Hornblower in the West Indies

“And this is the landfall they’d make,” went on Fell, remorselessly, glancing astern again at Puerto Rico on the horizon.

“Yes,” said Hornblower. Another minute or two of this pointless conversation and he would be free to escape below.

Fell took the speaking-trumpet and directed it upwards.

“Masthead, there! Keep a good lookout or I’ll know the reason why!”

“Aye aye, sir!” came the reply.

“Head money, My Lord,” said Fell, in apologetic explanation.

“We all find it useful,” answered Hornblower, politely.

Head money was paid by the British Government for slaves freed on the high seas, to the Royal Naval ships concerned in the capture of the slaves, and divided among the ship’s company like any other prize money. It was a small fund compared with the gigantic sums acquired during the great wars, but at five pounds a head a big capture could bring in a substantial sum to the ship making the capture. And of that substantial sum one-quarter went to the captain. On the other hand, one-eighth went to the Admiral commanding, wherever he happened to be. Hornblower, with twenty ships at sea under his command, was entitled to one-eighth of all their head money. It was a system of division which explained how during the great wars the Admirals commanding the Channel Fleet or in the Mediterranean became millionaires, like Lord Keith.

“No one could find it more useful than I, My Lord,” said Fell.

“Maybe,” said Hornblower.

Hornblower knew vaguely that Fell was in difficulties about money. He had had many years of half pay since Waterloo, and even now as captain of a fifth-rate his pay and allowances were less than twenty pounds a month— lucky though he was, in peacetime, to have command even of a fifth-rate. He had had experience himself of being a poor captain, of wearing cotton stockings instead of silk, and brass epaulettes instead of gold. But he had no desire whatever to discuss the Tables of Personal Pay before breakfast.

“Lady Fell, My Lord,” went on Fell, persistently, “has a position to maintain in the world.”

She was an extravagant woman, so Hornblower had heard.

“Let’s hope we have some luck today, then,” said Hornblower, still thinking about breakfast.

It was a melodramatic coincidence that at that very moment a hail came down from the masthead.

“Sail ho! Sail right to wind’ard!”

“Perhaps that’s what we’re waiting for, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower.

“As likely as not, My Lord. Masthead, there! How’s the sail heading? Mr. Sefton, bring the ship to the wind.”

Hornblower backed away to the weather-rail. He felt he could never grow used to his situation as Admiral, and having to stand by and be no more than an interested spectator while the ship he was in was being handled at decisive moments. It was quite painful to be a spectator, but it would be more painful still to go below and remain in ignorance of what was going on—and much more painful than to postpone breakfast again.

“Deck, there! She’s a two-master. Heading straight down for us. All sail to the royals. Captain, sir, she’s a schooner! A big schooner, sir. Still running down for us.”

Young Gerard, the flag-lieutenant, had come running on deck at the first hail from the masthead, to his place beside his Admiral.

“A tops’l schooner,” he said. “A big one. She could be what we’re looking for, My Lord.”

“Plenty of other things she could be,” said Hornblower, doing his best to conceal his absurd excitement.

Gerard had his telescope pointing to windward.

“There she is! Coming down fast, right enough. Look at the rake of those masts! Look at the cut of those tops’ls! My Lord, she’s no Island schooner.”

It would not be a very remarkable coincidence if she should be a slaver; he had brought Clorinda here to the windward of San Juan in the full expectation that slave cargoes would be hurrying here. Spain was meditating joining in the suppression of the slave trade, and every slaver would be tempted to run cargoes and take advantage of enhanced prices before the prohibition should take effect. The main slave market for the Spanish colonies was at Havana, a thousand miles to leeward, but it could be looked upon as certain that Spanish slavers, making their passage from the Slave Coast, would touch first at Puerto Rico to refill with water if not to dispose of part of their cargo. It had only been logical to station Clorinda to intercept them.

Hornblower took the telescope and trained it on the fast-nearing schooner. He saw what Gerard had spoken about. Hull up now, he could see how heavily sparred she was, and how built for speed. With those fine lines it would only pay for her to carry highly perishable cargo—human cargo. As he looked he saw the rectangles of her square sails narrow vertically; the small distance between her masts widened greatly. She was wheeling away from the waiting Clorinda—a final proof, if any was needed, that she was what she appeared to be. Laying herself on the starboard tack, she proceeded to keep at a safe distance, and to increase that distance as fast as possible.

“Mr. Sefton!” shouted Fell. “Fill the main tops’l! After her, on the starboard tack! Set the royals!”

In an orderly and disciplined rush some of the hands hurried to the braces while others scurried aloft to set more sail. It was only a matter of moments before Clorinda, as close-hauled as she would lie, was thrashing to windward in pursuit. With everything braced up sharp, and carrying every inch of sail that the brisk trade wind would allow, she lay steeply over, plunging through the sea, each wave in turn bursting on her weather bow with the spray flying aft in sheets, and the taut weather-rigging shrieking in the wind. It was a remarkable transition from the quiet that had reigned not so long ago.

“Hoist the colours,” ordered Fell. “Let’s see what she says she is.”

Through the telescope Hornblower watched the schooner hoist her colours in reply—the red and yellow of Spain.

“You see, My Lord?” asked Fell.

“Pardon, Cap’n,” interposed Sefton, the officer of the watch, “I know who she is. I saw her twice last commission. She’s the Estrella.”

“The Australia?” exclaimed Fell, mishearing Sefton’s Spanish pronunciation.

“The Estrella, sir. The Estrella del Sur—the Star of the South, sir.”

“I know about her, then,” said Hornblower. “Her captain’s Gomez—runs four hundred slaves every passage, if he doesn’t lose too many.”

“Four hundred!” repeated Fell.

Hornblower saw a momentary calculating look pass over Fell’s face. Five pounds a head meant two thousand pounds; a quarter of that was five hundred pounds. Two years’ pay at one swoop. Fell darted glances aloft and overside.

“Keep your luff, there!” he shouted at the helmsman. “Mr. Sefton! Hands to the bowlines there, for’rard.”

“She’s weathering on us,” said Gerard, the glass to his eye.

It was really only to be expected that a well-designed schooner would work to windward more efficiently than even the best of square-rigged frigates.

“She’s fore-reaching on us, too,” said Hornblower, gauging the distances and angles. She was not only lying closer to the wind but travelling faster through the water. Very little faster, it was true—a knot or perhaps two knots—but enough to render her safe from Clorinda’s pursuit.

“I’ll have her yet!” said Fell. “Mr. Sefton! Call all hands! Run out the guns on the weather side. Mr. James! Find Mr. Noakes. Tell him to start the water. Hands to the pumps, Mr. Sefton! Pump her dry.”

Hands came pouring up through the hatchways. With the gun-ports opened the guns’ crews flung their weight on the gun tackles, inch by inch dragging the guns on the weather side up the steep slope presented by the heeling deck. The rumble of the wooden wheels over the seams of the planking made a stirring sound; it had been the preliminary of many a desperate fight in the old days. Now the guns were merely being run out in order to keep the ship on a slightly more even keel, giving her a better grip on the water and minimising leeway. Hornblower watched the pumps being manned; the hands threw their weight on the handles with a will, the rapid clank-clank proving how hard they were at work, pumping overside the twenty tons of drinking water which might be thought of as the