Hornblower laughed.
“And be known through the Navy as the meanest Admiral who ever flew a flag? No. A golden guinea at least. Two guineas. I’ll give them to him myself, and I shall request you to give him three days’ leave as soon as we see Kingston again. Let him have his debauch, if that is the only way in which we can reward him. I have to consider the feelings of the whole squadron.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
“Now, Mr. Gerard, I’ll begin the writing of those orders.”
It was indeed noon before Crab cast off and was taken in tow by the tug Temeraire; it was significant of Hornblower’s state of mind that he never gave a thought to the implication of that glorious name. The interval before sailing, all the long, stifling morning, was taken up by the dictation of orders, to be dispersed to every ship of his squadron. An infinity of copies was necessary. Sharpe would send them under seal by every British ship leaving New Orleans for the West Indies, in the hope that should one of them encounter a King’s ship his orders would be passed on without the delay of being sent to Kingston and then transmitted through official channels. Every ship of the West India squadron was to keep a sharp lookout for the American ship Daring. Every ship was to enquire her business, and was to ascertain, if possible, whether Daring had troops on board; but (Hornblower sweated more feverishly than ever as he worded this) captains of HM’s vessels were reminded of that passage in the Commander-in-Chief’s original instructions regarding behaviour towards the American flag. If troops were not on board an effort was to be made to ascertain where they had been landed; if they were, Daring was to be kept in sight until they should be landed. Captains were to exercise a wide discretion regarding any interference with Daring’s operations.
Seeing that these orders would not leave New Orleans until tomorrow, and would travel by slow merchant ship, it was hardly likely that they would reach any ship of the squadron before Daring had done whatever she planned to do. Yet it was necessary to take every possible precaution.
Hornblower signed twenty copies of his orders with a sweating hand, saw them sealed, and handed them over to Sharpe. They shook hands before Sharpe went down the gangway.
“Cambronne will head for Port au Prince or Havana, in my opinion, My Lord,” said Sharpe.
The two places were not more than a thousand miles apart.
“Might it not be Cartagena or La Guayra?” asked Hornblower with elaborate irony. Those places were about a thousand miles apart as well, and more than a thousand miles from Havana.
“It well might be,” said Sharpe, the irony quite wasted on him. Yet it could not be said that he was unsympathetic regarding Hornblower’s difficulties, for he went on—“The very best of good fortune, My Lord, in any case. I am certain Your Lordship will command success.”
Crab cast off, and Temeraire had her in tow, smoke and sparks belching from her chimneys, much to Harcourt’s indignation. He was afraid not only of fire but of stains on his spotless deck; he had the hands at work pumping up water from overside continuously soaking deck and rigging.
“Breakfast, My Lord?” said Gerard at Hornblower’s elbow.
Breakfast? It was one o’clock in the afternoon. He had not been to bed. He had drunk far too much last night, and he had had a busy morning, an anxious morning, and he was as desperately anxious at this moment. His first reaction was to say no; then he remembered how he had complained yesterday (only yesterday? It seemed more like a week ago) about his delayed breakfast. He would not allow his agitation to be so obvious.
“Of course. It could have been served more promptly, Mr. Gerard,” he said, hoping he was displaying the irascibility of a man who had not broken his fast.
“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Gerard. He had been Hornblower’s flag-lieutenant for several months now, and knew nearly as much about Hornblower’s moods as a wife might have done. He knew, too, of Hornblower’s kindly interior. He had received his appointment as the son of an old friend, at a moment when admiral’s sons and duke’s sons had yearned to serve as flag-lieutenant to the fabulous Hornblower.
Hornblower forced himself to eat his fruit and his boiled eggs, to drink his coffee despite the heat. He whiled away a considerable time before he came on deck again, and during that period he had actually contrived to forget his problems—at least nearly to forget them. But they returned in full force as soon as he came on deck again. So harassing were they that he could feel no interest in this still unusual method of navigating a river, no interest in the low banks that were going by so fast alongside. This hurried departure from New Orleans was only a gesture of despair, after all. He could not hope to catch the Daring. She would bring off whatever coup she had in mind almost under his very nose and leave him the laughing-stock of the world—of his world, at least. This would be the last command he would ever hold. Hornblower looked back over the years of half pay he had endured since Waterloo. They had been dignified and happy years, one would think, with a seat in the Lords and a position of influence in the County, a loving wife and a growing son, but he had not been living the right life, even so. The five years after Waterloo until at last the course of nature brought his promotion to flag rank had been fretful years; he had only realised it when he knew the intense joy of his appointment to the West Indies. Now all the years to come until he went down into the grave would be as dreary as those five, more dreary, because they would be unrelieved by the hope of future employment at sea.
Here he was, pitying himself, he said to himself bitterly, when what he should be doing was working out the problems set him. What was it Cambronne had in mind? If he could head him off, arrive triumphantly at the place where Cambronne intended to strike his blow, he could retrieve his reputation. He might be able with great good fortune to intervene decisively. But there was turmoil everywhere through Spanish America, and through the West Indies as well, save for the British colonies. One place was as likely as another; in any case it would be extremely doubtful if he would have any excuse to interfere—Cambronne probably held a commission from Bolivar or some other leader; but on the other hand the precautions Cambronne had taken seemed to imply that he would at least prefer that the Royal Navy would not have a chance to intervene. Intervene? With a crew of sixteen not counting supernumeraries, and with nothing larger than a six-pounder? Rubbish. He was a fool. But he must think, think, think.
“It will be sunset before we sight St. Philip, My Lord,” reported Harcourt, saluting.
“Very well, Mr. Harcourt.”
There would be no salutes fired, then. He would make his departure from the United States with his tail between his legs, so to speak. There could hardly fail to be comment about the briefness of his visit. Sharpe might do his best to explain why he had left so hurriedly, but any explanation would be unsatisfactory. In every way this command for which he had yearned was turning out to be a ridiculous fiasco.
Even this visit, to which he had looked forward so eagerly, was a disappointment. He had seen almost nothing of New Orleans, of America, or of the Americans. He could take no interest in this vast Mississippi. His problems deprived him of interest in his surroundings and his surroundings distracted him from a proper attention to his problems. This fantastic method of progression, for instance—Crab was going through the water at a good five knots, and there was the current as well. Quite a breeze was blowing past him in consequence; it was extraordinary to be going ahead with the wind dead foul, without a heel or a pitch, with the standing rigging uttering a faint note and yet not a creak from the running rigging.
“Your dinner is served, My Lord,” said Gerard, appearing on deck again.
Darkness was closing in round the Crab as Hornblower went below, but the cabin was hot and stuffy.
“Scotch broth, My Lord,” said Giles, putting a steaming plate before him.
Hornblower dipped his spoon perfunctorily into the plate, tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, and laid his spoon down again, Giles poured him a glass of wine; he wanted neither wine
nor soup, yet he must not display human weaknesses. He forced himself to take a little more of the soup, enough to preserve appearances.
“Chicken Marengo, My Lord,” said Giles, putting another plate before him.
Appearances were more easily preserved with chicken; Hornblower haggled the joints apart, ate a couple of mouthfuls, and laid down his knife and fork. They would report to him from the deck if the miracle had happened, if Daring’s two steam tugs had broken down, or if Daring had run aground, and they were passing her triumphantly. Absurd hope. He was a fool.
Giles cleared the table, reset it with cheese dish and cheese plate, and poured a glass of port. A sliver of cheese, a sip of port, and dinner might be considered over. Giles set out the silver spirit lamp, the silver coffee pot, the porcelain cup—Barbara’s last present to him. Somehow there was comfort in coffee despite his misery; the only comfort in a black world.
On deck again it was quite dark. On the starboard bow gleamed a light, moving steadily aft to the starboard beam; that must be one of the lighthouses installed by the Americans to make the navigation of the Mississippi as convenient by night as by day. It was one more proof of the importance of this developing commerce—the fact that as many as six steam tugs were being constantly employed was a further proof.
“If you please, My Lord,” said Harcourt in the darkness beside him. “We are approaching the Pass. What orders, My Lord?”
What could he do? He could only play a losing game out to the bitter end. He could only follow Daring, far, far astern of her, in the hope of a miracle, a fortunate accident. The odds were a hundred to one that by the time he reached Corpus Christi the bird would be flown, completely vanished. Yet perhaps the Mexican authorities, if there were any, or local gossip, if he could pick up any, might afford him some indication of the next destination of the Imperial Guard.
“As soon as we are at sea, set a course for Corpus Christi, if you please, Mr. Harcourt.”
“Aye aye, My Lord. Corpus Christi.”
“Study your Sailing Directions for the Gulf of Mexico, Mr. Harcourt, for the pass into the lagoon there.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
That was done, then the decision was taken. Yet he stayed up on deck, trying to wrestle with the problem in all its vague and maddening complexity.
He felt rain on his face and soon it was falling in torrents, roaring on the deck, soaking his best uniform. His cocked hat weighed on his head like lead with the accumulation of water in the brim. He was about to take shelter below when his mind began to follow an old train of thought, and he stayed. Gerard loomed up in the darkness with his sou’wester and oilskins, but he paid no attention to him. Was it possible that all this was a false alarm? That Cambronne had nothing else in mind than to take back the Guard to France? No, of course not. He would not have taken six hundred muskets on board in that case, nor bales of uniforms, and there would have been no need for a hurried and clandestine departure.
“If you please, My Lord,” said Gerard, standing insistently by with his oilskins.
Hornblower remembered how, before he left England, Barbara had taken Gerard to one side and had talked to him long and earnestly. No doubt she had been telling him of the need to see he did not get wet and that he had his meals regularly.
“Too late now, Mr. Gerard,” he said, with a grin. “I’m soaked through.”
“Then please, My Lord, go below and shift your clothes.”
There was genuine anxiety in Gerard’s voice, a real concern. The rain was roaring on Gerard’s oilskins in the darkness like the nitre-crusher of a powder-mill.
“Oh, very well,” said Hornblower.
He made his way down the little companion, Gerard following him.
“Giles!” called Gerard sharply; Hornblower’s servant appeared at once. “Put out dry clothes for His Lordship.”
Giles began to bustle round the little cabin, kneeling on the deck to fish a fresh shirt out of the chest. Half a gallon of water cascaded down beside him as Hornblower took off his hat.
“See that His Lordship’s things are properly dried,” ordered Gerard.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Giles, with sufficient restrained patience in his tone to make Gerard aware that it was an unnecessary order. Hornblower knew that these men were both fond of him. So far their affection had survived his failure—for how long?
“Very well,” he said in momentary irritation. “I can look after myself now.”
He stood alone in the cabin, stooping under the deck beams. Unbuttoning his soaking uniform coat he realised he was still wearing his ribbon and star; the ribbon, as he passed it over his head, was soaking wet too. Ribbon and star mocked at his failure, just at the very moment when he was sneering at himself for hoping again that Daring might have gone aground somewhere during her passage down the river.
A tap at the door brought Gerard back into the cabin.
“I said I could look after myself,” snapped Hornblower.
“Message from Mr. Harcourt, My Lord,” said Gerard, unabashed. “The tug will be casting off soon. The wind is fair, a strong breeze, east by north.”
“Very well.”
A strong breeze, a fair wind, would be all in Daring’s favour. Crab might have stood a chance of overhauling her in fluky, contrary airs. Fate had done everything possible to load the dice against him.
Giles had taken the opportunity to slip back into the cabin. He took the wet coat from Hornblower’s hand.
“Didn’t I tell you to get out?” blared Hornblower, cruelly.
“Aye aye, My Lord,” replied Giles imperturbably. “What about this—this cap, My Lord?”
He had picked up the bearskin cap of the Imperial Guard which was still lying in the locker.
“Oh, take it away!” roared Hornblower.
He had kicked off his shoes and was beginning to peel off his stockings when the thought struck him; he remained stooping to consider it.
A bearskin cap—bales and bales of bearskin caps. Why? Muskets and bayonets he could understand. Uniforms, too, perhaps. But who in their sane senses would outfit a regiment for service in tropical America with bearskin caps? He straightened up slowly, and stood still again, thinking deeply. Even uniform coats with buttons and embroidery would be out of place among the ragged ranks of Bolivar’s hordes; bearskin caps would be quite absurd.
“Giles!” he roared, and when Giles appeared round the door. “Bring that cap back to me!”
He took it into his hands again; within him surged the feeling that he held in his hands the clue to the mystery. There was the heavy chain of lacquered brass, the brazen Imperial eagle. Cambronne was a fighting soldier of twenty years’ experience in the field; he would never expect men wearing things like this to wage war in the pestilential swamps of Central America or the Stirling canebrakes of the West Indies. Then—? The Imperial Guard in their uniforms and bearskins, already historic, would be associated in everyone’s mind with the Bonapartist tradition, even now making itself felt as a political force. A Bonapartist movement? In Mexico? Impossible. In France, then?
Within his wet clothes Hornblower felt a sudden surge of warmth as his blood ran hot with the knowledge that he had guessed the solution. St. Helena! Bonaparte was there, a prisoner, an exile in one of the loneliest islands in the world. Five hundred disciplined troops arriving by surprise out of a ship flying American colours would set him free. And then? There were few ships in the world faster than the Daring. Sailing for France she would arrive there before any warning could reach the civilised world. Bonaparte would land with his Guard—oh, the purpose of the uniforms and bearskins was quite plain. Everyone would remember the glories of the Empire. The French Army would flock to his standard as it had done once before when he returned from Elba. The Bourbons had already outworn their welcome—Sharpe had remarked how they were acting as international busybodies in the hope of dazzling the people with a successful foreign policy. Bonaparte would march again to Paris without opposition. Then
the world would be in a turmoil once more. Europe would experience again the bloody cycle of defeat and victory.
After Elba a campaign of a hundred days had been needed to overthrow Bonaparte at Waterloo, but a hundred thousand men had died during those hundred days, millions and millions of money had been expended. This time it might not even be as easy as that. Bonaparte might find allies in the disturbed state of Europe. There might be twenty more years of war, leaving Europe in ruins. Hornblower had fought through twenty years of war; he felt physically sick at the thought of their repetition. The prospect was so monstrous that he went back through the deductions he had been making, but he could not avoid reaching the same conclusion.
Cambronne was a Bonapartist; no man who had been Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Guard could be anything else. It was even indicated by a trifle—he had worn the Bonapartist Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour instead of the Bourbon Grand Cordon which had been substituted for it. He had done that with Vautour’s knowledge and agreement. Vautour was a servant of the Bourbons, but he must be a traitorous one; the whole business of chartering the Daring and sending her fatal freight on board could only have been carried out with the connivance of the French authorities—presumably France was riddled with a fresh Bonapartist conspiracy. The Baroness’s behaviour was further proof.
Central America and the West Indies might be in a turmoil, but there was no particular strategic point there (as he well knew after so much pondering about it) inviting an invasion by the Imperial Guard in uniforms and bearskins. It must be St. Helena, and then France. He could have no doubt about it now. Now the lives of millions, the peace of the whole world, depended on the decisions he had to make at this moment.
There was a rush of feet on the deck just above his head. He heard ropes slapping down upon it, orders being given, loud creakings. The cabin suddenly leaned over sideways with the setting of sail, catching him completely unaware, so that he staggered and dropped the bearskin cap, which lay unnoticed at his feet. Crab rose to an even keel again. The deck under his feet felt suddenly lively, as if the breath of life had been breathed into it. They were at sea; they were heading for Corpus Christi. With the wind east by north Crab would be running wing-and-wing, possibly. Now he had to think fast, with every second of value. He could not afford to run to leeward in this fashion if he were going to change his plans.
Hornblower in the West Indies h-12 Page 4
