Admiral Hornblower

by C. S. Forester

  ‘Do you think we could get to the ladder, My Lord?’ asked Spendlove, and then answered his own question. ‘No. They’d catch us before we could get away. A pity.’

  ‘We can bear the possibility in mind,’ said Hornblower.

  One of the women cooking over the fire called out at this moment in a loud, raucous voice, interrupting the debate. Food was being ladled out into wooden bowls. A young mulatto woman, hardly more than a child, in a ragged gown that had once been magnificent, brought a bowl over to them – one bowl, no spoon or fork. They stared at each other, unable to keep from smiling. Then Spendlove produced a penknife from his breeches pocket, and tendered it to his superior after opening it.

  ‘Perhaps it may serve, My Lord,’ he said, apologetically, adding, after a glance at the contents of the bowl, ‘not such a good meal as the supper we missed at the Houghs’, My Lord.’

  Boiled yams and a trifle of boiled salt pork, the former presumably stolen from some slave garden and the latter from one of the hogsheads stored here on the cliff. They ate with difficulty, Hornblower insisting on their using the penknife turn about, juggling with the hot food for which both of them discovered a raging appetite. The pirates and the women were mostly squatting on their heels as they ate. After their first mouthfuls they were beginning to argue again over the use to be made of their prisoners.

  Hornblower looked out again from the shelf at the view extended before them.

  ‘That must be the Cockpit Country,’ he said.

  ‘No doubt of it, My Lord.’

  The Cockpit Country was territory unknown to any white man, an independent republic in the north-west of Jamaica. At the conquest of the island from the Spaniards, a century and a half earlier, the British had found this area already populated by runaway slaves and the survivors of the Indian population. Several attempts to subdue the area had failed disastrously – yellow fever and the appalling difficulty of the country allying themselves with the desperate valour of the defenders – and a treaty had finally been concluded granting independence to the Cockpit Country on the sole condition that the inhabitants should not harbour runaway slaves in future. That treaty had already endured fifty years and seemed likely to endure far longer. The pirates’ lair was on the edge of this area, with the mountains at the back of it.

  ‘And that’s Montego Bay, My Lord,’ said Spendlove, pointing.

  Hornblower had visited the place in Clorinda last year – a lonely roadstead providing fair anchorage, and shelter for a few fishing boats. He gazed over to the distant blue water with longing. He tried to think of ways of escape, of some method of coming to honourable terms with the pirates, but a night entirely without sleep made his brain sluggish, and now that he had eaten it was more sluggish still. He caught himself nodding and pulled himself up with a jerk. Now that he was in his middle forties the loss of a night’s sleep was a serious matter, especially when the night had been filled with violent and unaccustomed exertion.

  Spendlove had seen him nod.

  ‘I think you could sleep, My Lord,’ he said, gently.

  ‘Perhaps I could.’

  He let his body sink to the hard ground. He was pillowless and uncomfortable.

  ‘Here, My Lord,’ said Spendlove.

  Two hands on his shoulders eased him round, and now he was pillowed on Spendlove’s thigh. The world whirled round him for a moment. There was the whisper of a breeze; the loud debate of the pirates and their women was monotonous in pitch; the waterfall was splashing and gurgling; then he was asleep.

  He awoke some time later, with Spendlove touching his shoulder.

  ‘My Lord, My Lord.’

  He lifted his head, a little surprised to find where it had been resting; it took him several seconds to recall where he was and how he had come there. Johnson and one or two other pirates were standing before him; in the background one of the women was looking on, in an attitude that conveyed the impression that she had contributed to the conclusion that had evidently been reached.

  ‘We send you to the Governor, Lord,’ said Johnson.

  Hornblower blinked up at him; although the sun had moved round behind the cliff the sky above was dazzling.

  ‘You,’ said Johnson. ‘You go. We keep him.’

  Johnson indicated Spendlove by a gesture.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Hornblower.

  ‘You go to the Governor and get our pardon,’ said Johnson. ‘You can ask him, and he will give it. He stays here. We can cut off his nose, we can dig out his eyes.’

  ‘Good God Almighty,’ said Hornblower.

  Johnson, or his advisers – perhaps that woman over there – were people of considerable insight after all. They had some conception of honour, of gentlemanly obligations. They had perceived something of the relationship between Hornblower and Spendlove – they may have been guided by the sight of Hornblower sleeping with his head pillowed on Spendlove’s thigh. They knew that Hornblower could never abandon Spendlove to the mercy of his captors, that he would do everything possible to obtain his freedom. Even perhaps – Hornblower’s imagination surged in a great wave over the barrier of his sleepiness – even perhaps to the extent of coming back to share Spendlove’s captivity and fate in the event of not being able to obtain the necessary pardons.

  ‘We send you, Lord,’ said Johnson.

  The woman in the background said something in a loud voice.

  ‘We send you now,’ said Johnson. ‘Get up.’

  Hornblower rose slowly; he would have taken his time in any case in an effort to preserve what dignity was left to him, but he could not have risen swiftly if he had wanted to. His joints were stiff – he could almost hear them crack as he moved. His body ached horribly.

  ‘These two men take you,’ said Johnson.

  Spendlove had risen to his feet too.

  ‘Are you all right, My Lord?’ he asked, anxiously.

  ‘Only stiff and rheumaticky,’ replied Hornblower. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right, My Lord. Please don’t give another thought to me, My Lord.’

  That was a very straight glance that Spendlove gave him, a glance that tried to convey a message.

  ‘Not another thought, My Lord,’ repeated Spendlove.

  He was trying to tell his chief that he should be abandoned, that nothing should be done to ransom him, that he was willing to suffer whatever tortures might be inflicted on him so long as his chief came well out of the business.

  ‘I’ll be thinking about you all the time,’ said Hornblower, giving back glance for glance.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Johnson.

  The rope ladder still dangled down from the lip of the shelf. It was a tricky business to lower himself with his creaking joints over the edge and to find foothold on the slippery bamboo rungs. The ladder swung away under the thrust of his feet as if it was a live thing determined to cast him down; he clung with frantic hands, back downwards, forcing himself, against his instincts, to straighten up and allow the ladder to swing back again. Gingerly his feet found foothold again, and he continued his descent. Just as he grew accustomed to the motion of the ladder his rhythm was disturbed by the first of his escort lowering himself upon the ladder above him; he had to cling and wait again before he resumed his downward progress. His feet had hardly gratefully touched ground than first one and then the other of his escorts dropped beside him.

  ‘Good-bye, My Lord. Good luck!’

  That was Spendlove calling from above. Hornblower, standing on the very edge of the river, his face towards the cliff, had to bend far backwards to see Spendlove’s head over the parapet and his waving hand, sixty feet above. He waved back as his escorts led the mules to the water’s edge.

  Once more it was necessary to swim the rivet. It was no more than thirty feet across; he could have swum it last night without assistance had he been sure about that in the darkness. Now he let himself flop into the water, clothes and all – alas for that beautiful black dress-coat – and, turning
on his back, kicked out with his legs. But his clothes were already wet and were a ponderous burden to him, and he knew a moment of worry before his already weary limbs carried him to the rocky bank. He crawled out, the water streaming from his clothes, unwilling to move even while the mules came plunging up out of the water beside him. Spendlove up above, still leaning over the parapet, waved to him again.

  Now it was a question of mounting a mule again. His wet clothes weighed upon him like lead. He had to struggle up–the animal’s wet hide was slippery – and as soon as he settled himself astride he realised that he was horribly saddlesore from the night before, and the raw surfaces caused him agony. He had to brace himself to endure it; it was dreadfully painful as his mount plunged about making his way over the irregular surface. From the river they made an abrupt ascent into the mountains. They were retracing the path they had taken the night before; hardly a path, hardly a track. They picked their way up a steep gully, down the other side, up again. They splashed across little torrents, and wound their way among trees. Hornblower was numb both in body and mind by now; his mule was weary and by no means as sure of foot as a mule should be; stumbling more than once so that only by frantic efforts could he retain his seat. The sun was sinking towards the west as they jolted on, downhill at last. Passage through a final belt of trees brought them into open country upon which the sun blazed in tropical glory. This was savannah country, hardly rocky at all; there were cattle to be seen in the distance, and, beyond, a great sea of green – the vast sugar-cane fields of Jamaica stretching as far as the eye could see. Half a mile farther they reached a well-defined track, and there his escorts checked their mounts.

  ‘Now you can go on,’ said one of them, pointing along the path winding towards the distant cane.

  It was a second or two before Hornblower’s stupefied brain could grasp the fact that they were turning him loose.

  ‘That way?’ he asked, unnecessarily.

  ‘Yes,’ said his escort.

  The two men turned their mules; Hornblower had to struggle with his, who disliked the separation. One of the escorts struck the brute on the rump, sending him down the path in a jerky trot acutely painful to Hornblower as he sought to retain his seat. Soon the mule eased to a leg-weary walk, and Hornblower was content to sit idly as it crawled along down the path; the sun was now clouded over and it was not long before, heralded by a brisk wind, a blinding rain began to fall, blotting out the landscape and slowing the mule even more on the slippery surface. Hornblower sat exhausted on the sharp spine of the animal; so heavy was the rain that he found it difficult to breathe as it poured upon his face.

  Gradually the roaring rain ceased; the sky, while it remained overcast above him, opened to the west and admitted a gleam of the setting sun, so that the landscape on his left was made glorious with a rainbow which Hornblower hardly noted. Here was the first cane-field; the track he was following became here a rough and narrow roadway through the cane, deeply rutted by cartwheels. The mule plodded on, eternally, through the cane. Now the road crossed another, and the mule pulled up at the crossroads. Before Hornblower could rouse himself to urge the mule onwards he heard a shout to his right. Far down the road he saw a group of horsemen illuminated against the sunset. With an urgent drumming of hoofs they came galloping towards him, and reined up at his side – a white man followed by two coloured men.

  ‘It’s Lord Hornblower, isn’t it?’ asked the white man – a young fellow; Hornblower noticed dully that, although mounted, he was still in full-dress clothes with his ruffled neckcloth all awry and bedraggled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Thank God you’re safe, sir,’ said the young man. ‘Are you hurt? Are you wounded, My Lord?’

  ‘No,’ said Hornblower, swaying with fatigue on the back of the mule.

  The young man turned to one of his coloured companions and issued rapid orders, and the coloured man wheeled his horse round and went galloping full pelt down the road.

  ‘The whole island has been turned out to seek for you, My Lord,’ said the young man. ‘What happened to you? We have searched for you all day.’

  It would never do for an Admiral, a Commander-in-Chief, to betray unmanly weakness. Hornblower made himself stiffen his spine.

  ‘I was kidnapped by pirates,’ he said. He tried to speak nonchalantly, as if that was something that could happen to anyone any day, but it was difficult. His voice was only a hoarse croak. ‘I must go at once to the Governor. Where is His Excellency?’

  ‘He must be at Government House, I fancy,’ said the young man. ‘No more than thirty miles away.’

  Thirty miles! Hornblower felt as if he could not ride another thirty yards.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, stiffly. ‘I must go there.’

  ‘The Hough house is only two miles down the road here, My Lord,’ said the young man. ‘Your carriage is still there, I believe. I have already sent a messenger.’

  ‘We’ll go there first, then,’ said Hornblower, as indifferently as he could manage.

  A word from the white man brought the other coloured man from his horse, and Hornblower slid ungracefully from the mule. It was an enormous effort to get his foot up into the stirrup; the coloured man had to help him heave his right leg over. He had hardly gathered the reins in his hands – he had not yet discovered which was which – when the white man put his horse into a trot and Hornblower’s mount followed him. It was torture to bump about in the saddle.

  ‘My name is Colston,’ said the white man, checking his horse so that Hornblower came up alongside him. ‘I had the honour of being presented to Your Lordship at the ball last night.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hornblower. ‘Tell me what happened there.’

  ‘You were missed, My Lord, after the supper march had been kept waiting for you to head it with Mrs Hough. You and your secretary, Mr – Mr—’

  ‘Spendlove,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Yes, My Lord. At first it was thought that some urgent business was demanding your attention. It was not for an hour or two, I suppose, that your flag-lieutenant and Mr Hough could agree that you had been spirited away. There was great distress among the company, My Lord.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then the alarm was given. All the gentlemen present rode out in search for you. The militia was called out at dawn. The whole countryside is being patrolled. I expect the Highland regiment is in full march for here at this moment.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Hornblower. A thousand infantrymen were making a forced march of thirty miles on his account; a thousand horsemen were scouring the island.

  Hoofbeats sounded in front of them. Two horsemen approached in the gathering darkness; Hornblower could just recognise Hough and the messenger.

  ‘Thank God, My Lord,’ said Hough. ‘What happened?’

  Hornblower was tempted to answer, ‘Mr Colston will tell you,’ but he made himself make a more sensible reply. Hough uttered the expected platitudes.

  ‘I must go on to the Governor at once,’ said Hornblower. ‘There is Spendlove to think of.’

  ‘Spendlove, My Lord? Oh, yes, of course, your secretary.’

  ‘He is still in the hands of the pirates,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘Indeed, My Lord?’ replied Hough.

  No one seemed to have a care about Spendlove, except Lucy Hough, presumably.

  Here was the house and the courtyard; lights were gleaming in every window.

  ‘Please come in, My Lord,’ said Hough. ‘Your Lordship must be in need of refreshment.’

  He had eaten yams and salt pork some time that morning; he felt no hunger now.

  ‘I must go on to Government House,’ he said. ‘I can waste no time.’

  ‘If Your Lordship insists—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hornblower.

  ‘I will go and have the horses put to, then, My Lord.’

  Hornblower found himself alone in the brightly lit sitting-room. He felt that if he threw himself into one of the vast
chairs there he would never get up again.

  ‘My Lord! My Lord!’

  It was Lucy Hough fluttering into the room, her skirts flying with her haste. He would have to tell her about Spendlove.

  ‘Oh, you’re safe! You’re safe!’

  What was this? The girl had flung herself on her knees before him. She had one of his hands in both hers, and was kissing it frantically. He drew back, he tried to snatch his hand away, but she clung on to it, and followed him on her knees, still kissing it.

  ‘Miss Lucy!’

  ‘I care for nothing as long as you’re safe!’ she said, looking up at him and still clasping his hand; tears were streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’ve been through torment today. You’re not hurt? Tell me! Speak to me!’

  This was horrible. She was pressing her lips, her cheek, against his hand again.

  ‘Miss Lucy! Please! Compose yourself!’

  How could a girl of seventeen act like this towards a man of forty-five? Was she not enamoured of Spendlove? But perhaps that was the person she was thinking about.

  ‘I will see that Mr Spendlove is safe,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Spendlove? I hope he’s safe. But it’s you – you – you—’

  ‘Miss Lucy! You must not say these things! Stand up, please, I beg you!’

  Somehow he got her to her feet.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it!’ she said. ‘I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you!’