Hornblower in the West Indies h-12

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “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.