Hornblower in the West Indies h-12

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “No,” said Hornblower. “Belay that. I won’t write after all.”

  “Aye aye, My Lord,” said Spendlove.

  It was possible to pass on to another man distinction and honour, but one could not pass on money. There was something obvious, something suspicious, about that. Sir Thomas might guess, and Sir Thomas’s feelings might be hurt, and he would not risk it. But he wished he liked Sir Thomas better, all the same.

  The Bewildered Pirates

  Oh, the dames of France are fo-ond a-and free

  And Flemish li-ips a-are willing.

  That was young Spendlove singing lustily only two rooms away from Hornblower’s at Admiralty House, and he might as well be in the same room, as all the windows were open to let in the Jamaican sea breeze.

  And sweet the maids of I-Ita-aly—

  That was Gerard joining in.

  “My compliments to Mr. Gerard and Mr. Spendlove,” growled Hornblower to Giles, who was helping him dress, and that caterwauling is to stop. Repeat that to make sure you have the words right.”

  “His Lordship’s compliments, gentlemen, and that caterwauling is to stop,” repeated Giles, dutifully.

  “Very well, run and say it.”

  Giles ran, and Hornblower was gratified to hear the noise cease abruptly. The fact that those two young men were singing—and still more the fact that they had forgotten he was within earshot—was proof that they were feeling lighthearted, as might be expected, seeing they were dressing for a ball. Yet it was no excuse, for they knew well enough that their tone-deaf Commander-in-Chief detested music, and they should also have realised that he would be more testy than usual, on account of that very ball, because it meant that he would be forced to spend a long evening listening to those dreary sounds, cloying and irritating at the same moment. There would certainly be a table or two of whist—Mr Hough would be aware of his principal guest’s tastes—but it was too much to hope for that all sound of music would be excluded from the card-room. The prospect of a ball was by no means as exhilarating to Hornblower as to his flag-lieutenant and to his secretary.

  Hornblower tied his white neckcloth and painfully adjusted it to geometrical symmetry, and Giles helped him into his black dresscoat. Hornblower regarded the result in the mirror, by the light of the candles round its frame. At least tolerable, he said to himself. The growing peacetime convention whereby naval and military men appeared in civilian clothes had a good deal to recommend it; so had the other increasing fad for men to wear black dresscoats. Barbara had helped him select this one, and had supervised its fitting by the tailor. The cut was excellent, Hornblower decided, turning back and forth before the mirror, and black and white suited him. “Only gentlemen can wear black and white,” Barbara had said, and that was very gratifying.

  Giles handed him his tall hat and he studied the additional effect. Then he took up his white gloves, remembered to remove his hat again, and stepped out through the door which Giles opened for him and entered the corridor where Gerard and Spendlove, in their best uniforms, were waiting for him.

  “I must apologise on behalf of Spendlove and myself for the singing, My Lord,” said Gerard.

  The softening effect of the black dresscoat was evident when Hornblower refrained from a rasping reprimand.

  “What would Miss Lucy say, Spendlove, if she heard you singing about the dames of France?” he asked.

  Spendlove’s answering grin was very attractive.

  “I must ask Your Lordship’s further indulgence not to tell her about it,” he said.

  “I’ll make that conditional upon your further good behaviour,” said Hornblower.

  The open carriage was waiting outside the front door of Admiralty House; four seamen stood by with lanterns to add to the light thrown by the lamps on the porch. Hornblower climbed in and seated himself. Etiquette was different here on land; Hornblower missed the shrilling of the pipes that he felt should accompany this ceremonial, as it would if it were a boat he was entering, and in a carriage the senior officer entered first, so that after he was seated Spendlove and Gerard had to run round and enter by the other door. Gerard sat beside him and Spendlove sat opposite, his back to the horses. As the door shut the carriage moved forward, between the lanterns at the gate, and out to the pitch dark Jamaican night. Hornblower breathed the warm, tropical air and grudgingly admitted to himself that after all it was no great hardship to attend a ball.

  “Perhaps you have a rich marriage in mind, Spendlove?” he asked. “I understand Miss Lucy will inherit it all. But I advise you to make certain before committing yourself that there are no nephews on the father’s side.”

  “A rich marriage might be desirable, My Lord,” replied Spendlove’s voice out of the darkness, “but I must remind you that in affairs of the heart I have been handicapped from birth—or at least from my baptism.”

  “From your baptism?” repeated Hornblower, puzzled.

  “Yes, My Lord. You remember my name, perhaps?”

  “Erasmus,” said Hornblower.

  “Exactly, My Lord. It is not adapted to endearments. Could any woman fall in love with an Erasmus? Could any woman bring herself to breathe the words ‘Razzy, darling’?”

  “I fancy it could happen,” said Hornblower.

  “May I live long enough to hear it,” said Spendlove.

  It was remarkably agreeable to be driving thus through the Jamaican night behind two good horses and with two pleasant young men; especially, as he told himself smugly, because he had done work satisfactory enough to justify relaxation. His command was in good order, the policing of the Caribbean was proceeding satisfactorily, and smuggling and piracy were being reduced to small proportions. Tonight he had no responsibilities. He was in no danger at all, not any. Danger was far away, over the horizons both of time and space. He could lean back, relaxed, against the leather cushions of the carriage, taking only moderate care not to crease his black dresscoat or crumple the careful pleats of his shirt.

  Naturally, his reception at the Houghs’s house was somewhat overpowering. There was a good deal of ‘My Lord’ and ‘His Lordship’. Hough was a substantial planter, a man of considerable wealth, with enough of dislike for English winters not to be the usual West Indian absentee landlord. Yet for all his wealth he was greatly impressed by the fact that he was entertaining, in one and the same person, a Peer and an Admiral and a Commander-in-Chief—and someone whose influence might at any moment be of great importance to him. The warmth of his greeting, and of Mrs Hough’s, was so great that it even overflowed round Gerard and Spendlove as well. Perhaps the Houghs felt that if they wished to be sure of standing well with the Commander-in-Chief it might be as well to cultivate good relations with his flag-lieutenant and secretary, too.

  Lucy Hough was a pretty enough girl of some seventeen or eighteen years of age whom Hornblower had already met on a few occasions. Hornblower told himself he could feel no interest in a child straight from the schoolroom—almost straight from the nursery—however pretty. He smiled at her and she dropped her eyes, looked up at him again, and once more looked away. It was interesting that she was not nearly so timid when she met the glances and acknowledged the bows of the young men who were far more likely to be of interest to her.

  “Your Lordship does not dance, I understand?” said Hough.

  “It is painful to be reminded of what I am missing in the presence of so much beauty,” replied Hornblower with another smile at Mrs Hough and at Lucy.

  “Perhaps a rubber of whist, then, My Lord?” suggested Hough.

  “The Goddess of Chance instead of the Muse of Music,” said Hornblower—he always tried to talk about music as if it meant something to him—“I will woo the one instead of the other.”

  “From what I know about Your Lordship’s skill at whist,” said Hough, “I would say that as regards Your Lordship the Goddess of Chance has but small need for wooing.”

  The ball had been in progress, apparently, for some time before Hornblower�
�s arrival. There were two score young people on the floor of the great room, a dozen dowagers on chairs round the wall, an orchestra in the corner. Hough led the way to another room; Hornblower dismissed his two young men with a nod, and settled down to whist with Hough and a couple of formidable old ladies. The closing of the heavy door shut out, luckily, nearly all the exasperating din of the orchestra; the old ladies played a sound game, and a pleasant hour enough went by. It was terminated by the entrance of Mrs Hough.

  “It is time for the Polonaise before supper,” she announced. “I really must beg you to leave your cards and come and witness it.”

  “Would Your Lordship—?” asked Hough apologetically.

  “Mrs Hough’s wish is my command,” said Hornblower.

  The ballroom was, of course, stifling hot. Faces were flushed and shiny, but there was no lack of energy apparent as the double line formed up for the Polonaise while the orchestra grated out its mysterious noises to encourage the young people. Spendlove was leading Lucy by the hand and they were exchanging happy glances. Hornblower, from the weary age of forty-six, could look with condescension at these young men and women in their immature teens and twenties, tolerant of their youth and enthusiasm. The noises the orchestra made became more jerky and confusing, but the young people could find some sense in them. They capered round the room, skirts swaying and coattails flapping, everyone smiling and light-hearted; the double lines became rings, melted into lines again, turned and re-formed, until in the end with a final hideous crash from the orchestra the women sank low in curtsies and the men bent themselves double before them—a pretty sight once the music had ceased. There was a burst of laughter and applause before the lines broke up. The women, with sidelong looks at each other, gathered into groups which edged out of the room. They were retiring to repair the damages sustained in the heat of action.

  Hornblower met Lucy’s eyes again, and once more she looked away and then back at him. Shy? Eager? It was hard to tell with these mere children; but it was not the sort of glance she had bestowed on Spendlove.

  “Ten minutes at least before the supper march, My Lord,” said Hough. “Your Lordship will be kind enough to take in Mrs Hough?”

  “Delighted, of course,” replied Hornblower.

  Spendlove approached. He was mopping his face with his handkerchief.

  “I would enjoy a breath of cooler air, My Lord,” he said. “Perhaps—”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Hornblower, not sorry to have an excuse to be rid of Hough’s ponderous company.

  They stepped out into the dark garden; so bright had been the candles in the ballroom that they had to tread cautiously at first.

  “I trust you are enjoying yourself,” said Hornblower.

  “Very much indeed, thank you, My Lord.”

  “And your suit is making progress?”

  “Of that I am not so sure, My Lord.”

  “You have my best wishes in any case.”

  “Thank you, My Lord.”

  Hornblower’s eyes were more accustomed now to the darkness. He could see the stars now when he looked up. Sirius was visible, resuming once more his eternal chase of Orion across the night sky. The air was warm and still with the cessation of the sea breeze.

  Then it happened. Hornblower heard a movement behind him, a rustling of foliage, but before he could pay attention to it hands gripped his arms, a hand came over his mouth. He began to struggle. A sharp, burning pain under his right shoulder-blade made him jump.

  “Quiet,” said a voice, a thick, heavy voice. “Or this.”

  He felt the pain again. It was a knife point in his back, and he held himself still. The unseen hands began to hustle him away; there were at least three men round him. His nose told him they were sweating—with excitement, perhaps.

  “Spendlove?” he said.

  “Quiet,” said the voice again.

  He was being hustled down the long garden. A momentary sharp cry, instantly stifled, presumably came from Spendlove behind him. Hornblower had difficulty in preserving his balance as he was hurried along, but the arms that held him sustained him; when he stumbled he could feel the pressure of the knife point against his back sharpen into pain as it pierced his clothes. At the far end of the garden they emerged into a narrow path where a darkness loomed up in the night. Hornblower bumped into something that snorted and moved—a mule, apparently.

  “Get on,” said the voice beside him.

  Hornblower hesitated, and felt the knife against his ribs.

  “Get on,” said the voice; someone else was wheeling the mule round again for him to mount.

  There were neither stirrups nor saddle. Hornblower put his hands on the withers and hauled himself up astride the mule. He could find no reins, although he heard the chink of a bit. He buried his fingers in the scanty mane. All round him he could hear a bustle as the other mules were mounted. His own mule started with something of a jerk that made him cling wildly to the mane. Someone had mounted the mule ahead and was riding forward with a leading rein attached to his mule. There seemed to be four mules altogether, and some eight men. The mules began to trot, and Hornblower felt himself tossed about precariously on the slippery back of the mule, but there was a man running on each side of him helping to keep him on his perch. A second or two later they slowed down again as the leading mule turned a difficult corner.

  “Who are you?” demanded Hornblower, with the first breath that the motion had not shaken out of his body.

  The man by his right knee waved something at him, something bright enough to shine in the starlight. It was a cutlass—the machete of the West Indies.

  “Quiet,” he said, “or I cut off your leg.”

  The next moment the mule broke into a trot again, and Hornblower could have said no more even if he were inclined to do so. Mules and men hurried along a path between great fields of cane, with Hornblower bounding about on the mule’s back. He tried to look up at the stars to see which way they were going, but it was difficult, and they altered course repeatedly, winding about over the countryside. They left the cane behind, and seemed to emerge into open savannah. Then there were trees; then they slowed down for a sharp ascent, broke into a trot again down the other side—the men on foot running tirelessly beside the mules—and climbed again, the mules slipping and plunging on what appeared to be an insecure surface. Twice Hornblower nearly fell off, to be heaved back again by the man beside him. Soon he was atrociously saddle-sore—if the word could be considered appropriate when he was riding bareback—and the ridge of the mule’s spine caused him agony. He was drenched with sweat, his mouth was parched, and he was desperately weary. He grew stupefied with misery, despite the pain he suffered. More than once they splashed across small streams roaring down from the mountains; again they made their way through a belt of trees. Several times they seemed to be threading narrow passes.

  Hornblower had no idea how long they had been travelling when they found themselves beside a small river, seemingly placid as it reflected the stars. On the far side faint in the darkness towered a lofty cliff. Here the party halted, and the man beside him tugged at his knee in an obvious invitation to dismount. Hornblower slid down the mule’s side—he had to lean against the animal for a moment when his legs refused to hold him up. When he was able to stand upright and look about him he saw a white face among the dark ones that surrounded him. He could just make out Spendlove, his knees sagging and his head lolling as he stood supported on either side.

  “Spendlove!” he said.

  There was an agonising moment of waiting before the drooping figure said, “My Lord?” The voice was thick and unnatural.

  “Spendlove! Are you wounded?”

  “I’m—well—My Lord.”

  Someone pushed Hornblower in the back.

  “Come. Swim,” said a voice.

  “Spendlove!”

  Several hands turned Hornblower away and thrust him stumbling down to the water’s edge. It was hopeless to resist; Horn
blower could only guess that Spendlove had been stunned by a blow and was only now recovering, his unconscious body having been carried so far by mule.

  “Swim,” said the voice, and a hand pressed him forward to the water.

  “No!” croaked Hornblower.

  The water seemed immeasurably wide and dark. Even while Hornblower struggled at the water’s edge he had a horrible realisation of the indignity he was undergoing, as a Commander-in-Chief, acting like a child in the hands of these people. Somebody led a mule slowly down into the water beside him.

  “Hold his tail,” said the voice, and there was the knife in his back again.

  He took hold of the mule’s tail and despairingly let himself flop into the water, spreadeagled. For a moment the mule floundered and then struck out; the water, as it closed round Hornblower, seemed hardly colder than the warm air. It was no more than a moment, it seemed, before the mule was plunging up the other bank, and Hornblower found the bottom under his feet and waded out after him, the water streaming from his clothes, the rest of the gang and the animals splashing after him. The hand was back on his shoulder, turning him to one side and urging him along. He heard an odd creaking in front of him and a swaying object struck him on the chest. His hands felt smooth bamboo and some sort of creeper, liana, knotted to it—it was a makeshift rope ladder dangling in front of him.

  “Up!” said the voice. “Up!”

  He could not—he would not—and there was the knife point at his back again. He stretched his arms up and grasped a rung, feeling desperately with his feet for another.

  “Up!”

  He began the climb, with the ladder writhing under his feet in the animal fashion rope ladders always display. It was horrible in the darkness, feeling with his feet for each elusive rung in turn, clutching desperately with his hands. His sodden shoes tended to slip on the smooth bamboo. Nor did his hands feel secure on the creeper. Someone else was climbing close after him, and the ladder twined about unpredictably. He knew himself to be swaying pendulum-fashion in the darkness. Up he went, one rung at a time, his hands gripping so convulsively that it was only by a conscious effort that he was able to make each one unclasp in turn and seek a fresh hold. Then the gyrations and swinging grew less. His upward-stretching hand touched earth, or rock. The next moment was not easy; he was unsure of his handhold and he hesitated. He knew himself to be a prodigious height up in the air. Just below him on the ladder he heard a sharp command issued by the man following him, and then a hand above him grasped his wrist and pulled. His feet found the next rung, and there he was, lying gasping on his belly on solid earth. The hand dragged at him again and he crawled on all fours forward to make room for the man behind him. He was almost sobbing; there was no trace left now of the haughty and self-satisfied human who had admired himself in the mirror not so many hours ago.