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Rear Admiral Lord Hornblower, for all his proud appointment as commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s ships and vessels in the West Indies, paid his official visit to New Orleans in H.M. schooner Crab, mounting only two six-pounders and with a crew of no more than sixteen men, not counting supernumeraries.

His Britannic Majesty’s consul-general at New Orleans, Mr. Cloudesley Sharpe, remarked on the fact.

“I hardly expected to see your lordship in so diminutive a craft,” he said, looking round him. He had driven down in his carriage to the pier against which Crab was lying, and had sent his liveried footman to the gangway to announce him, and it had been something of an anticlimax to be received by the trilling of the only two bos’n’s calls that Crab could muster, and to find on the quarterdeck to receive him, besides the admiral and his flag lieutenant, a mere lieutenant in command.

“The exigencies of the service, sir,” explained Hornblower. “But if I may lead the way below, I can offer you whatever hospitality this temporary flagship of mine affords.”

Mr. Sharpe—surely there never was a name that accorded so ill with its possessor’s figure, for he was a fat man, a mountain of puffy flesh—squeezed himself into a chair at the table in the pleasant little cabin, and replied to Hornblower’s suggestion of breakfast with the statement that he had already broken his fast. He obviously had the gravest doubts as to the quality of any breakfast that could be served in this little ship. Gerard, the flag lieutenant, made himself inconspicuous in a corner of the cabin, notebook and pencil on his knee, while Hornblower reopened the conversation.

“Phoebe was struck by lightning off Morant Cape,” said Hornblower. “She was the ship I had planned to come in. Clorinda was already in dock, refitting. And Roebuck’s off Curaçao, keeping an eye on the Dutchmen—there’s a brisk trade in arms with Venezuela at present.”

“Well I know that,” said Sharpe.

“Those are my three frigates,” said Hornblower. “With the arrangements all made I judged it better to come in this schooner rather than not to come at all.”

“How are the mighty fallen!” was Mr. Sharpe s comment. “Your lordship, a commander-in-chief, with no more than three frigates and half a dozen sloops and schooners.”

“Fourteen sloops and schooners, sir,” corrected Hornblower. “They are very desirable craft for the duties I have to perform.”

“No doubt, my lord,” said Sharpe. “But I can remember the days when the commander-in-chief on the West India Station disposed of a squadron of ships of the line.”

“That was in time of war, sir,” explained Hornblower, recalling the oral comments of the First Sea Lord in the interview when he had been offered this command. “The House of Commons would sooner allow the Royal Navy to rot at its moorings than reimpose the income tax.”

“At any rate, your lordship has arrived,” said Sharpe. “Your lordship exchanged salutes with Fort St. Philip?”

“Gun for gun, as your despatch informed me had been arranged.”

“Excellent!” said Sharpe.

It had been a strange little formality; all hands on board Crab had lined the rail very properly during the salute, and the officers had stood at attention on the quarterdeck, but “all hands” amounted to very little, with four men manning the saluting gun, and one at the signal halyards, and one at the helm. It had poured with rain, too; Hornblower’s glittering uniform had clung damply around him.

“Your lordship made use of the services of a steam tug?”

“Yes, by George!” exclaimed Hornblower.

“A remarkable experience for your lordship, apparently?”

“Indeed, yes,” said Hornblower. “I—”

He held himself back from giving utterance to all his thoughts on that subject; they would lead to too many exciting irrelevancies. But a steam tug had brought Crab against the hundred miles of current from the sea to New Orleans between dawn and dusk, arriving at the very minute the tug captain had predicted. And here was New Orleans, crowded not merely with ocean-going sailing ships but also with a fleet of long narrow steamers, manoeuvring out into the stream and against piers with a facility—thanks to their two paddle wheels—that even Crab with her handy fore-and-aft rig could not attempt to emulate. And with a thrash of those paddle wheels they would go flying upstream with a rapidity almost unbelievable.

“Steam has laid open a continent, my lord,” said Sharpe, echoing Hornblower’s thoughts. “A veritable empire. Thousands and thousands of miles of navigable waterways. The population of the Mississippi Valley will be counted in millions within a few years.”

Hornblower remembered discussions at home, when he was a half-pay officer awaiting his promotion to flag rank, when the “steam kettles” had been mentioned. Even the possibility of ocean-going ships propelled by steam had been suggested, and had been properly laughed to scorn—it would mean the ruin of good seamanship. Hornblower had not been quite so sure on the point, but he had been careful to keep his opinions to himself, having no desire to be regarded as a dangerous crank. He did not want to be drawn into any similar discussions now, not even with a mere civilian.

“What intelligence do you have for me, sir?” he asked.

“A considerable amount, my lord.” Mr. Sharpe produced a fold of papers from his tail pocket.

“Here are the latest advices from New Granada—more recent I expect than anything you have had. The insurgents—”

Mr. Sharpe entered into a rapid exposition of the military and political situation in Central America. The Spanish colonies were entering into the final stage of their struggle for independence.

“It cannot be long before His Majesty’s government recognizes that independence,” said Sharpe. “And our minister in Washington informs me that the government of the United States meditates a similar recognition. It remains to be seen what the Holy Alliance will have to say on that score, my lord.”

Europe under the rule of absolute monarchy would turn a jaundiced eye upon the establishment of a whole new series of republics, no doubt. But it hardly mattered what Europe had to say, as long as the Royal Navy—even the depleted peacetime navy—controlled the seas and the two English-speaking governments continued in amity.

“Cuba shows small signs of restlessness,” went on Sharpe, “and I have information of the issue of further letters of marque by the Spanish government to vessels sailing from Havana.”

Letters of marque were one of the principal sources of Hornblower’s troubles. They were being issued by insurgent and nationalist governments alike, to prey upon ships flying the old flags and the new, and the bearers of letters of marque turned pirates in the twinkling of an eye in the absence of legitimate prizes and efficient prize courts. Thirteen of Hornblower’s fourteen small craft were scattered over the Caribbean keeping an eye on the activities of the privateers.

“I have prepared duplicates of my reports for your lordship’s information,” concluded Sharpe. “I have them here to give to your lordship, along with copies of the complaints of the master mariners concerned.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, while Gerard took the papers into his charge.

“Now for the slave trade, with your lordship’s permission,” went on Sharpe, opening a fresh series of papers.

The slave trade was as acute a question as piracy, even more acute in some ways, because the Anti-Slavery Society in England commanded a great deal of powerful and vocal support in both Houses of Parliament, and would raise an even more violent to-do about a cargo of slaves run into Havana or Rio de Janeiro than a shipping company pestered by privateers.

“At this moment, my lord,” said Sharpe, “a raw hand newly brought from the Slave Coast is selling for eighty pounds in the Havana barracoons, and he costs no more than a pound in trade goods at Whydah. Those profits are tempting, my lord.”

“Naturally,” said Hornblower.

“I have reason to believe that ships of both British and American registry are engaged in the traffic, my lord.”

“So have I.”

The First Sea Lord had tapped ominously on the table in that interview when touching on this part of his instructions to Hornblower. Under the new law, British subjects who engaged in the slave trade could be hanged and their ships seized. But care would be necessary in dealing with ships flying American colours. If they refused to heave-to on the high seas for examination, the utmost tact would have to be employed. To shoot away an American spar or to kill an American citizen would mean trouble. America had gone to war with England only nine years before over matters very similar.

“We want no trouble, my lord,” said Sharpe. He had a pair of hard intelligent grey eyes deep set in his puffy face.

“I am aware of that, sir.”

“And in this connection, my lord, I must employ special emphasis in calling your lordship’s attention to a vessel making ready for sea here in New Orleans.”

“Which ship is this?”

“She is visible from the deck, my lord. In fact—” Sharpe struggled out of his chair and walked to the cabin window. “Yes, there she is. What do you make of her, my lord?”

Hornblower looked out from beside Sharpe. He saw a beautiful ship of eight hundred tons or more. Her fine lines, the lofty rake of her masts, the wide spread of her yards were all clear indications of speed, for which some sacrifice of cargo-carrying capacity had been made. She was flush-decked, with six painted gunports along each side. American shipbuilders had always evinced a tendency toward building fast ships, but this was an advanced example of the type.

“Are there guns behind those ports?” asked Hornblower.

“Twelve-pounders, my lord.”

Even in these days of peace, it was not unusual for merchant vessels to carry guns, whether for voyages in the West Indies or the East, but this was a heavier armament than usual.

“She was built as a privateer,” said Hornblower.

“Quite right, my lord. She’s the Daring; she was built during the war and made one voyage and took six prizes from us before the Treaty of Ghent. And now, my lord?”

“She could be a slaver.”

“Your lordship is right again, of course.”

That heavy armament would be desirable in a slaver anchoring up a West African river, liable to a treacherous attack; she could easily have a slave deck with that flush build; her speed would minimize deaths among the slaves during the middle passage; her lack of capacity for bulk cargo would be unimportant in a slaver.

“Is she a slaver?” asked Hornblower.

“Apparently not, my lord, despite her appearance. She is being chartered to carry a great many men, all the same.”

“I would like you to explain further, if you please, Mr. Sharpe.”

“I can only tell your lordship the facts as disclosed to me. She is under charter to a French general, Count Cambronne.”

“Cambronne? Cambronne? The man who commanded the Imperial Guard at Waterloo?”

“That’s the man, my lord.”

“The man who said, ‘The Old Guard dies, but does not surrender’?”

“Yes, my lord, although report says he actually used a ruder expression. He was wounded and taken prisoner, but he did not die.”

“So I have heard. But what does he want with this ship?”

“It is all open and aboveboard, apparently. After the war, Boney’s Old Guard formed an organization for mutual aid. In 1816 they decided to become colonists. Your lordship must have heard something about the project?”

“Hardly anything.”

“They came out and seized an area of land on the coast of Texas, the province of Mexico adjacent to this state of Louisiana.”

“I have heard about it, but that is the extent of my knowledge.”

“It was easy enough to start, with Mexico in the throes of her revolt against Spain. There was no opposition to them, as you understand, my lord. But it was not so easy to continue. I cannot imagine that soldiers of the Old Guard would ever make good agriculturists. And on that pestilential coast—it is a series of dreary lagoons, with hardly an inhabitant.”

“The scheme failed?”

“As your lordship might expect. Half of them died of malaria and yellow fever, and half of the rest simply starved. Cambronne has come out from France to carry the survivors home, five hundred of them. The government of the United States never liked the project, as your lordship can imagine, and now the insurgent government is strong enough to take exception to the presence on the shores of Mexico of a large body of trained soldiers, however peaceable their intentions. Your lordship can see Cambronne’s story could be perfectly true.”

“Yes.”

An eight-hundred-ton ship equipped as a slaver could pack five hundred soldiers on board and feed them during a long passage.

“Cambronne is stocking her largely with rice and water—slave rations, my lord, but the best adapted to the purpose for that very reason.”

The slave trade had had long experience of how to keep alive a close-packed body of men.

“If Cambronne is going to take them back to France, I should do nothing to hinder him,” said Hornblower. “Rather on the contrary.”

“Exactly, my lord.”

Sharpe’s grey eyes met Hornblower’s in an expressionless stare. The presence of five hundred trained soldiers afloat in the Gulf of Mexico was very much the concern of the British admiral commanding-in-chief, when the shores of the Gulf and of the Caribbean were in as much of a turmoil as at present. Bolívar and the other Spanish-American insurgents would pay a high price for their services in the present war. Or someone might be meditating the conquest of Haiti or a piratical descent upon Havana. Any sort of filibustering expedition was possible. The actual Bourbon government in France might be looking for a pie in which to put a finger, for that matter, a chance to snap up a colony and confront the English-speaking powers with a fait accompli.

“I’ll keep my eye on them until they are safely out of the way,” said Hornblower.

“I have called your lordship’s attention officially to the matter,” said Sharpe.

It would be one more drain upon Hornblower’s limited resources for the policing of the Caribbean; he already was wondering which of his few craft he could detach to observe the Gulf Coast.

“And now, my lord,” said Sharpe, “it is my duty to discuss the details of your lordship’s stay here in New Orleans. I have arranged a program of official calls for your lordship. Does your lordship speak French?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, fighting down the urge to say, “My lordship does.”

“That is excellent, because French is commonly spoken among good society here. Your lordship will, of course, be calling upon the naval authorities here, and upon the governor. There is an evening reception planned for your lordship. My carriage is, of course, at your lordship’s disposition.”

“That is extremely kind of you, sir.”

“No kindness at all, my lord. It is a great pleasure to me to assist in making your lordship’s visit to New Orleans as enjoyable as possible. I have here a list of the prominent people your lordship will meet, along with brief notes regarding them. Perhaps it might be as well if I explain it to your lordship’s flag lieutenant?”

“Certainly,” said Hornblower; he was able now to relax his attention a little; Gerard was a good flag lieutenant and had supported his commander-in-chief very satisfactorily during the ten months that Hornblower had held command. He supplied some of the social flair that Hornblower was too indifferent to acquire. The business was rapidly settled.

“Very well, then, my lord,” said Sharpe. “Now I can take my leave. I will have the pleasure of seeing your lordship again at the governor’s house.”

“I am deeply obliged to you, sir.”

This city of New Orleans was an enchanting place. Hornblower was bubbling internally with excitement at the prospect of exploring it. Nor was he the only one, as appeared as soon as Sharpe had taken his leave, when Lieutenant Harcourt, captain of the Crab, intercepted Hornblower on the quarterdeck.

“Pardon, my lord,” he said, saluting. “Are there any orders for me?”

There could be no doubt about what Harcourt had in mind. Forward of the mainmast most of the crew of Crab were congregated, looking eagerly aft; in a tiny ship like this, everyone was aware of everyone else’s business, and discipline ran on lines different from those in a big ship.

“Can you trust your men to be steady on shore, Mr. Harcourt?” asked Hornblower.

“Yes, my lord.”

Hornblower looked forward again. The hands looked remarkably smart; they had been labouring on making new clothes for themselves all the way from Kingston, from the moment when it was announced that Crab would have the astonishing distinction of flying the admiral’s flag. They were wearing neat blue frock jumpers and white ducks and shady straw hats; Hornblower saw their self-conscious poses as he glanced toward them—they knew perfectly well what was being discussed. These were peacetime sailors, voluntarily enlisted; Hornblower had had twenty years of wartime service with pressed crews who could never be trusted not to desert, and even now he had consciously to adjust his mind to the change.

“If you could give me notice of when you intend to sail, sir—I mean, my lord—” said Harcourt.

“Until dawn tomorrow in any case,” said Hornblower, coming to a sudden decision; his day was full until then.

“Aye aye, my lord.”

Would the grogshops of New Orleans’ water-front be any different from the grogshops of Kingston or Port of Spain?

“Now perhaps I can have my breakfast, Mr. Gerard,” said Hornblower. “Unless you have any objection?”

“Aye aye, my lord,” answered Gerard, carefully ignoring the sarcasm. He had long learned that his admiral objected to nothing in the world as much as having to be active before breakfast.

It was after breakfast that a Negro, trotting barefooted along the pier, came bearing on his head a basket of fruit, which he handed in at the gangway at the moment when Hornblower was about to start off on his official round of calls.

“There’s a note with it, my lord,” said Gerard. “Shall I open it?”

“Yes.”

“It is from Mr. Sharpe,” reported Gerard, after breaking the seal, and then, some seconds later, “I think you had better read this yourself, my lord.”

Hornblower took the thing impatiently. The note read:

My Lord:

I have imposed upon myself the pleasure of sending some fruit to your lordship.

It is my duty to inform your lordship that I have just received information that the freight which Count Cambronne brought out here from France, and which has been lying in bond in charge of the United States customs service, will shortly be transferred by lighter through the agency of a bonded carrier to the Daring. As your lordship will, of course, understand, this is an indication that the Daring will be sailing soon. My information is that the amount of bonded freight is very considerable, and I am endeavouring to discover in what it consists. Perhaps your lordship might, from your lordship’s coign of vantage, find an opportunity of observing the nature of this freight.

I am, with great respect,

Your lordship’s humble and

obedient servant,

Cloudesley Sharpe,

H.B.M.’s Consul General at New Orleans

Now what could Cambronne have possibly brought from France in large amount that could be legitimately needed for the purpose he had avowed when he chartered the Daring? Not personal effects, certainly. Not food or liquor—he could pick those up cheaply in New Orleans. Then what? Warm-weather clothing would be a possible explanation. Those guardsmen might well need it when returning to France from the Gulf of Mexico. It was possible. But a French general, with five hundred men of the Imperial Guard at his disposal, would bear the closest watching when the Caribbean was in such a turmoil. It would be a great help to know what kind of freight he was shipping.

“Mr. Harcourt!”

“Sir—my lord!”

“I would like your company in the cabin for a moment, if you please.”

The young lieutenant stood at attention in the cabin a little apprehensively, waiting to hear what his admiral had to say.

“This isn’t a reprimand, Mr. Harcourt,” said Hornblower testily. “Not even an admonition.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Harcourt, relaxing.

Hornblower took him to the cabin window and pointed out through it, just as Sharpe had done previously.

“That’s the Daring,” he said. “An ex-privateer, now under charter to a French general.”

Harcourt looked his astonishment.

“That is the case,” went on Hornblower. “And today she will be taking on some cargo out of bond. It will be brought round to her out of bond by lighter.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I want to know as much about that cargo as possible.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Naturally, I do not want the world to know that I am interested. I want nobody to know unnecessarily.”

“Yes, my lord. I could use a telescope from here and see a good deal, with luck.”

“Very true. You can take note of whether it is bales or boxes or bags. How many there are of each. From the tackle employed, you can guess at the weights. You can do all that.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

“Make careful note of all you see.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

Hornblower fixed his eyes on his youthful flag lieutenant’s face, trying to estimate his discretion. He remembered so well the emphatic words of the First Sea Lord regarding the necessity for the utmost tenderness regarding American susceptibilities. Hornblower decided the young man could be trusted.

“Now, Mr. Harcourt,” he said, “pay special attention to what I have to say. The more I know about that cargo the better. But don’t go at it like a bull at a gate. Should an opportunity present itself for finding out what it is, you must seize upon it. I can’t imagine what that opportunity may be, but opportunities come to those who are ready for them.”

Long, long ago, Barbara had said to him that good fortune is the portion of those who merit it.

“I understand, my lord.”

“If the slightest hint of this gets out—if the Americans or the French get to know what you are doing—you will be sorry you were ever born, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’ve no use for a dashing young officer in this connection, Mr. Harcourt. I want someone with ingenuity, someone with cunning. You are sure you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hornblower at last took his eyes from Harcourt’s face. He himself had been a dashing young officer once. Now he had far more sympathy than ever before with the older men who had entrusted him with enterprises. A senior officer had perforce to trust his juniors, while still carrying the ultimate responsibility. If Harcourt should blunder, if he should be guilty of some indiscretion leading to a diplomatic protest, it would certainly be true that he might wish he had never been born; Hornblower would see to that. But Hornblower would be wishing he himself had never been born, too. But there was no useful purpose to be served in pointing that out.

“That is all, then, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Come on, Mr. Gerard. We’re late already.”

***

The upholstery of Mr. Sharpe’s carriage was of green satin, and the carriage was admirably sprung, so that, although it lurched and swayed over the uneven street surfaces, it did not jolt or jerk. Yet after five minutes of lurching and swaying—the carriage had been standing for some time in the hot May sun—Hornblower felt himself turning as green as the upholstery. The Rue Royale, the Place d’Armes, the cathedral received hardly a glance from him. He welcomed the halts despite the fact that each halt meant a formal meeting with strangers—the kind of meeting he disliked most heartily. He stood and gulped in the humid air during the blessed moments between descending from the carriage and entering in under the ornate porticoes that stood to welcome him. It had never occurred to him before that an admiral’s full-dress uniform might with advantage be made of something thinner than broadcloth, and he had worn his broad red ribbon and his glittering star far too often by now to feel the slightest pleasure in displaying it.

At the naval headquarters he drank an excellent Madeira; the general gave him a heavy Marsala; at the governor’s mansion he was given a tall drink which had been iced—presumably with ice sent down during the winter from New England and preserved in an ice house until nearly at midsummer it was more precious than gold—extraordinarily, to the point where actual frost was visible on the tumbler. The delicious cold contents of that tumbler disappeared rapidly, and the tumbler was as rapidly refilled.

He checked himself abruptly when he found himself talking a little too loudly and dogmatically regarding some point of trivial importance. He was glad to catch Gerard’s eye and withdraw as gracefully as he could; he was also glad that Gerard seemed perfectly cool and sober and had charge of the card case, dropping the necessary number of cards into the silver trays that the Negro butlers held out to receive them. By the time he reached Sharpe’s house he was glad to see a friendly face—friendly even though it was only that morning that he had first set eyes on it.

“It is an hour before the guests are due to arrive, my lord,” said Sharpe. “Would your lordship care for a short rest?”

“I would indeed,” said Hornblower.

Mr. Sharpe’s house had a contrivance which merited much attention. It was a douche bath—Hornblower knew only the French name for it. It was in a corner of the bathroom, floored and walled with the most excellent teak; from the ceiling hung an apparatus of perforated zinc, and from this hung a bronze chain. When Hornblower stood under this apparatus and pulled the chain, a deluge of delicious cold water came streaming down on him from some unseen reservoir above. It was as refreshing as ever it had been to stand under the wash-deck pump on the deck of a ship at sea, with the additional advantage of employing fresh water; and in his present condition, after his experiences of the day, it was doubly refreshing. Hornblower stood under the raining water for a long time, reviving with every second. He made a mental note to install a similar contrivance at Smallbridge House if ever he found himself at home again.

A Negro valet in livery stood by with towels to save him from the reheating exertion of drying himself, and while he was being dabbed, a knock at the door heralded Gerard’s entrance.

“I sent to the ship for a fresh shirt for you, my lord,” he said.

Gerard was really displaying intelligence; Hornblower put on the fresh shirt with gratitude, but it was with distaste that he tightened his stock and pulled on his heavy uniform coat again. He hung the red ribbon over his shoulder, adjusted his star, and was ready to face the next situation.

The darkness of evening was descending, but it had not brought much relief from the heat; on the contrary, the drawing room of Mr. Sharpe’s house was brightly lit with wax candles that made it feel like an oven. Sharpe was awaiting him, wearing a black coat; his ruffled shirt made his bulky form appear larger than ever. Mrs. Sharpe, sweeping in in turquoise blue, was of much the same size; she curtseyed deeply in response to Hornblower’s bow when Sharpe presented him, and made him welcome to the house in a French whose soft tang rang pleasantly on Hornblower’s ears.

“A little refreshment, my lord?” asked Sharpe.

“Not at present, thank you, sir,” said Hornblower hastily.

“We are expecting twenty-eight guests besides your lordship and Mr. Gerard,” said Sharpe. “Some of them your lordship already met during your lordship’s official calls today. In addition there are—”

Hornblower did his best to keep the list of names in his mind with mental labels attached. Gerard, who came in and found himself a secluded chair, listened intently.

“And there will be Cambronne, of course,” said Sharpe.

“Indeed?”

“I could hardly give a dinner party of this magnitude without inviting the most distinguished foreign visitor, after your lordship, present in this city.”

“Of course not,” agreed Hornblower.

Yet six years of peace had hardly stilled the prejudices established during twenty years of war. There was something a little unnatural about the prospect of meeting a French general on friendly terms, especially the late commander-in-chief of Bonaparte’s Imperial Guard, and the meeting might be a little strained because Bonaparte was under lock and key in St. Helena and complaining bitterly about it.

“The French consul-general will accompany him,” said Sharpe. “And there will be the Dutch consul-general, the Swedish—”

The list seemed interminable; there was only just time to complete it before the first of the guests was announced. Substantial citizens and their substantial wives; the naval and military officers whom he had already met, and their ladies; the diplomatic officers; soon even that vast drawing room was crowded, men bowing and women curtseying. Hornblower straightened up from a bow to find Sharpe at his elbow again.

“I have the honour of making two distinguished figures acquainted with each other,” he said in French. “Son Excellence Contre-Amiral milord Hornblower, Chevalier de l’Ordre Militaire du Bain. Son Excellence le Lieutenant Général le Comte de Cambronne, Grand Cordon de la Légion d’Honneur.”

Hornblower could not help being impressed, even at this moment, at the neat way in which Sharpe had evaded the thorny question of whom to introduce to whom, a French general and count, and an English admiral and peer. Cambronne was an immensely tall beanpole of a man. Across one lean cheek and the beaky nose ran a purple scar—perhaps the wound he had received at Waterloo; perhaps a wound received at Austerlitz or Jena or any other of the battles in which the French army had overthrown nations. He was wearing a blue uniform covered with gold lace, girt about with the red watered-silk ribbon of the Légion of Honor, a vast plaque of gold on his left breast.

“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Hornblower in his best French.

“No more enchanted than I am to make yours, milord,” replied Cambronne. He had a cold green-grey eye with a twinkle in it; a grey cat’s-whisker moustache adorned his upper lip.

“The Baroness de Vautour,” said Sharpe. “The Baron de Vautour, His Most Christian Majesty’s consul-general.”

Hornblower bowed and said again that he was enchanted. His Most Christian Majesty was Louis XVIII of France, using the papal title conferred on his house centuries earlier.

“The count is being mischievous,” said Vautour. He indicated Cambronne’s star. “He is wearing the Grand Eagle, given him during the last regime. Officially the Grand Cordon has been substituted, as our host very properly said.”

Vautour called attention to his own star, a more modest affair. Cambronne’s displayed an immense eagle of gold, the badge of the now-defunct French Empire.

“I won this on the field of battle,” said Cambronne.

“Don Alphonso de Versage,” said Sharpe. “His Most Catholic Majesty’s consul-general.”

This was the representative of Spain, then. A word or two with him regarding this pending cession of Florida might be informative, but Hornblower had hardly time to exchange formal courtesies before another presentation was being made. It was some time before Hornblower had a breathing space, and could look round the pretty scene in the candlelight, with the uniforms and the broadcloth coats, the bare arms and shoulders of the women in their bright gowns and flashing jewelry, and the two Sharpes moving unobtrusively through the throng, marshalling their guests in order of precedence. The entrance of the governor and his lady was the signal for the announcement of dinner.

The dining room was as vast as the drawing room; the table with covers for thirty-two stood comfortably in it, with ample room all round for the numerous footmen. The candlelight was more subdued here, but it glittered impressively on the silver which crowded the long table. Hornblower, seated between the governor’s lady and Mrs. Sharpe, reminded himself that he must be alert and careful regarding his table manners; it was the more necessary to be alert because he had to speak French on one side of him and English on the other. He looked dubiously at the six different wine glasses that stood at each place—the sherry was already being poured into the first of the glasses. He could see Cambronne seated between two pretty girls and obviously making himself pleasant to both of them. He did not look as if he had a care in the world; if he was meditating a filibustering expedition, it did not weigh very heavily on his mind.

A steaming plate of turtle soup arrived, thick with gobbets of green fat. This was to be a dinner served in the Continental fashion which had come in after Waterloo, with no hodgepodge of dishes set out on the table for the guests to help themselves. He spooned cautiously at the hot soup and applied himself to making small talk with his dinner partners.

Dish succeeded dish, and soon he had to face in the hot room the delicate question of etiquette as to whether it was more ungentlemanly to mop the sweat from his face or to leave it there, flowing and visible; his discomfort decided him in the end to mop, furtively. Now Sharpe was catching his eye, and he had to rise to his feet, striving to make his stupefied brain work while the buzz of conversation died down. He raised his glass.

“The President of the United States,” he said; he had been about to continue, idiotically, “Long may he reign.” He checked himself with a jerk and went on, “Long may the great nation of which he is President enjoy prosperity and the international amity of which this gathering is symbolic.”

The toast was drunk with acclaim, with nothing said about the fact that over half the continent Spaniards and Spanish-Americans were busy killing one another. He sat down and mopped again. Now Cambronne was on his feet.

“His Britannic Majesty George the Fourth, King of Great Britain and Ireland.”

The toast was drunk, and now it was Hornblower’s turn again, as evidenced by Sharpe’s glance. He stood up, glass in hand, and began the long list: “His Most Christian Majesty. His Most Catholic Majesty. His Most Faithful Majesty.” That disposed of France and Spain and Portugal. “His Majesty the King of the Netherlands.”

For the life of him he could not remember who came next. But Gerard caught his despairing eye and gave a significant jerk of his thumb.

“His Majesty the King of Sweden,” gulped Hornblower. “His Majesty the King of Prussia.”

A reassuring nod from Gerard told him that he had now included all the nations represented, and he plucked the rest of his speech out from the whirlpool of his mind.

“Long may their majesties reign, in increasing honour and glory.”

Well, that was over, and he could sit down again. But now the governor was on his feet, speaking in rhetorical phrases, and it broke in upon Hornblower’s dulled intelligence that his own health was the next to be drunk. He tried to listen. He was aware of keen glances shot at him from around the table when the governor alluded to the defence of this city of New Orleans from the “misguided hordes” who had assailed it in vain—the allusion was perhaps inevitable even though it was over six years since the battle—and he tried to force a smile. At long last the governor reached his end.

“His lordship, Admiral Hornblower, and I couple with his name a toast to the British navy.”

Hornblower climbed back upon his feet as the approving murmur of the company died down.

“Thank you for this unexpected honour,” he said, and gulped as he sought for further words. “And to have my name coupled with that of the great navy in which it has been my privilege to serve so long is an additional honour for which to thank you.”

The ladies were all rising, now that he had sat down, and he stood again while they withdrew. The highly trained footmen swept the table clear of its accessories in a trice, and the men gathered at one end of the table as the decanter was put into circulation. The glasses were filled as Sharpe brought one of the merchants present into the conversation with a question about the cotton crop. It was safe ground from which to make brief and cautious sorties upon the much more debatable ground of world conditions. But only a few minutes later the butler came in and murmured something to Sharpe, who turned to convey the news he brought to the French consul-general. Vautour rose to his feet with an expression of dismay.

“Perhaps you will accept my excuses, sir,” he said. “I much regret the necessity.”

“No more than I regret it, Baron,” said Sharpe. “I trust it is only a slight indisposition.”

“I trust so,” said Vautour.

“The Baroness finds herself indisposed,” explained Sharpe to the company. “I am sure you gentlemen will all join me in hoping, as I said, that the indisposition is slight, and regretting that it involves the loss to us of the Baron’s charming company.”

There was a sympathetic murmur, and Vautour turned to Cambronne.

“Shall I send back the carriage for you, Count?” he asked.

Cambronne pulled at his cat’s-whisker moustache. “Perhaps it might be better if I came with you,” he said. “Much as I regret leaving this delightful assembly.”

The two Frenchmen took their leave, after polite farewells.

“It is a great pleasure having made your acquaintance, milord,” said Cambronne, bowing to Hornblower. The stiffness of his bow was mitigated by the twinkle in his eye.

“It has been a profound experience to meet so distinguished a soldier of the late empire,” replied Hornblower.

The Frenchmen were escorted out of the room by Sharpe, voluble in his regrets.

“Your glasses need refilling, gentlemen,” said Sharpe on his return.

There was nothing Hornblower disliked more than drinking large glasses of port in a hot and humid room, even though he now found himself free to discuss the Florida question with the Spanish consul-general. He was glad when Sharpe made the move to rejoin the ladies. Somewhere within earshot of the drawing room a string orchestra was playing, but luckily in a subdued manner, so that Hornblower was spared much of the irritation that he usually suffered when he was compelled to listen to music with his tone-deaf ear.

He found himself sitting next to one of the pretty young women beside whom Cambronne had been sitting at dinner. In reply to her questions, he was forced to admit that on this, his first day, he had seen almost nothing of the city of New Orleans, but the admission led to a discussion of other places he had visited. Two cups of coffee, poured for him by a footman passing round the drawing room, cleared his head a little; the young woman was attentive and listened well, and nodded sympathetically when the conversation revealed that Hornblower had left behind, at the call of duty, a wife and a ten-year-old son in England.

Gradually the night wore on, and at last the governor and his lady rose to their feet and the party was over. There were the last few weary minutes of awkward conversation as the carriages were announced one by one, and then Sharpe returned to the drawing room after escorting the last of the guests to the door.

“A successful evening, I fancy. I trust your lordship agrees with me,” he said, and turned to his wife. “But I must ask you, my dear, to remember to reprimand Grover about the soufflé.”

The entry of the butler with another murmured message prevented Mrs. Sharpe’s reply.

“Your lordship’s pardon for a moment,” said Sharpe. He wore an expression of dismay and hastened out of the room, leaving Hornblower and Gerard to begin polite words of thanks to his hostess for his pleasant evening.

“Cambronne’s stolen a march on us!” exclaimed Sharpe, returning with a rapid waddle. “Daring left her mooring three hours ago! Cambronne must have gone on board her the moment he left here.” He swung round on his wife. “Was the Baroness really ill?” he demanded of her.

“She seemed decidedly faint,” replied Mrs. Sharpe.

“It must have been all a plant,” said Sharpe. “She was acting. Cambronne put the Vautours up to it because he wanted a chance to get clear away.”

“What do you think he means to do?” asked Hornblower.

“God knows. But I expect he was disconcerted by the arrival of a King’s ship here. His leaving in this fashion means he’s up to no good. San Domingo—Cartagena—where’ll he take that Imperial Guard of his?”

“I’ll get after him in any case,” said Hornblower, rising to his feet.

“You’ll find it hard to overtake him,” said Sharpe—the fact that he said “you” and not “your lordship” was a proof of his agitation. “He has taken two tugs—the Lightning and the Star—and with the new lighthouses on the river a galloping horse wouldn’t overtake him before he reaches the pass. He’ll be clear out to sea by daylight. I don’t know if we can find a tug for you tonight in any case, my lord.”

“I’ll start after him, all the same,” said Hornblower.

“I’ve ordered the carriage round, my lord,” said Sharpe.... “Forgive us, my dear, if we leave without ceremony.”

Mrs. Sharpe received the hasty bows of the three men; the butler was waiting with their hats; the carriage stood at the door and they scrambled in.

“Cambronne’s bonded freight went on board at nightfall,” said Sharpe. “My man is meeting me at your ship with his report.”

“That may help us make up our minds,” said Hornblower.

The carriage lurched along the pitch-dark streets.

“May I make a suggestion, my lord?” asked Gerard.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Whatever scheme Cambronne has in mind, my lord, Vautour is party to it. And he is a servant of the French government.”

“You’re right. The Bourbons want a finger in every pie,” agreed Sharpe thoughtfully. “They take every opportunity to assert themselves. Anyone would think it was them that we beat at Waterloo and not Boney.”

The sound of the horses’ hoofs changed suddenly as the carriage reached the pier. They stopped, and Sharpe had the door open before the footman could leap down from the box, but as the three men scrambled out, he stood beside the door, hat in hand, his dark face illuminated by the carriage lamps.

“Wait!” snapped Sharpe.

They almost ran along the pier to where the glimmer of a lamp revealed the gangway; the two hands of the anchor watch stood at attention in the darkness as they hastened on board.

“Mr. Harcourt!” shouted Hornblower as soon as his foot touched the deck; this was no time to stand on ceremony. There was a light in the companion and Harcourt was there.

“Here, my lord.”

Hornblower pushed his way into the after cabin; a lighted lantern dangled from the deck beam, and Gerard brought in another one.

“What’s your report, Mr. Harcourt?”

“The Daring sailed at five bells in the first watch, my lord,” said Harcourt. “She had two tugs with her.”

“I know. What else?”

“The lighter with the freight came alongside her early in the second dogwatch. Just after dark, my lord.”

A short dark man came unobtrusively into the cabin as he spoke, and remained in the background.

“Well?”

“This gentleman, whom Mr. Sharpe sent, kept watch as well as me on what they took on board, my lord.”

“What was it?”

“I kept count as they swayed it up, my lord. They had lights in the mizzen-stay.”

“Well?”

Harcourt had a piece of paper in his hand, and he proceeded to read from it:

“There were twenty-five wooden cases, my lord.” Harcourt went on just in time to forestall an exasperated exclamation from Hornblower. “I recognized those cases, my lord. They are the usual ones in which muskets are shipped, twenty-four stand of arms in each case.”

“Six hundred muskets and bayonets,” put in Gerard, calculating rapidly.

“I guessed as much,” said Sharpe.

“What else?” demanded Hornblower.

“There were twelve large bales, my lord. Oblong ones; and twenty other bales, long narrow ones.”

“Couldn’t you guess—”

“Would you hear the report of the hand I sent, my lord?”

“Very well.”

“Come down here, Jones!” yelled Harcourt up the companion, and then turned back to Hornblower. “Jones is a good swimmer, my lord. I sent him and another hand off in the quarter boat, and Jones swam to the lighter.... Tell his lordship what you found, Jones.”

Jones was a skinny, stunted young man, who came in blinking at the lights, ill at ease in this distinguished company. When he opened his mouth he spoke with the accent of Seven Dials.

“Uniforms, they was, in them big bales, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“I swum to the side of the lighter, sir. I could reach over an’ feel ’em, sir.”

“Did anyone see you?” This was from Sharpe.

“No, sir. No one didn’t see me at all, sir. They was all busy swayin’ up the cases. Uniforms, they was, in the bales, like I said, sir. What I could feel through the sacking was buttons, sir. Not flat buttons, sir, like yours, sir. Round buttons, like bullets, sir, rows of ’em, on each coat. An’ I thought I could feel hembroidery, too—gold lace, p’raps, sir. Uniforms, they was, sir, I’m sure of it.”

The dark man came forward at this moment; in his hands was a limp something that looked like a drowned black cat. Jones pointed to the object before he went on.

“I couldn’t guess for the life of me what was in the other bales, sir, the long ones. So I outs with my knife—”

“You’re sure no one saw you?”

“Certain sure, sir. I outs with my knife an’ cuts the stitching at the end. They’ll think it come apart in the handlin’, sir. An’ I takes the end one out an’ I swims with it back to the quarter boat, sir.”

The dark man held it forward for inspection, and Hornblower took it gingerly, a black soggy mass of hair, but his fingers encountered metal as he turned it in his hands.

“Heagles, sir,” said Jones.

There was a brass chain and a big brass badge—the same displayed eagle as he had seen that evening on Cambronne’s chest. What he held in his hands was a bearskin uniform cap, soaked with its recent immersion and adorned with the brass finery.

“Is that what the Imperial Guard wore, my lord?” suggested Gerard.

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

He had seen prints for sale often enough purporting to illustrate the last stand of the Guard at Waterloo. In London now the Guards sported bearskin caps not unlike this that he held in his hand; they had been awarded to the Guards in recognition of their overthrow of the Imperial Guard at the crisis of the battle. “Then we know all we need to know,” said Sharpe.

“I must try to catch him,” said Hornblower.... “Call all hands, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

After the automatic reply, Harcourt opened his mouth again to speak, but he could make no sound come from it.

“I remember,” said Hornblower, his cup of unhappiness filling to the brim. “I said I would not need the hands before morning.”

“Yes, my lord. But they’ll not be far. I’ll send along the water-front and find ’em. I’ll have ’em back here in an hour.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harcourt. Do your best.... Mr. Sharpe, we shall need to be towed as far as the pass. Will you send and order a steam tug for us?”

Sharpe looked over at the dark man who had brought in the bearskin cap.

“Doubt if there’ll be one before noon,” said the dark man. “Daring took two—and I know now why she did. The President Madison’s laid up. Toueur’s gone up to Baton Rouge with flatboats. Ecrevisse—the one that brought this ship up—went down again in the afternoon. I think Temeraire’s on her way up. We might be able to get her to turn round as soon as she arrives. And that’s all there are.”

“Noon,” said Hornblower. “Thirteen hours’ start. Daring’ll be at sea before we leave here.”

“And she’s one of the fastest ships built,” said Sharpe. “She logged fifteen knots when she was being chased by Tenedos during the war.”

“What’s the Mexican port where she’ll take the soldiers on board?”

“It’s only a village on a lagoon, Corpus Christi, my lord. Five hundred miles and a fair wind.”

Hornblower could picture the Daring, with her beautiful lines and enormous spread of canvas, booming along before the trade wind. The little Crab, in whose cabin he stood, was not intended for fast ocean runs. She had been built and rigged small and handy, to work in and out of obscure inlets, doing the police work of the West Indian archipelago. On the run to Corpus Christi, Daring would certainly gain several hours, a day or more, perhaps, to add to the thirteen hours’ lead she already enjoyed. It would not take long to march or to ferry five hundred disciplined men on board, and then she would sail again. Where?

Hornblower’s weary brain baulked at the contemplation of the immensely complex political situation in the lands within easy run of Corpus Christi. If he could guess, he might be able to anticipate Daring’s arrival at the danger point; if he merely pursued her to Corpus Christi, he would almost certainly arrive there to find her already gone, soldiers and all, having vanished out into the trackless sea on whatever errand of mischief she meditated.

“Daring’s an American ship, my lord,” said Sharpe, to add to his troubles.

That was an important point, a very important point. Daring had an ostensibly legal errand, and she flew the Stars and Stripes. He could think of no excuse for taking her into port for examination. His instructions had been very strict regarding his treatment of the American flag. No more than nine years ago America had gone boldly to war against the greatest maritime power in the world on account of the Royal Navy’s attitude toward the American mercantile marine.

“She’s armed, and she’ll be full of men, my lord,” said Gerard.

That was another important point, and a very positive point at that. With her twelve-pounders and five hundred disciplined soldiers—and her large American crew as well—she could laugh at anything Crab could threaten with her six-pounders and her crew of sixteen. Daring would be within her rights to refuse to obey any signals from Crab, and Crab could do nothing to compel obedience.

Shoot away a spar? Not so easy with a six-pounder, and even if no one were to be killed by accident, there would be a terrible diplomatic storm if he were to fire on the Stars and Stripes. Could he shadow her, so at least to be on hand when her real purpose was revealed? No; impossible. Anywhere out at sea Daring had only to spread her wings to a fair wind to leave Crab below the horizon in an afternoon, and then Daring could resume her true course unpursued.

Sweating in the stifling night, Hornblower felt like a lassoed wild animal. At every moment some fresh coil was being wound about him to render him more helpless. He was tempted, like a wild animal, to lose all self-control, to lapse into mad panic, to fling away all his strength in an explosion of rage. He had sometimes seen, during his long professional career, senior officers giving vent to explosions of that sort. But it would not help.

He looked round at the circle of faces in the lamplight; the faces wore the sober expressions of men who were witnessing a failure, men who were aware that they were in the presence of an admiral who had made a woeful hash of the first important business he had encountered. That in itself could drive him insane with fury.

Pride came to help him. He would not sink to human weaknesses in the sight of these men.

“I shall sail in any case,” he said coldly, “as soon as I have a crew and a steam tug.”

“May I ask what your lordship intends to do?” asked Sharpe. Hornblower had to think quickly to make a reasonable answer to this question; he had no idea. All he knew was that he was not going to give up without a struggle; no crisis was ever alleviated by wasting time.

“I shall employ what time I have here in the composition of orders for my squadron,” he said. “My flag lieutenant will write them at my dictation, and I shall ask you, Mr. Sharpe, to undertake the distribution of them by all the means you find available.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Hornblower remembered at that moment something he should have done already. It was not too late; this part of his duty he must still carry out. And it would at least disguise the anguish he felt.

“Mr. Harcourt,” he said, “I have to commend you greatly on the excellent way in which you executed my orders. You carried out the task of observing Daring in most exemplary fashion. You can be sure I shall call the attention of Their Lordships to your behaviour.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And this man Jones,” went on Hornblower. “No seaman could have acted with more intelligence. You made a good selection, Mr. Harcourt, and Jones justified it. I have it in mind to reward him. I can give him an acting rating and confirm it as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, my lord. He has been rated before and disrated.”

“Drink? Is that why he was denied shore leave?”

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”

“Then what do you recommend?”

Harcourt was at a loss.

“You could say to his face what you’ve already said to me, my lord. You could shake his hand.”

Hornblower laughed.

“And be known through the navy as the meanest admiral who ever flew a flag? No. A golden guinea at least. Two guineas. I’ll give them to him myself, and I shall request you to give him three days’ leave as soon as we see Kingston again. Let him have his debauch, if that is the only way in which we can reward him. I have to consider the feelings of the whole squadron.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

“Now, Mr. Gerard, I’ll begin the writing of those orders.”

It was indeed noon before Crab cast off and was taken in tow by the tug Temeraire; it was significant of Hornblower’s state of mind that he never gave a thought to the implication of that glorious name. The interval before sailing, all the long, stifling morning, was taken up by the dictation of orders, to be dispersed to every ship of his squadron. An infinity of copies was necessary. Sharpe would send them under seal by every British ship leaving New Orleans for the West Indies, in the hope that should one of them encounter a King’s ship his orders would be passed on without the delay of being sent to Kingston and then transmitted through official channels. Every ship of the West India squadron was to keep a sharp lookout for the American ship Daring. Every ship was to inquire her business, and was to ascertain, if possible, whether Daring had troops on board; but—Hornblower sweated more feverishly than ever as he worded this—captains of H.M.’s vessels were reminded of that passage in the commander-in-chief’s original instructions regarding behaviour toward 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 ships, 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 Guaira?” 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 funnels, 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 admirals’ sons and dukes’ 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 laughingstock 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 realized it only 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 Bolívar 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 coffeepot, 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.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

That was done, then; the decision was taken. Yet he stayed up on deck, trying to wrestle with the problem in all its vague and maddening complexity.

He felt rain on his face and soon it was falling in torrents, roaring on the deck, soaking his best uniform. His cocked hat weighed on his head like lead with the accumulation of water in the brim. He was about to take shelter below when his mind began to follow an old train of thought, and he stayed. Gerard loomed up in the darkness with his sou’wester and oilskins, but he paid no attention to him. Was it possible that all this was a false alarm? That Cambronne had nothing else in mind than to take back the Guard to France? No, of course not. He would not have taken six hundred muskets on board in that case, nor bales of uniforms, and there would have been no need for a hurried and clandestine departure.

“If you please, my lord,” said Gerard, standing insistently by with his oilskins.

Hornblower remembered how, before he left England, Barbara had taken Gerard to one side and had talked to him long and earnestly. No doubt she had been telling him of the need to see that he did not get wet and that he had his meals regularly.

“Too late now, Mr. Gerard,” he said, with a grin. “I’m soaked through.”

“Then please, my lord, go below and shift your clothes.”

There was genuine anxiety in Gerard’s voice, a real concern. The rain was roaring on Gerard’s oilskins in the darkness like the nitre crusher of a powder mill.

“Oh, very well,” said Hornblower.

He made his way down the little companion, Gerard following him.

“Giles!” called Gerard sharply; Hornblower’s servant appeared at once. “Put out dry clothes for his lordship.”

Giles began to bustle round the little cabin, kneeling on the deck to fish a fresh shirt out of the chest. Half a gallon of water cascaded down beside him as Hornblower took off his hat.

“See that his lordship’s things are properly dried,” ordered Gerard.

“Aye aye, sir,” said Giles, with sufficient restrained patience in his tone to make Gerard aware that it was an unnecessary order. Hornblower knew that both these men were fond of him. So far, their affection had survived his failure—for how long?

“Very well,” he said in momentary irritation. “I can look after myself now.”

He stood alone in the cabin, stooping under the deck beams. Unbuttoning his soaking uniform coat, he realized he was still wearing his ribbon and star; the ribbon, as he passed it over his head, was soaking wet, too. Ribbon and star mocked at his failure, just at the very moment when he was sneering at himself for hoping again that Daring might have gone aground somewhere during her passage down the river.

A tap at the door brought Gerard back into the cabin.

“I said I could look after myself,” snapped Hornblower.

“Message from Mr. Harcourt, my lord,” said Gerard, unabashed. “The tug will be casting off soon. The wind is fair, a strong breeze, east by north.”

“Very well.”

A strong breeze, a fair wind, would be all in Daring’s favor. Crab might have stood a chance of overhauling her in fluky contrary airs. Fate had done everything possible to load the dice against him.

Giles had taken the opportunity to slip back into the cabin. He took the wet coat from Hornblower’s hand.

“Didn’t I tell you to get out?” blared Hornblower cruelly.

“Aye aye, my lord,” replied Giles imperturbably. “What about this—this cap, my lord?”

He had picked up the bearskin cap of the Imperial Guard, which was still lying in the locker.

“Oh, take it away!” roared Hornblower.

He had kicked off his shoes and was beginning to peel off his stockings when the thought struck him; he remained stooping to consider it.

A bearskin cap—bales and bales of bearskin caps. Why? Muskets and bayonets he could understand. Uniforms, too, perhaps. But who in their sane senses would outfit a regiment for service in tropical America with bearskin caps? He straightened up slowly, and stood still again, thinking deeply. Even uniform coats with buttons and embroidery would be out of place among the ragged ranks of Bolívar’s hordes; bearskin caps would be quite absurd.

“Giles!” he roared; and, when Giles appeared round the door, “Bring that cap back to me!”

He took it into his hands again; within him surged the feeling that he held in his hands the clue to the mystery. There was the heavy chain of lacquered brass, the brazen Imperial eagle. Cambronne was a fighting soldier of twenty years’ experience in the field; he would never expect men wearing things like this to wage war in the pestilential swamps of Central America or the stifling canebrakes of the West Indies. Then—The Imperial Guard in their uniforms and bearskins, already historic, would be associated in everyone’s mind with the Bonapartist tradition, even now making itself felt as a political force. A Bonapartist movement? In Mexico? Impossible. In France, then?

Within his wet clothes Hornblower felt a sudden surge of warmth as his blood ran hot with the knowledge that he had guessed the solution. St. Helena! Bonaparte was there, a prisoner, an exile in one of the loneliest islands in the world. Five hundred disciplined troops arriving by surprise out of a ship flying American colours would set him free.

And then? There were few ships in the world faster than the Daring. Sailing for France, she would arrive there before any warning could reach the civilized world. Bonaparte would land with his Guard—oh, the purpose of the uniforms and bearskins was quite plain. Everyone would remember the glories of the empire. The French army would flock to his standard as it had done once before when he returned from Elba. The Bourbons had already outworn their welcome—Sharpe had remarked how they were acting as international busybodies in the hope of dazzling the people with a successful foreign policy. Bonaparte would march again to Paris without opposition. Then the world would be in a turmoil once more. Europe would experience again the bloody cycle of defeat and victory.

After Elba a campaign of a hundred days had been needed to overthrow Bonaparte at Waterloo, but a hundred thousand men had died during those hundred days, millions and millions of money had been expended. This time it might not even be as easy as that. Bonaparte might find allies in the disturbed state of Europe. There might be twenty more years of war, leaving Europe in ruins. Hornblower had fought through twenty years of war; he felt physically sick at the thought of their repetition. The prospect was so monstrous that he went back through the deductions he had been making, but he could not avoid reaching the same conclusion.

Cambronne was a Bonapartist; no man who had been commander-in-chief of the Imperial Guard could be anything else. It was even indicated by a trifle—he had worn the Bonapartist Grand Eagle of the Légion of Honor instead of the Bourbon Grand Cordon which had been substituted for it. He had done that with Vautour’s knowledge and agreement. Vautour was a servant of the Bourbons, but he must be a traitorous one; the whole business of chartering the Daring and sending her fatal freight on board could have been carried out only with the connivance of the French authorities—presumably France was riddled with a fresh Bonapartist conspiracy. The Baroness’s behaviour was further proof.

Central America and the West Indies might be in a turmoil, but there was no particular strategic point there—as he well knew, after so much wondering about it—inviting an invasion by the Imperial Guard in uniforms and bearskins. It must be St. Helena, and then France. He could have no doubt about it now. Now the lives of millions, the peace of the whole world, depended on the decisions he had to make at this moment.

There was a rush of feet on the deck just above his head. He heard ropes slapping down upon it, orders being given, loud creakings. The cabin suddenly leaned over sideways with the setting of sail, catching him completely unaware, so that he staggered and dropped the bearskin cap, which lay unnoticed at his feet. Crab rose to an even keel again. The deck under his feet felt suddenly lively, as if the breath of life had been breathed into it. They were at sea; they were heading for Corpus Christi. With the wind east by north, Crab would be running wing-and-wing, possibly. Now he had to think fast, with every second of value. He could not afford to run to leeward in this fashion if he was going to change his plans.

And he knew he was going to change them. He had yearned so desperately for a chance to guess whither Daring would head after calling at Corpus Christi. Now he could intervene. Now he had a chance to preserve the peace of the world. With his eyes, unseeing, focussed upon an infinite distance, he stood in the swaying cabin calling up into his mental sight the charts of the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. The northeast trades blew across them, not quite as reliably at this time of year as during the winter, but constantly enough to be a calculable factor. A ship bound for the South Atlantic—for St. Helena—from Corpus Christi would be bound to take the Yucatán Channel. Then—especially if her business was such as not to invite attention—she would head for the shoulder of South America, down the centre of the Caribbean, with scores of miles of open sea on either beam. But she would have to pass through the chain of the Antilles before breaking through into the Atlantic.

There were a hundred passages available, but only one obvious one, only one route that would be considered for a moment by a captain bound for St. Helena and with the trade winds to contend with. He would round Galera Point, the northernmost extremity of Trinidad. He would give it as wide a berth as possible, but he could not give it a very wide berth because to the northward of Galera Point lay the island of Tobago, and the Tobago Channel between the two was no more than—Hornblower could not be sure—exactly—certainly no more than fifty miles wide. In favourable conditions a single ship could patrol that channel and make certain that nothing passed through unsighted. It was a typical example of maritime strategy on a tiny scale. Sea power made its influence felt all over the wide oceans, but it was in the narrow seas, at the focal points, that the decisive moments occurred.

The Yucatán Channel would not be nearly as suitable as the Tobago Channel, for the former was more than a hundred miles wide. Crab would get there first; that could be taken for granted, seeing that Daring would have two sides of a triangle to cover, calling at Corpus Christi, and with a long beat to windward as a result. It would be best to employ the advantage so gained to hasten to the Tobago Channel. There would be just time to anticipate Daring there—just time—and there was a substantial chance that on the way he might meet some ship of his squadron, to take her along with him. A frigate, now. That would give him all the force he needed. He made his resolve at that moment, conscious as he did so of his quickened heart beat.

“Giles!” shouted Hornblower.

Giles reappeared, and, within the wide discretion of a spoiled servant, displayed shocked disapproval at the sight of him still in his wet shirt and ducks.

“My compliments to Mr. Harcourt, and I would be glad to see him here as quickly as is convenient to him.”

That was very quickly, naturally, when an admiral needed the presence of a lieutenant.

“Mr. Harcourt, I have decided on a change of plan. There is no time to be lost. Kindly set a course for Cape San Antonio.”

“Cape San Antonio. Aye aye, sir.”

Harcourt was a good officer. There was neither surprise nor doubt in his voice as he heard the surprising order.

“When we are on the new course I will explain what I intend to do, if you will have the goodness to report to me with the charts, Mr. Harcourt. Bring Mr. Gerard with you.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Now he could take off his wet shirt and trousers, and dab himself dry with a towel. Somehow the little cabin did not seem so oppressively hot; perhaps because they were out at sea, perhaps because he had reached a decision. He was putting on his trousers at the moment when Harcourt had the helm put down. Crab came round like a top, with lusty arms hauling in on the sheets. She lay far over to starboard, with the wind abeam, and Hornblower, one leg in his trousers, after a frantic hop, trying to preserve his balance, fell on his nose across his cot with his legs in the air. He struggled to his feet again; Crab still heeled over to starboard, farther and then less, as each roller of the beam sea passed under her, each roll taking Hornblower by surprise as he tried to put his other leg into his trousers, so that he sat down twice, abruptly, on his cot before he managed it.

It was as well that Harcourt and Gerard re-entered the cabin only after he had succeeded. They listened soberly while Hornblower told them of his deductions regarding Daring’s plans and of his intention to intercept her at the Tobago Channel; Harcourt took his dividers and measured off the distances, and nodded when he had finished.

“We can gain four days on her to San Antonio, my lord,” he said. “That means we’ll be three days ahead of her there.”

Three days should be just enough start for Crab in the long, long race down the length of the Caribbean.

“Could we call at Kingston on our way, my lord?” asked Gerard.

It was tempting to consider it, but Hornblower shook his head. It would be no use calling at headquarters, telling the news, possibly picking up reinforcements, if Daring slipped past them as they were doing so.

“It would take too long to work in,” he said. “Even if we had the sea breeze. And there would be delay while we were there. We’ve nothing to spare as it is.”

“I suppose not, my lord,” agreed Gerard grudgingly. He was playing the part of the staff officer, whose duty it was to be critical of any suggested plan. “Then what do we do when we meet her?”

Hornblower met Gerard’s eyes with a steady glance; Gerard was asking the question that had been already asked and left unanswered.

“I am forming plans to meet that situation,” said Hornblower, and there was a rasping tone in his voice which forbade Gerard to press the matter.

“There’s not more than twenty miles of navigable water in the Tobago Channel, my lord,” said Harcourt, still busy with his dividers.

“Then she can hardly pass us unobserved, even by night,” said Hornblower. “I think, gentlemen, that we are acting on the best possible plan. Perhaps the only possible plan.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Harcourt; his imagination was hard at work. “If Boney once gets loose again—”

He could not go on. He could not face that appalling possibility.

“We have to see to it that he does not, gentlemen. And now that we have done all that we can, it would be sensible if we took some rest. I don’t think any one of us has had any sleep for a considerable time.”

That was true. Now that he had made up his mind upon a course of action, now that he was committed to it, for good or ill, Hornblower felt his eyelids drooping and sleep overcoming him.

He lay down on his cot after his officers had left him. With the wind on the port beam and the cot against the bulkhead to starboard, he could relax completely with no fear of rolling out. He closed his eyes. Already he had begun to form the answer to the question Gerard had asked. The answer was a hideous one, something horrible to contemplate. But it seemed to be inevitable. He had his duty to do, and now he could be sure that he was doing it to the best of his ability.

With his conscience clear, with a reassuring certainty that he was using the best of his judgment, the inevitability of the rest of the future reinforced his need for sleep. He slept until dawn; he even dozed for a few minutes after that, before he began to think clearly enough again in the daylight for that horrible thought to begin to nag at him again.

That was how the Crab began her historic race to the Tobago Channel, over a distance nearly as great as the Atlantic is wide, with the brave trade wind laying her over as she thrashed along. All hands on board knew that she was engaged in a race, for in a little ship like Crab nothing could be kept secret; and all hands entered into the spirit of the race with the enthusiasm to be expected of them. Sympathetic eyes were turned toward the lonely figure of the admiral standing braced on the tiny quarterdeck with the wind singing round him. Everyone knew the chances he was taking; everyone thought that he deserved to win; and no one could guess at his real torment over the certainty that was crystallizing in his mind that this was the end of his career, whether he should win the race or lose it.

No one on board begrudged the constant labor involved in getting every yard of speed out of Crab, the continual hauling in and letting out of the sheets as the sails were trimmed to the least variation of the wind, the lightening and urgent shortening of canvas at the last possible moment as squalls came hurtling down upon them, the instant resetting as the squalls passed on their way.

All hands constituted themselves as unofficial lookouts; there was really no need for the admiral to have offered a golden guinea to the man who should first sight Daring—there was always the chance of an encounter even before reaching the Tobago Channel. Nobody minded wet shirts and wet beds as the spray burst over Crab’s bows in dazzling rainbows and found its way below through the deck as the overdriven schooner worked her seams open in the heavy swell. The hourly casting of the log, the daily calculation of the ship’s run were eagerly anticipated by men who usually displayed all the fatalistic indifference of the hardened sailor toward these matters.

“I am shortening the water allowance, my lord,” said Harcourt to Hornblower the first morning out.

“To how much?” Hornblower asked the question trying to appear as if he were really interested in the answer, so that his misery over something else should not be apparent.

“To half a gallon, my lord.”

Two quarts of fresh water a day per man—that would be hardship for men laboring hard in the tropics.

“You are quite right, Mr. Harcourt,” said Hornblower.

Every possible precaution must be taken. It was impossible to predict how long the voyage would last, or how long they would have to remain on patrol without refilling their water casks; it would be absurd if they were driven prematurely into port as a result of thoughtless extravagance.

“I’ll instruct Giles,” went on Hornblower, “to draw the same ration for me.”

Harcourt blinked a little at that; his small experience with admirals led him to think they led a life of maximum luxury. He had not thought sufficiently far into the problem to realize that if Giles had a free hand as regarded drinking water for his admiral, Giles and perhaps all Giles’s friends would also have all the drinking water they needed. And there was no smile on Hornblower’s face as he spoke; Hornblower wore the same bleak and friendless expression that he had displayed toward everyone since reaching his decision when they went to sea.

They sighted Cape San Antonio one afternoon, and knew they were through the Yucatán Channel; not only did this give them a fresh departure, but they knew that from now on it would not be extremely unlikely for them to sight Daring at any moment; they were pursuing very much the same course as she would be taking, from this point onward.

Two nights later they passed Grand Cayman; they did not sight it, but they heard the roar of the surf on one of the outlying reefs. That was a proof of how closely Harcourt was cutting his corners; Hornblower felt that he would have given Grand Cayman a wider berth than that. It was a moment when he chafed more than usual at the convention which prohibited an admiral from interfering in the management of his flagship.

The following night they picked up soundings on the Pedro Bank, and knew that Jamaica and Kingston were a scant hundred miles to windward of them. From this new departure Harcourt could set a fresh course, direct for the Tobago Channel, but he could not hold it. The trade wind took it into its head to veer round south of east, as was not surprising with midsummer approaching, and it blew dead foul. Harcourt laid Crab on the starboard tack—never voluntarily would any captain worth his salt yield a yard to the southward in the Caribbean—and clawed his way as close to the wind as Crab would lie.

“I see you’ve taken in the tops’ls, Mr. Harcourt,” remarked Hornblower, venturing on ticklish ground.

“Yes, my lord.” In response to his admiral’s continued inquiring glance, Harcourt condescended to explain further. “A beamy schooner like this isn’t intended to sail on her side, my lord. We make less leeway under moderate sail like this, my lord, as long as we’re close-hauled with a strong breeze.”

“You know your own ship best, of course, Mr. Harcourt,” said Hornblower grudgingly.

It was hard to believe that Crab was making better progress without her magnificent square topsails spread to the breeze. He could be sure that Daring would have every stitch of canvas spread—perhaps a single reef. Crab thrashed on her way, once or twice shipping it green over her starboard bow; those were the moments when it was necessary for every man to grab and hold on.

At dawn next morning there was land right ahead, a blue line on the horizon—the mountains of Haiti. Harcourt held on until noon, raising them farther and farther out of the water, and then he went about. Hornblower approved—in an hour or two the land breeze might set in and there was Beata Point to weather.

It was maddening that on this tack they would actually be losing a little ground, for it was perfectly possible that Daring, wherever she was, might have the wind a point or two more in her favor and could be able to hold her course direct. And it was quite remarkable to see the foremast hands raising wetted fingers to test the wind, and studying the windward horizon, and criticizing the way the quartermaster at the tiller struggled to gain every yard to windward that he could.

For a day and a half the wind blew foul; in the middle of the second night, Hornblower, lying sleepless in his cot, was roused by the call for all hands. He sat up and reached for his dressing gown while feet came running above his head. Crab was leaping madly.

“All hands shorten sail!”

“Three reefs in the mains’l!” Harcourt’s voice was pealing out as Hornblower reached the deck.

The wind blew the tails of Hornblower’s dressing gown and nightshirt up round him as he stood out of the way by the taffrail; darkness was roaring all round him. A midsummer squall had come hurtling at them in the night, but someone had had a weather eye lifting and had been prepared for it. Out of the southward had come the squall.

“Let her pay off!” shouted Harcourt. “Hands to the sheets!”

Crab came round in a welter of confused water, plunged, and then steadied. Now she was flying along in the darkness, belying her unlovely name. She was gaining precious distance to the northward; an invaluable squall this was, as long as it permitted them to hold this course. The roaring night was hurrying by; Hornblower’s dressing gown was whipping about his legs. It was impossible not to feel exhilarated to stand thus, compelling the elements to work in their favour, cheating the wind that thought to take them by surprise.

“Well done, Mr. Harcourt!” shouted Hornblower into the wind as Harcourt came and stood beside him in the darkness.

“Thank you, sir—my lord. Two hours of this is what we need.”

Fate granted them an hour and a half at any rate, before the squall died away and the trade wind pigheadedly resumed its former direction of east by south. But next morning at breakfast Giles was able to report good news.

“Wind’s backing to the nor’rard, my lord,” he said—Giles was as interested as everyone else in the vessel’s progress.

“Excellent,” said Hornblower; it was only some seconds later that the dull pain grew up again inside him. That wind would bear him more swiftly to his fate.

As the day wore on, the trade wind displayed some of its midsummer freakishness. It died away, died away more and more, until it blew only in fitful puffs, so that there were intervals when Crab drifted idly over the glassy blue sea, turning her head to all points of the compass in turn, while the vertical sun blazed down upon a deck in whose seams the pitch melted. Flying fish left fleeting dark tracks upon the enamel surface of the sea. No one cared; every eye was scanning the horizon for the first hint of the next cat’s-paw of wind creeping toward them. Perhaps, not too far away in this moody Caribbean, Daring was holding her course with all sail set and drawing.

The day ended and the night went by, and still the trade wind did not blow; only occasionally would a puff send Crab ghosting along momentarily toward the Tobago Channel. The sun blazed down, and men limited to two quarts of water a day were thirsty, thirsty all the time.

They had seen very few sails, and the ones they saw were of no use in furthering Hornblower’s plans. An island schooner bound to Belize, a Dutchman homeward bound from Curaçao, no one to whom Hornblower could entrust a letter, and no ship of his own squadron—that was something almost beyond the bounds of possibility. Hornblower could only wait, as the days went by, in grim, bleak patience.

At last the freakish wind blew again, from one point north of east, and they were able to hold their course, with topsails set again, heading steadily for the Antilles, reeling off as much as six knots hour after hour. Now as they approached the islands they saw more sails, but they were only interisland sloops trading between the Leeward Islands and Trinidad. A square-rigger seen on the horizon roused momentary excitement, but she was not the Daring. She flew the red and gold of Spain—a Spanish frigate heading for the Venezuelan coast, presumably to deal with the insurgents. The voyage was nearly completed; Hornblower heard the cry of land from the masthead lookout, and it was only a moment before Gerard came into the cabin.

“Grenada in sight, my lord.”

“Very well.”

Now they were entering the waters where they could really expect to meet Daring; now the direction of the wind was of more importance than ever. It was blowing from the northeast now, and that was helpful. It extinguished the very faint possibility that Daring might pass to the northward of Tobago instead of through the Tobago Channel.

“Daring’s bound to make the same landfall, my lord,” said Gerard, “and by daylight if she can.”

“We can hope for it, at least,” said Hornblower.

If Daring had been as long out of sight of land as had Crab, in the fluky winds and unpredictable currents of the Caribbean, her captain would certainly take all precautions in his approach.

“I think, Mr. Harcourt,” said Hornblower, “that we can safely hold our course for Point Galera.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

Now was the worst period of waiting, of wondering whether the whole voyage might not prove to be a fool’s errand, patrolling, beating up to within sight of Trinidad and then going about and reaching past Tobago again toward Grenada. Waiting was bad; if the voyage should not turn out to be a fool’s errand, it meant something that Hornblower, and Hornblower alone, knew to be worse. Gerard raised the question again.

“How do you propose to stop him, my lord?”

“There may be means,” answered Hornblower, trying to keep the harshness out of his voice that would betray his anxiety.

It was on a blue and gold, blazing day, with Crab ghosting along before only the faintest breeze, that the masthead lookout hailed the deck with the news of the sighting.

“Sail ho! Dead to loo’ard, sir!”

A sail might be anything, but at long intervals, as Crab crept closer, the successive reports made it more and more likely that the strange sail was Daring. Three masts—even that first supplementary report made it reasonably sure, for not many big ships plied out into the South Atlantic from the Caribbean. All sail set, even skysails, and stu’ns’ls to the royals. That did not mean quite so much.

“She looks like an American, sir!”

The skysails had already hinted strongly in the same direction. Then Harcourt went up to the mainmast head with his own glass, and came down again with his eyes shining with excitement.

“That’s Daring, my lord. I’m sure of it.”

Ten miles apart they lay, on the brilliant blue of the sea with the brilliant blue of the sky above them, and on the far horizon a smudge of land. Crab had won her race by twenty-five hours. Daring was “boxing the compass,” swinging idly in all directions under her pyramids of sails in the absence of all wind; Crab carried her way for a while longer, and then she, too, fell motionless under the blazing sun. All eyes turned on the admiral, standing stiffly, with his hands locked behind him, gazing at the distant white rectangles that indicated where lay his fate. The schooner’s big mainsail flapped idly, flapped again, and then the boom began to swing over.

“Hands to the sheets!” yelled Harcourt.

The air was so light that they could not even feel it on their sweating faces, but it sufficed to push the booms out, and a moment later the helmsman could feel the rudder take hold just enough to give him control. With Crab’s bowsprit pointed straight at Daring, the breath of wind was coming in over the starboard quarter, almost dead astern, almost dead foul for Daring if ever it should reach her, but she was still becalmed. The breath of wind increased until they could feel it, until they could hear under the bows the music of the schooner's progress through the water, and then it died away abruptly, leaving Crab to wallow on the swell. Then it breathed again, over the port quarter this time, and then it drew farther aft, so that the topsails were braced square and the foresail could be hauled over to the port side, and Crab ran wing-and-wing for ten blessed minutes until the wind dropped again, to a dead, flaming calm. Then they could see Daring catch a wind, see her trim her sails, but only momentarily, only long enough to reveal her intentions before she lay once more helpless. Despite her vast sail area, her greater dead weight made her less susceptible to these very faint airs.

“Thank God for that,” said Gerard, glass to his eye, as he watched her swing idly again. “I think she aims to pass us beyond cannon shot, my lord.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at that,” agreed Hornblower.

Another breath, another slight closing of the gap, another dead calm.

“Mr. Harcourt, perhaps it would be best if you let the men have their dinners now.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

Salt beef and pease pudding under a noonday sun in the tropics—who could have any appetite for that, especially with the excitement of watching for a wind? And in the middle of dinner, hands were sent again to the sheets and braces to take advantage of another breath of wind.

“At what time will you have your dinner, my lord?” asked Giles.

“Not now,” was all the answer Hornblower would give him, glass to eye.

“He’s hoisted his colours, my lord,” pointed out Gerard. “American colours.”

The Stars and Stripes, regarding which he had been expressly ordered to be particularly tender. But he could be nothing else in any case, seeing that Daring mounted twelve-pounders and was full of men.

Now both vessels had a wind, but Crab was creeping bravely along at a full two knots, and Daring, trying to head to the southward close-hauled, was hardly moving; now she was not moving at all, turning aimlessly in a breeze too faint to give her steerage way.

“I can see very few people on her deck, my lord,” said Harcourt; the eye with which he had been staring through his glass was watering with the glare of sun and sea.

“She’d keep ’em below out of sight,” said Gerard.

That was so likely as to be certain. Whatever Daring, and Cambronne, thought of Crab’s intentions, it would be safest to conceal the fact that she had five hundred men on board while heading for the South Atlantic.

And between her and that South Atlantic lay Crab, the frailest barrier imaginable. Let Daring once pass through the channel out into the open sea and nothing could be done to stop her. No ship could hope to overtake her. She would reach St. Helena to strike her blow there, and no possible warning could be given. It was now or never, and it was Hornblower’s fault that matters had reached such a pass. He had been utterly fooled in New Orleans. He had allowed Cambronne to steal a march on him. Now he had to make any sacrifice that circumstances demanded of him, any sacrifice whatever, to redeem the peace of the world. Crab could do nothing to stop Daring. It could be done only by his own personal exertions.

“Mr. Harcourt,” said Hornblower, in his harsh expressionless monotone, “I’ll have the quarter boat cleared away ready to lower, if you please. Have a full boat’s crew told off to double-bank the oars.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

“Who’ll go in her, my lord?” asked Gerard.

“I will,” said Hornblower.

The mainsail flapped, the boom came creaking inboard, swung out again, swung in. The breeze was dying away again. For a few minutes more Crab held her course, and then the bowsprit began to turn away from Daring.

“Can’t keep her on her course, sir,” reported the quartermaster.

Hornblower swept his gaze round the horizon in the blazing afternoon. There was no sign of a further breeze. The decisive moment had come, and he snapped his telescope shut.

“I’ll take that boat now, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Let me come, too, my lord,” said Gerard, a note of protest in his voice.

“No,” said Hornblower.

In case a breeze should get up during the next half hour, he wanted no useless weight in the boat while crossing the two-mile gap.

“Put your backs into it,” said Hornblower to the boat’s crew as they shoved off. The oar blades dipped in the blue, blue water, shining gold against the blue. The boat rounded Crab’s stern, with anxious eyes looking down on them; Hornblower brought the tiller over and pointed straight for Daring. They soared up a gentle swell, and down again, up again and down again; with each rise and fall, Crab was perceptibly smaller and Daring perceptibly larger, lovely in the afternoon light, during what Hornblower told himself were the last hours of his professional life. They drew nearer and nearer to Daring, until at last a hail came, borne by the heated air.

“Boat ahoy!”

“Coming aboard!” hailed Hornblower back again. He stood up in the sternsheets so that his gold-laced admiral’s uniform was in plain sight.

“Keep off!” hailed the voice, but Hornblower held his course.

There could be no international incident made out of this—an unarmed boat’s crew taking an admiral alone on board a becalmed ship. He directed the boat toward the mizzen chains.

“Keep off!” hailed the voice, an American voice.

Hornblower swung the boat in. “In oars!” he ordered.

With the way she carried, the boat surged toward the ship; Hornblower timed his movements to the best of his ability, knowing his own clumsiness. He leaped for the chains, got one shoe full of water, but held on and dragged himself up.

“Lie off and wait for me!” he ordered the boat’s crew, and then turned to swing himself over onto the deck of the ship.

The tall thin man with a cigar in his mouth must be the American captain; the burly fellow beside him, one of the mates. The guns were cast off, although not run out, and the American seamen were standing round them ready to open fire.

“Did you hear me say keep off, mister?” asked the captain.

“I must apologize for this intrusion, sir,” said Hornblower. “I am Rear Admiral Lord Hornblower, of His Britannic Majesty’s service, and I have the most urgent business with Count Cambronne.”

For a moment on the sunlit deck they stood and looked at each other, and then Hornblower saw Cambronne approaching.

“Ah, Count,” said Hornblower, and then made himself speak French. “It is a pleasure to meet Monsieur le Comte again.”

He took off his cocked hat and held it over his breast and doubled himself in a bow which he knew to be ungainly.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure, milord?” asked Cambronne. He was standing very stiff and straight, his cat’s-whisker moustache bristling out on either side.

“I have come to bring you the very worst of news, I regret to say,” said Hornblower. Through many sleepless nights he had rehearsed these speeches to himself. Now he was forcing himself to make them naturally. “And I have come also to do you a service, Count.”

“What do you wish to say, milord?”

“Bad news.”

“Well?”

“It is with the deepest regret, Count, that I have to inform you of the death of your Emperor.”

“No!”

“The Emperor Napoleon died at St. Helena last month. I offer you my sympathy, Count.”

Hornblower told the lie with every effort to appear like a man speaking the truth.

“It cannot be true!”

“I assure you that it is, Count.”

A muscle in the Count’s cheek twitched restlessly beside the purple scar. His hard, slightly protruding eyes bored into Hornblower’s like gimlets.

“I received the news two days back in Port of Spain,” said Hornblower. “In consequence, I cancelled the arrangements I had made for the arrest of this ship.”

Cambronne could not guess that Crab had not made so quick a passage as he indicated.

“I do not believe you,” said Cambronne, nevertheless. It was just the sort of tale that might be told to halt Daring in her passage.

“Sir!” said Hornblower haughtily. He drew himself up even stiffer, acting as well as he could the part of the man of honour whose word was being impugned. The pose was almost successful.

“You must understand the importance of what you are saying, milord,” said Cambronne, with the faintest hint of apology in his voice. But then he said the fatal dreaded words that Hornblower had been expecting, “Milord, do you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that what you say is true?”

“My word of honour as a gentleman,” said Hornblower.

He had anticipated this moment in misery for days and days. He was ready for it. He compelled himself to make his answer in the manner of a man of honour. He made himself say it steadily and sincerely, as if it did not break his heart to say it. He had been sure that Cambronne would ask him for his word of honour.

It was the last sacrifice he could make. In twenty years of war he had freely risked his life for his country. He had endured danger, anxiety, hardship. He had never, until now, been asked to give his honour. This was the further price he had to pay. It was through his own fault that the peace of the world was in peril. It was fitting that he should pay the price. And the honour of one man was a small price to pay for the peace of the world, to save his country from the renewal of the deadly perils she had so narrowly survived for twenty years. In those happy years of the past, returning to his country after an arduous campaign, he had looked about him and he had breathed English air and he had told himself, with fatuous patriotism, that England was worth fighting for, was worth dying for. England was worth a man’s honour, too. Oh, it was true. But it was heart-rending, it was far, far worse than death that it should be his honour that had to be sacrificed.

A little group of officers had appeared on deck and were standing grouped on either side of Cambronne, listening to every word; to one side stood the American captain and his mate. Facing them, alone, his gaudy uniform flashing in the sun, stood Hornblower, waiting. The officer on Cambronne’s right spoke next. He was some kind of adjutant or staff officer clearly, of the breed that Hornblower hated. Of course, he had to repeat the question, to turn the iron in the wound.

“Your word of honour, milord?”

“My word of honour,” repeated Hornblower, still steadily, still like a man of honour.

No one could disbelieve the word of honour of a British admiral, of a man who had held His Majesty’s commission for more than twenty years. He went on now with the arguments he had rehearsed.

“This exploit of yours can be forgotten now, Count,” he said. “With the Emperor’s death, all hope of reconstituting the empire is at an end. No one need know of what you had intended. You, and these gentlemen, and the Imperial Guard below decks can remain uncompromised with the regime that rules France. You can carry them all home, as you had said you would do, and on the way you can drop your warlike stores quietly overboard. It is for this reason that I have visited you like this, alone. My country, your country do not desire any new incident to imperil the amity of the world. No one need know; this incident can remain a secret between us.”

Cambronne heard what he said, and listened to it, but the first news he had heard was of such moving importance that he could speak of nothing else.

“The Emperor is dead!” he said.

“I have already assured you of my sympathy, Count,” said Hornblower. “I offer it to these gentlemen as well. My very deepest sympathy.”

The American captain broke into the murmurs of Cambronne’s staff.

“There’s a cat’s-paw of wind coming towards us,” he said. “We’ll be under way again in five minutes. Are you coming with us, mister, or are you going over the side?”

“Wait,” said Cambronne; he seemingly had some English.

He turned to his staff and they plunged into debate. When they all spoke at once, Hornblower’s French was inadequate to follow the conversation in detail. But he could see they were all convinced. He might have been pleased, if there had been any pleasure left in the world for him.

Someone walked across the deck and shouted down the hatchway, and next moment the Imperial Guard began to pour up on deck. The Old Guard, Bonaparte’s Old Guard; they were all in full uniform, apparently in readiness for battle if Crab had been foolish enough to risk one. There were five hundred of them in their plumes and bearskins, muskets in hand. A shouted order formed them up on deck, line behind line, gaunt, whiskered men who had marched into every capital in Europe save London alone. They carried their muskets and stood at rigid attention; only a few of them did not look straight to their front, but darted curious glances at the British admiral.

The tears were running down Cambronne’s scarred cheeks as he turned and spoke to them. He told them the news in broken sentences, for he could hardly speak for sorrow. They growled like beasts as he spoke. They were thinking of their Emperor dying in his island prison under the harsh treatment of his English gaolers; the looks that were turned upon Hornblower now showed hatred instead of curiosity, but Cambronne caught their attention again as he went on to speak of the future. He spoke of France and peace.

“The Emperor is dead!” he said again, as if he were saying that the world had come to an end.

The ranks were ragged now; emotion had broken down even the iron discipline of the Old Guard. Cambronne drew his sword, raising the hilt to his lips in the beautiful gesture of the salute; the steel flashed in the light of the sinking sun.

“I drew this sword for the Emperor,” said Cambronne. “I shall never draw it again.”

He took the blade in both hands close to the hilt and put it across his lifted knee. With a convulsive effort of his lean, powerful body, he snapped the blade across, and, turning, he flung the fragments into the sea. The sound that came from the Old Guard was like a long-drawn moan. One man took his musket by the muzzle, swung the butt over his head, and brought it crashing down on the deck, breaking the weapon at the small of the butt. Others followed his example. The muskets rained overside.

The American captain was regarding the scene apparently unmoved, as if nothing more would ever surprise him, but the unlit cigar in his mouth was now much shorter, and he must have chewed off the end. He approached Hornblower obviously to ask the explanation of the scene, but the French adjutant interposed.

“France,” said the adjutant. “We go to France.”

“France?” repeated the captain. “Not—”

He did not say the words “St. Helena,” but they were implicit in his expression.

“France,” repeated the adjutant heavily.

Cambronne came towards them, stiffer and straighter than ever as he mastered his emotion.

“I will intrude no further on your sorrow, Count,” said Hornblower. “Remember always you have the sympathy of an Englishman.”

Cambronne would remember those words later, when he found he had been tricked by a dishonourable Englishman, but they had to be said at this moment, all the same.

“I will remember,” said Cambronne. He was forcing himself to observe the necessary formalities. “I must thank you, milord, for your courtesy and consideration.”

“I have done my duty towards the world,” said Hornblower.

He would not hold out his hand. Cambronne later would feel contaminated if he touched him. He came stiffly to attention and raised his hand instead in salute.

“Good-bye, Count,” he said. “I hope we shall meet again in happier circumstances.”

“Good-bye, milord,” said Cambronne heavily.

Hornblower climbed into the mizzen chains and the boat pulled in to him, and he fell rather than climbed into the sternsheets.

“Give way,” he said. No one could feel as utterly exhausted as he felt. No one could feel as utterly unhappy.

They were waiting for him eagerly on board Crab—Harcourt and Gerard and the others. He still had to preserve an unmoved countenance as he went on board. He still had duties to do.

“You can let Daring go past, Mr. Harcourt,” he said. “It is all arranged.”

“Arranged, my lord?” This was from Gerard.

“Cambronne has given up the attempt. They are going quietly to France.”

“France? To France? My lord—”

“You heard what I said.”

They looked across the strip of sea, purple now in the dying day; Daring was bracing round her yards to catch the faint breeze that was blowing.

“Your orders are to let them pass, my lord?” persisted Gerard.

“Yes, damn you,” said Hornblower, and instantly regretted the flash of rage and bad language. He turned to the other. “Mr. Harcourt, we can now proceed into Port of Spain. I presume that even if the wind is fair you will prefer not to risk the Dragon’s Mouth by night. You have my permission to wait until daylight.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

Even then they would not leave him in peace as he turned to go below.

“Dinner, my lord?” asked Gerard. “I’ll give orders for it at once.”

Hopeless to snarl back that he wanted no dinner; the discussion that would have ensued would have been worse than going through the form of eating dinner. Even so, it meant that on entering his cabin he could not do as he wanted and fall on his cot with his face in his hands and abandon himself to his misery. He had to sit up stiff and square while Giles laid and served and cleared away, while the tropical sunset flamed in the sky and black night swooped down upon the little ship on the purple sea. Only then, after Giles’s last “Good night, my lord,” could he think again, and work back through all the horror of his thoughts.

He had ceased to be a gentleman. He was disgraced. Everything was at an end. He would have to resign his command; he would have to resign his commission. How would he ever face Barbara? When little Richard grew up and could understand what had happened, how would he ever be able to meet his eyes? And Barbara’s aristocratic family would sneer knowingly to one another. And never again would he walk a quarterdeck, and never again step on board with his hand to his hat and the bos’n’s calls shrilling in salute. Never again; his professional life was at an end—everything was at an end. He had made the sacrifice deliberately and cold-bloodedly, but that did not make it any less horrible.

His thoughts moved into the other half of the circle. He could have done nothing else. If he had turned aside to Kingston or Port of Spain, Daring would have slipped past him, as her time of arrival off Tobago proved, and any additional strength he might have brought with him—if any, as was not likely—would have been useless.

If he had stayed at Kingston and sent a despatch to London? If he had done that, he might at least have covered himself with the authorities. But it would have been unavailing. How much time would elapse between the arrival of his letter in London and the arrival of Daring on the coast of France with Bonaparte on board? Two weeks? Very likely less than that. The clerks at the Admiralty would have treated his despatch at first as coming from a madman. There would be delay in its reaching the First Lord’s hands, delay in its being laid before the Cabinet, delay while action was being debated, delay while the French ambassador was informed, delay while joint action was being agreed upon.

And what action, if any—if the Cabinet did not dismiss his letter as that of an unbalanced alarmist? The peacetime navy of England could never have been got to sea in time and in sufficient numbers to cover the whole coast of France, so as to make it impossible for Daring to land her deadly cargo. And the mere inevitable leakage of the news that Bonaparte was at sea and expected to land would throw France into immediate revolution—no doubt about that, and Italy was in a turmoil too.

By writing to London, he would have covered himself, as he had already decided, from the censure of the government. But it was not the measure of a man’s duty to avoid blame. He had a positive duty to do, and he had done it in the only way possible. Nothing else would have stopped Cambronne. Nothing else. He had seen where his duty lay. He had seen what the price would be, and now he was paying it. He had bought the peace of the world at the price of his own honour. He had ceased to be a gentleman—his thoughts completed the other half of the circle.

His mind plunged on, struggling desperately, like a man in utter darkness waist-deep in a slough. It would not be long before the world knew of his dishonour. Cambronne would talk, and so would the other Frenchmen. The world would hear soon of a British admiral giving his plighted word in the certain knowledge that he was telling a lie. Before then he would have left the service, resigned his command and his commission. That must be done at once; his contaminated flag must fly no longer; he must give no further orders to gentlemen.

In Port of Spain there was the governor of Trinidad. Tomorrow he would tell him that the West India squadron no longer had a commander-in-chief. The governor could take all the necessary official action in circularizing the squadron and informing the government—just as if yellow fever or apoplexy had taken off the commander-in-chief. In this way anarchy would be reduced to a minimum and a change of command arranged as simply as possible; that was the last service he could perform for his country, the very last.

The governor would think he was mad, of course—he might be in a strait jacket tomorrow unless he confessed his shame. And then the governor would pity him; the first of the pity, the first of the contempt, he would have to face for the rest of his life. Barbara, Richard—the lost soul plunged on through the stinking slough, through the dark night.

At the end of that dark night, a knock at the door brought in Gerard. The message he was bearing died on his lips as he looked at Hornblower’s face, white under the tan, and at his hollow eyes.

“Are you quite well, my lord?” he asked anxiously.

“Quite well. What is it?”

“Mr. Harcourt’s respects, my lord, and we are off the Dragon’s Mouth. The wind is fair at nor’nor’east and we can make the passage as soon as day breaks, in half an hour, my lord. We’ll drop anchor in Port of Spain by two bells in the forenoon watch, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gerard.” The words came slowly and coldly as he forced himself to utter them. “My compliments to Mr. Harcourt and that will do very well.”

“Aye aye, my lord. This will be the first appearance of your flag in Port of Spain, and a salute will be fired.”

“Very well.”

“The governor by virtue of his appointment takes precedence of you, my lord. Your lordship must therefore pay the first call. Shall I make a signal to that effect?”

“Thank you, Mr. Gerard. I would be obliged if you would.”

The horror still had to be gone through and endured. He had to make himself spick and span; he could not appear on deck unshaven and dirty and untidy. He had to shave and endure Giles’s conversation.

“Fresh water, my lord,” said Giles, bringing in a steaming can. “Cap’n’s given permission, seeing that we’ll be watering today.”

There might once have been sheer sensuous pleasure in shaving in fresh water, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure in standing on deck watching Crab make the passage of the Dragon’s Mouth, in looking about him at new lands, in entering a new port, but now there was none. There might have been pleasure once in fresh linen, even in a crisp new neckcloth, even in his ribbon and star and gold-hilted sword. There might have been pleasure in hearing the thirteen guns of his salute fired and answered, but there was none now; there was only the agony of knowing that never again would a salute be fired for him, never again would the whole ship stand at attention for him as he went over the side. He had to hold himself stiff and straight, so as not to droop like a weakling in his misery. He even had to blink hard to keep the tears from overflowing down his cheeks as if he were a sentimental Frenchman. The blazing blue sky overhead might have been black for all he knew.

The governor was a ponderous major general, with a red ribbon and a star too. He went rigidly through the formalities of the reception, and then unbent as soon as they were alone together.

“Delighted to have this visit from you, my lord,” he said. “Please sit down. I think you will find that chair comfortable. I have some sherry which I think you will find tolerable. May I pour your lordship a glass?”

He did not wait for an answer, but busied himself with the decanter and glasses.

“By the way, my lord, have you heard the news? Boney’s dead.”

Hornblower had not sat down. He had intended to refuse the sherry; the governor would not care to drink with a man who had lost his honour. Now he sat down with a jerk and automatically took the glass offered him. The sound he made in reply to the governor’s news was only a croak.

“Yes,” went on the governor. “He died three weeks back, in St. Helena. They’ve buried him there, and that’s the last of him. Well—are you quite well, my lord?”

“Quite well, thank you,” said Hornblower.

The cool twilit room was swimming round him. As he came back to sanity he thought of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. She, disobeying her husband’s commands, had been carrying food to the poor—an apron full of bread—when her husband saw her.

“What have you in your apron?” he demanded.

“Roses,” lied Saint Elizabeth.

“Show me,” said her husband.

Saint Elizabeth showed him—and her apron was full of roses.

Life could begin anew, thought Hornblower.