Hornblower in the West Indies

feverishly than ever as he worded this) captains of HM’s vessels were reminded of that passage in the Commander- in-Chief’s original instructions regarding behaviour towards the American flag. If troops were not on board an effort was to be made to ascertain where they had been landed; if they were, Daring was to be kept in sight until they should be landed. Captains were to exercise a wide discretion regarding any interference with Daring’s operations.

Seeing that these orders would not leave New Orleans until tomorrow, and would travel by slow merchant ship, it was hardly likely that they would reach any ship of the squadron before Daring had done whatever she planned to do. Yet it was necessary to take every possible precaution.

Hornblower signed twenty copies of his orders with a sweating hand, saw them sealed, and handed them over to Sharpe. They shook hands before Sharpe went down the gangway.

“Cambronne will head for Port au Prince or Havana, in my opinion, My Lord,” said Sharpe.

The two places were not more than a thousand miles apart.

“Might it not be Cartagena or La Guayra?” asked Hornblower with elaborate irony. Those places were about a thousand miles apart as well, and more than a thousand miles from Havana.

“It well might be,” said Sharpe, the irony quite wasted on him. Yet it could not be said that he was unsympathetic regarding Hornblower’s difficulties, for he went on—“The very best of good fortune, My Lord, in any case. I am certain Your Lordship will command success.”

Crab cast off, and Temeraire had her in tow, smoke and sparks belching from her chimneys, much to Harcourt’s indignation. He was afraid not only of fire but of stains on his spotless deck; he had the hands at work pumping up water from overside continuously soaking deck and rigging.

“Breakfast, My Lord?” said Gerard at Hornblower’s elbow.

Breakfast? It was one o’clock in the afternoon. He had not been to bed. He had drunk far too much last night, and he had had a busy morning, an anxious morning, and he was as desperately anxious at this moment. His first reaction was to say no; then he remembered how he had complained yesterday (only yesterday? It seemed more like a week ago) about his delayed breakfast. He would not allow his agitation to be so obvious.

“Of course. It could have been served more promptly, Mr. Gerard,” he said, hoping he was displaying the irascibility of a man who had not broken his fast.

“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Gerard. He had been Hornblower’s flag-lieutenant for several months now, and knew nearly as much about Hornblower’s moods as a wife might have done. He knew, too, of Hornblower’s kindly interior. He had received his appointment as the son of an old friend, at a moment when admiral’s sons and duke’s sons had yearned to serve as flag-lieutenant to the fabulous Hornblower.

Hornblower forced himself to eat his fruit and his boiled eggs, to drink his coffee despite the heat. He whiled away a considerable time before he came on deck again, and during that period he had actually contrived to forget his problems—at least nearly to forget them. But they returned in full force as soon as he came on deck again. So harassing were they that he could feel no interest in this still unusual method of navigating a river, no interest in the low banks that were going by so fast alongside. This hurried departure from New Orleans was only a gesture of despair, after all. He could not hope to catch the Daring. She would bring off whatever coup she had in mind almost under his very nose and leave him the laughing-stock of the world—of his world, at least. This would be the last command he would ever hold. Hornblower looked back over the years of half pay he had endured since Waterloo. They had been dignified and happy years, one would think, with a seat in the Lords and a position of influence in the County, a loving wife and a growing son, but he had not been living the right life, even so. The five years after Waterloo until at last the course of nature brought his promotion to flag rank had been fretful years; he had only realised it when he knew the intense joy of his appointment to the West Indies. Now all the years to come until he went down into the grave would be as dreary as those five, more dreary, because they would be unrelieved by the hope of future employment at sea.

Here he was, pitying himself, he said to himself bitterly, when what he should be doing was working out the problems set him. What was it Cambronne had in mind? If he could head him off, arrive triumphantly at the place where Cambronne intended to strike his blow, he could retrieve his reputation. He might be able with great good fortune to intervene decisively. But there was turmoil everywhere through Spanish America, and through the West Indies as well, save for the British colonies. One place was as likely as another; in any case it would be extremely doubtful if he would have any excuse to interfere—Cambronne probably held a commission from Bolivar or some other leader; but on the other hand the precautions Cambronne had taken seemed to imply that he would at least prefer that the Royal Navy would not have a chance to intervene. Intervene? With a crew of sixteen not counting supernumeraries, and with nothing larger than a six-pounder? Rubbish. He was a fool. But he must think, think, think.

“It will be sunset before we sight St. Philip, My Lord,” reported Harcourt, saluting.

“Very well, Mr. Harcourt.”

There would be no salutes fired, then. He would make his departure from the United States with his tail between his legs, so to speak. There could hardly fail to be comment about the briefness of his visit. Sharpe might do his best to explain why he had left so hurriedly, but any explanation would be unsatisfactory. In every way this command for which he had yearned was turning out to be a ridiculous fiasco.

Even this visit, to which he had looked forward so eagerly, was a disappointment. He had seen almost nothing of New Orleans, of America, or of the Americans. He could take no interest in this vast Mississippi. His problems deprived him of interest in his surroundings and his surroundings distracted him from a proper attention to his problems. This fantastic method of progression, for instance—Crab was going through the water at a good five knots, and there was the current as well. Quite a breeze was blowing past him in consequence; it was extraordinary to be going ahead with the wind dead foul, without a heel or a pitch, with the standing rigging uttering a faint note and yet not a creak from the running rigging.

“Your dinner is served, My Lord,” said Gerard, appearing on deck again.

Darkness was closing in round the Crab as Hornblower went below, but the cabin was hot and stuffy.

“Scotch broth, My Lord,” said Giles, putting a steaming plate before him.

Hornblower dipped his spoon perfunctorily into the plate, tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, and laid his spoon down again, Giles poured him a glass of wine; he wanted neither wine nor soup, yet he must not display human weaknesses. He forced himself to take a little more of the soup, enough to preserve appearances.

“Chicken Marengo, My Lord,” said Giles, putting another plate before him.

Appearances were more easily preserved with chicken; Hornblower haggled the joints apart, ate a couple of mouthfuls, and laid down his knife and fork. They would report to him from the deck if the miracle had happened, if Daring’s two steam tugs had broken down, or if Daring had run aground, and they were passing her triumphantly. Absurd hope. He was a fool.

Giles cleared the table, reset it with cheese dish and cheese plate, and poured a glass of port. A sliver of cheese, a sip of port, and dinner might be considered over. Giles set out the silver spirit lamp, the silver coffee pot, the porcelain cup—Barbara’s last present to him. Somehow there was comfort in coffee despite his misery; the only comfort in a black world.

On deck again it was quite dark. On the starboard bow gleamed a light, moving steadily aft to the starboard beam; that must be one of the lighthouses installed by the Americans to make the navigation of the Mississippi as convenient by night as by day. It was one more proof of the importance of this developing commerce—the fact that as many as six steam tugs were being constantly employed was a further proof.

“If you please, My Lord,” said Harcourt in the darkness beside him. “We are approaching the Pass. What orders, My Lord?”

What could he do? He could only play a losing game out to the bitter end. He could only follow Daring, far, far astern of her, in the hope of a miracle, a fortunate accident. The odds were a hundred to one that by the time he reached Corpus Christi the bird would be flown, completely vanished. Yet perhaps the Mexican authorities, if there were any, or local gossip, if he could pick up any, might afford him some indication of the next destination of the Imperial Guard.

“As soon as we are at sea, set a course for Corpus Christi, if you please, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Aye aye, My Lord. Corpus Christi.”

“Study your Sailing Directions for the Gulf of Mexico, Mr. Harcourt, for the pass into the lagoon there.”