ragged, swarthy and lankhaired. Each man carried a bright new musket and a bulging cartridge pouch, but these were merely what Hornblower had brought for them; most of the men carried in their hands cotton bags presumably filled with provisions—some bore melons and bunches of bananas in addition. The crew herded them on to the maindeck; they looked about them curiously and chattered volubly, but they were amenable enough, squatting in gossiping groups between the guns where the grinning crew pushed them. They sat on the planking and most of them incontinently began to eat; Hornblower suspected them to be half starved and to be devouring the rations which were expected to last them for several days.

When the last man was on board Hornblower looked across to the Natividad; it appeared as if her share of the expeditionary force was already embarked. Suddenly the babble on the main deck died away completely, to be succeeded by a silence surprising in its intensity. Next moment el Supremo came on the quarterdeck—it must have been his appearance from the after cabin which had quelled the noise.

“We shall sail for La Libertad, Captain,” he said.

“Yes, Supremo,” replied Hornblower. He was glad that el Supremo had made his appearance when he did; a few seconds later and the ship’s officers would have seen that their captain was awaiting his orders, and that would never have done.

“We will weigh anchor, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower.