10 Lord Hornblower

this last an easy task, seeing that there was a long string of successes to report, two prizes taken, the Flame recaptured, most of the mutineers in irons below decks and their ringleader slain by Hornblower’s own hand. But there was the physical labour of writing it out, and Hornblower was very weary. Moreover, the composition of it would be difficult, for Hornblower could foresee having to steer a ticklish course between the Scylla of open boastfulness and the Charybdis of mock-modesty — how often had his lip wrinkled in distaste when reading the literary efforts of other officers! And the killing of Nathaniel Sweet by the terrible Commodore Hornblower, although it would look well in a naval history, and although, from the point of view of the discipline of the service, it was the best way in which the affair could have ended, might not appear so well in Barbara’s eyes. He himself did not relish the memory of that white head sinking beneath the waves, and he felt that Barbara, with her attention forcibly called to the fact that he had shed blood, had taken a human life, with his own hands (those hands which she said she loved, which she had sometimes kissed), might feel a repulsion, a distaste.

Hornblower shook himself free from a clinging tangle of thoughts and memories, of Barbara and Nathaniel Sweet, to find himself still staring abstractedly at the young seaman who had brought to him Freeman’s message regarding Lebrun’s request.

“My compliments to Mr. Freeman, and he can send this fellow in to me,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir,” said the seaman, his knuckles to his forehead, turning away with intense relief. The Commodore had been looking through and through him for three minutes at least — three hours, it seemed like, to the seaman.

An armed guard brought Lebrun into the cabin, and Hornblower looked him keenly over. He was one of the half-dozen prisoners taken when the Porta Coeli came into Le Havre, one of the deputation which had mounted her deck to welcome her under the impression that she was the Flame coming in to surrender.

“Monsieur speaks French?” said Lebrun.

“A little.”

“More than a little, if all the tales about Captain Hornblower are true,” replied Lebrun.

“What is your business?” snapped Hornblower, cutting short this Continental floweriness. Lebrun was a youngish man, of olive complexion, with glistening white teeth, who conveyed a general impression of oiliness.

“I am adjoint to Baron Momas, Mayor of Le Havre.”

“Yes?” Hornblower tried to show no sign of interest, but he knew that under the Imperial regime the mayor of a large town like Le Havre was a most important person, and that his adjoint — his assistant, or deputy — was a very important permanent official.

“The firm of Momas Freres is one you must have heard of. It has traded with the Americas for generations — the history of its rise is identical with the history of the development of Le Havre itself.”

“Yes?”

“Similarly, the war and the blockade have had a most disastrous effect upon the fortunes both of the firm of Momas and upon the city of Le Havre.”

“Yes?”

“The Caryatide, the vessel that you so ingeniously captured two days ago, monsieur, might have restored the fortunes of us all — a single vessel running the blockade, as you will readily understand, is worth ten vessels arriving in peacetime.”

“Yes?”

“M. le Baron and the city of Le Havre will be desperate, I have no doubt, as the result of her capture before her cargo could be taken out.”

“Yes?”

The two men eyed each other, like duellists during a pause, Hornblower determined to betray none of the curiosity and interest that he felt, and Lebrun hesitating before finally committing himself.

“I take it, monsieur, that anything further I have to say will be treated as entirely confidential.”

“I promise nothing. In fact, I can only say that it will be my duty to report anything you say to the Government of His Majesty of Great Britain.”

“They will be discreet for their own sake, I expect,” ruminated Lebrun.

“His Majesty’s ministers can make their own decisions,” said Hornblower.

“You are aware, monsieur,” said Lebrun, obviously taking the plunge, “that Bonaparte has been defeated in a great battle at Leipzig?”

“Yes.”

“The Russians are on the Rhine.”

“That is so.”

“The Russians are on the Rhine!” repeated Lebrun, marvelling. The whole world, pro-Bonaparte or anti- Bonaparte, was marvelling that the massive Empire should have receded half across Europe in those few short months.

“And Wellington is marching on Toulouse,” added Hornblower — there was no harm in reminding Lebrun of the British threat in the south.

“That is so. The Empire cannot much longer endure.”

“I am glad to hear your opinion in the matter.”

“And when the Empire falls there will be peace, and when peace comes trade will recommence.”

“Without a doubt,” said Hornblower, still a little mystified.