Читать книгу Beat to Quarters - Cecil Louis Troughton Smith - Страница 6

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The boat ran softly aground on a beach of golden sand round the point, and her swarthy crew sprang out and hauled the boat up so that Hornblower and Hernandez could step ashore dry shod. Hornblower looked keenly about him. The town came down to the edge of the sand; it was a collection of a few hundred houses of palmetto leaves, only a few of them roofed with tiles. Hernandez led the way up towards it.

“Agua, agua,” croaked a voice as they approached. “Water, for the love of God, water.”

A man was bound upright to a six foot stake beside the path; his hands were free and his arms thrashed about frantically. His eyes were protruding from his head and it seemed as if his tongue were too big for his mouth, like an idiot’s. A circle of vultures crouched and fluttered round him.

“Who is that?” asked Hornblower, shocked.

“A man whom El Supremo has ordered to die for want of water,” said Hernandez. “He is one of the unenlightened.”

“He is being tortured to death?”

“This is his second day. He will die when the noontide sun shines on him tomorrow,” said Hernandez casually. “They always do.”

“But what is his crime?”

“He is one of the unenlightened, as I said, Captain.”

Hornblower resisted the temptation to ask what constituted enlightenment; from the fact that Alvarado had adopted the name of El Supremo he could fairly well guess. And he was weak enough to allow Hernandez to guide him past the unhappy wretch without a protest—he surmised that no expostulation on his part would override the orders given by El Supremo, and an unavailing protest would only be bad for his prestige. He would postpone action until he was face to face with the leader.

Little miry lanes, filthy and stinking, wound between the palmetto huts. Vultures perched on the roof ridges and squabbled with the mongrel dogs in the lanes. The Indian population were going about their usual avocations without regard for the man dying of thirst within fifty yards of them. They were all brown with a tinge of red, like Hernandez himself; the children ran naked, the women were dressed either in black or in dirty white; the few men to be seen wore only short white trousers to the knee and were naked from the waist up. Half the houses appeared to be shops—open on one side, where were displayed for sale a few handfuls of fruits, or three or four eggs. At one place a black robed woman was bargaining to make a purchase.

Tethered in the little square in the centre of the town some diminutive horses warred with the flies. Hernandez’ escort made haste to untether two of them and stood at their heads for them to mount. It was a difficult moment for Hornblower; he was not a good horseman, as he knew, and he was wearing his best silk stockings, and he felt he would not cut a dignified figure on horseback with his cocked hat and his sword. There was no help for it, however. He was so clearly expected to mount and ride that he could not draw back. He got his foot into his stirrup and swung up into the saddle, and was relieved to find that the tiny horse was submissive and quiet. He trotted alongside Hernandez, bumping awkwardly. The sweat ran down his face, and every few seconds he had to reach up hurriedly and adjust his cocked hat. A path wound steeply up the hillside out of the town, only wide enough for one horseman at a time, so that Hernandez, with a courteous gesture, preceded him. The escort clattered along fifty yards behind them.

The narrow path was stifling hot, hemmed by trees and bush on either hand. Insects buzzed round them, biting viciously. Half a mile up the path some lounging sentries came awkwardly to attention, and beyond this point there were other men to be seen—men like the first one Hornblower had encountered, bound to stakes and dying of thirst. There were dead men, too—mere stinking masses of corruption with a cloud of flies which buzzed more wildly as the horses brushed by them. The stench was horrible; gorged vultures, hideous with their naked necks, flopped along the path ahead of the horses, unable to fly, seeking escape into the forest.

Hornblower was about to say, “More of the unenlightened, General?” when he realised the uselessness of comment. It was better to say nothing than to say anything ineffectual. He rode silently through the stink and the flies, and tried to estimate the mentality of a man who would allow rotting corpses to remain, so to speak, on his doorstep.

The path rose over a shoulder of the mountain, and for a moment Hornblower had a glimpse of the bay below, blue and silver and gold under the evening sun, with the Lydia riding to her anchor in the midst of it. Then suddenly the forest at each side changed as if by magic into cultivated land. Orange groves, the trees laden with fruit, bordered the path, and through the trees Hornblower could gain a glimpse of fields bearing crops. The sun, sinking fast to the horizon, illuminated the golden fruit, and then, as they turned a corner, shone full on a vast white building, stretching low and wide on either hand, before them.

“The house of El Supremo,” said Hernandez.

In the patio servants came and took their horses, while Hornblower stiffly dismounted and contemplated the ruin which riding had caused to his best silk stockings. The superior servants who conducted them into the house were dressed in clothes similar in their blend of rags and finery to those Hernandez wore—scarlet and gold above, bare feet and rags below. The most gorgeous of all, whose features seemed to indicate a strong dash of negro blood in his ancestry along with the Indian and the slight trace of European, came up with a worried look on his face.

“El Supremo has been kept waiting,” he said. “Please come this way as quickly as you can.”

He almost ran before them down a corridor to a door studded with brass. On this he knocked loudly, waited a moment, knocked again, and then threw open the door, bending himself double as he did so. Hornblower, at Hernandez’ gesture, strode into the room, Hernandez behind him, and the major-domo closed the door. It was a long room, limewashed to a glittering white, whose ceiling was supported by thick wooden beams, painted and carved. Towards the farther end, solitary in the bleak bareness of the room, stood a treble dais, and in a canopied chair on the dais sat the man Hornblower had been sent half round the world to see.

He did not seem very impressive or dignified; a small swarthy man, restless and fidgety, with piercing black eyes and lank black hair beginning to turn grey. From his appearance one might have guessed at only a small admixture of Indian blood in his European ancestry, and he was dressed in European fashion, in a red coat laced with gold, a white stock, and white breeches and stockings; there were gold buckles on his shoes. Hernandez cringed before him.

“You have been a long time,” snapped Alvarado. “Eleven men have been flogged during your absence.”

“Supremo,” sighed Hernandez—his teeth were chattering with fright—“the captain came instantly on hearing your summons.”

Alvarado turned his piercing eyes upon Hornblower, who bowed stiffly. His mind was playing with the suspicion that the eleven men who had been flogged had suffered, unaccountably, because of the length of time it took to ride a horse from the beach to the house.

“Captain Horatio Hornblower, of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Lydia, at your service, sir,” he said.

“You have brought me arms and powder?”

“They are in the ship.”

“That is well. You will make arrangements with General Hernandez here for landing them.”

Hornblower thought of his frigate’s almost empty storerooms; and he had three hundred and eighty men to feed. Moreover, as with every ship’s captain, he was already feeling irritation at dependence on the shore. He would be restless and uncomfortable until the Lydia was fully charged again with food and water and wood and every other necessary, sufficient to take her back round the Horn at least as far as the West Indies or St. Helena, if not home.

“I can hand nothing over, sir, until my ship’s needs are satisfied,” he said. He heard Hernandez draw in his breath sharply at this sacrilegious temporising in the face of orders from El Supremo. The latter’s eyebrows came together; for a moment it seemed likely that he would attempt to impose his imperious will upon the captain, but immediately afterwards his expression cleared as he realised the folly of quarrelling with his new ally.

“Certainly,” he said. “Please make known to General Hernandez what you require, and he will supply you.”

Hornblower had had dealings with officers of the Spanish services, and he knew what they could accomplish in the way of fair promises not carried out, of procrastination and shiftiness and double-dealing. He guessed that Spanish-American rebel officers would be proportionately less trustworthy. He decided to make known his wants now, so that there might be a fair chance of seeing a part at least of his demands satisfied in the near future.

“My water casks must be refilled tomorrow,” he said.

Hernandez nodded.

“There is a spring close to where we landed. If you wish, I will have men to help you.”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary. My ship’s crew will attend to it all. Besides water I need—”

Hornblower’s mind began to total up all the multifarious wants of a frigate seven months at sea.

“Yes, señor?”

“I shall need two hundred bullocks. Two hundred and fifty if they are thin and small. Five hundred pigs. One hundred quintals of salt. Forty tons of ship’s bread, and if biscuit is unobtainable I shall need the equivalent amount of flour, with ovens and fuel provided to bake it. The juice of forty thousand lemons, oranges or limes—I can supply the casks to contain it. Ten tons of sugar. Five tons of tobacco. A ton of coffee. You grow potatoes on this coast, do you not? Then twenty tons of potatoes will suffice.”

Hernandez’ face had grown longer and longer during this formidable recital.

“But, Captain—” he ventured to protest, but Hornblower cut him short.

“Then for our current needs, while we are in harbour,” he went on, “I shall need five bullocks a day, two dozen chickens, as many eggs as you can provide, and sufficient fresh vegetables for the daily consumption of my ship’s company.”

By nature Hornblower was the mildest of men, but in any matter regarding his ship fear of being deemed a failure drove him into unexpected hardness and temerity.

“Two hundred bullocks!” said the wretched Hernandez. “Five hundred pigs?”

“That is what I said,” replied Hornblower, inexorably. “Two hundred fat bullocks.”

At this point El Supremo intervened.

“See that the captain’s wants are satisfied,” he said, with an impatient wave of his hand. “Start now.”

Hernandez only hesitated for a further tenth of a second, and then retired. The big brass bound door closed silently behind him.

“That is the only way to deal with these people,” said El Supremo, lightly. “They are no better than beasts. Any kind of refinement is wasted upon them. Doubtless you saw on your way here various criminals suffering punishment?”

“I did.”

“My ancestors on earth,” said El Supremo, “went to much trouble in arranging elaborate punishments. They burned people to death with elaborate ceremonial. They cut out their hearts to the accompaniment of music and dances, or pressed them to death in wrappings of raw hide exposed to the sun. I find all that quite unnecessary. A simple order to have the man tied up to die of thirst is sufficient. The man dies, and there is an end of him.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“They are incapable of absorbing even the simplest of conceptions. There are some who to this very day cannot understand the very obvious principle that the blood of Alvarado and Moctezuma must be divine. They still cling to their absurd Christs and Virgins.”

“Indeed?” said Hornblower.

“One of my earliest lieutenants could not shake himself free from the influence of early education. When I announced my divinity he actually made suggestions that missionaries should be sent out to preach to the tribes so as to convert them, as though I were putting forward a new religion. He could never realise that it was not a matter of opinion but a matter of fact. He was of course one of the first to die of thirst.”

“Of course.”

Hornblower was utterly bewildered by all this. But he clung to the fact that he had to ally himself to this madman. The revictualling of the Lydia depended upon his acting in concert with him, if nothing else did—and that was a matter of the most vital primary importance.

“Your King George must have been delighted to hear that I had decided to act in concert with him,” continued El Supremo.

“He charged me with messages to you assuring you of his friendship,” said Hornblower, cautiously.

“Of course,” said El Supremo, “he would not venture to push himself forward beyond that point. The blood of the family of Guelph naturally cannot compare with that of Alvarado.”

“Ha—h’m,” said Hornblower. He found that noncommittal noise as useful in conversation with El Supremo as with Lieutenant Bush.

El Supremo’s brows approached each other a trifle.

“I suppose you are aware,” he said, a little sternly, “of the history of the family of Alvarado? You know who was the first of that name to reach this country?”

“He was Cortez’ lieutenant—” began Hornblower.

“Lieutenant? Nothing of the sort. I am surprised that you should believe such lies. He was the leader of the Conquistadores; it is only by the falsification of history that Cortez is represented as in command. Alvarado conquered Mexico, and from Mexico he descended upon this coast and conquered it all, as far as the Isthmus. He married the daughter of Moctezuma, the last of the Emperors; and as a direct descendant from that union I have chosen to select from my family names those of Alvarado and Moctezuma. But in Europe, long before the head of the house came to the Americas, the name of Alvarado can be traced back, beyond the Hapsburgs and the Visigoths, beyond the Romans and the empire of Alexander, to the ultimate sources of time. It is only natural, therefore, that in this present generation the family should have attained to the divine state in my person. I find it satisfactory that you agree with me, Captain—Captain——”

“Hornblower.”

“I thank you. And now I think we had better, Captain Hornblower, discuss the plans for the extension of my Empire.”

“As you please,” said Hornblower. He felt he must at least agree with this madman until the Lydia was revictualled, although his already faint hope of heading a successful insurrection in this country was fast becoming fainter.

“The Bourbon who calls himself King of Spain,” said El Supremo, “maintains in this country an official who calls himself Captain General of Nicaragua. I sent to this gentleman some time ago a message ordering him to announce his fealty to me. This he had not done, and he was even misguided enough to hang my messenger publicly in Managua. Of the insolent men whom he subsequently sent to secure my divine person some were killed on the road and some died while attached to stakes, while a few were fortunate enough to see the light and are now included in my army. The Captain General is now, I hear, at the head of an army of three hundred men in the city of El Salvador. When you have landed the weapons consigned to me I propose to move on this town, which I shall burn, along with the Captain General and the unenlightened among his men. Perhaps, Captain, you will accompany me? A burning town is worth seeing.”

“My ship must be revictualled first,” said Hornblower, sturdily.

“I have given the orders for that,” replied El Supremo with a trace of impatience.

“And further,” continued Hornblower, “it will be my duty first to ascertain the whereabouts of a Spanish ship of war, the Natividad, which I believe to be on this station. Before I can engage in any operations on land I must see that she can do no harm to my ship. I must either capture her or know for certain that she is too distant to interfere.”

“Then you had better capture her, Captain. I expect, from the information I have received, that she will be sailing into the bay here at any moment.”

“Then I must go back to my ship immediately,” said Hornblower, all agitation. The possibility that his frigate might be attacked in his absence by a fifty-gun ship threw him into a seething panic. What would the Lords of the Admiralty say if the Lydia were lost while her captain was on shore?

“There is food being brought in. Behold!” said El Supremo.

The door at the end of the hall was flung open as he spoke. A crowd of attendants began to walk slowly in, carrying a large table covered with silver dishes, and bearing four large silver candelabra each supporting five lighted candles.

“Your pardon, but I cannot wait for food. I must not,” said Hornblower.

“As you will,” said El Supremo indifferently. “Alfonso!”

The negroid major-domo came forward, bowing.

“See that Captain Hornblower goes back to his ship.”

El Supremo had no sooner spoken the words than he relapsed into an attitude of contemplation. The bustle attendant upon the bringing in of the banquet he allowed to pass unheeded. He did not bestow another glance on Hornblower, who stood before him, regretting already his precipitation in deciding to rejoin his ship, anxious to cause no offence by a breach of good manners, worried by the need to revictual the Lydia, and acutely conscious that his present attitude of uncertainty before a man who was paying him no attention whatever was quite undignified.

“This way, señor,” said Alfonso, at his elbow, while El Supremo still gazed blankly over his head. Hornblower yielded, and followed the major-domo out to the patio.

Two men and three horses awaited him there, in the half light. Without a word, bewildered by this sudden turn of events, Hornblower set his foot in the linked hands of a half-naked slave who knelt at his horse’s side and swung himself up into the saddle. The escort clattered before him out through the gates, and he followed them; night was falling fast.

At the corner of the path the wide bay opened before them. A young moon was fast fading down the sky. A shadowy shape in the centre of the silver water showed where the Lydia swung to her anchor—she, at least, was something solid and matter-of-fact in this mad world. Eastward a mountain top suddenly glowed red, illumining the clouds above it, and then died away into darkness. They rode at a sharp trot down the steep path, past the moaning men tied to the stakes, past the stinking corpses, and into the little town. Here there was neither light nor movement; Hornblower had to leave his horse to the task of following the escort round the corners. The sound of the horses’ hoofs ceased as they reached the soft sand of the beach; and simultaneously he heard the pitiful moaning of the first man he had seen tied to a stake and saw the faint phosphorescence of the edge of the sea.

He felt his way in the darkness into the waiting boat, and sat on a thwart while to the accompaniment of an explosion of orders the unseen crew pushed off. There was not a breath of wind—the sea breeze had died with the sunset and the land breeze had not yet sprung up. The unseen crew tugged at six oars, and the water sprang into view, the foam faintly visible as each stroke waked the phosphorescence. Slowly they made their way out into the bay to the rhythmical sound of the oars. Far out across the water he could see the faint loom of the Lydia, and a minute later he heard the welcome sound of Bush’s voice as he hailed.

“Boat ahoy!”

Hornblower made a speaking trumpet of his hands and hailed back, “Lydia!”

The Captain of a King’s ship calls himself by the name of that ship when he is on board a small boat.

Hornblower could hear all the expected noises now, could see all the expected sights; the bustle and clatter as boatswain’s mates and sideboys ran to the gangway, the measured tramp of the marines, the flickering of lanterns. The boat ran alongside and he sprang to the ladder. It was good to feel solid oak under his feet again. The pipes of the boatswain’s mates twittered in chorus; the marines brought their muskets to the present, and Bush was at the gangway to receive him, with all the pomp and ceremony due to a Captain arriving on board.

Hornblower saw, by the lantern light, the relief in Bush’s honest face. He glanced round the decks; one watch, wrapped in blankets, was lying on the bare boards of the deck, while the other squatted by the guns ready for action. Bush had very properly maintained all precautions while thus at anchor in a presumably hostile port.

“Very good, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. Then he became conscious that his white breeches were stained by the dirty saddle, and that his best silk stockings were in threads about his calves. He felt discontented with his appearance; he was ashamed of the fact that he had come back to his ship in this undignified fashion, and without, as far as he knew, having settled anything for the future. He was angry with himself; he feared lest Bush should have a worse opinion of him should he come to know the facts. He felt his cheeks go hot with self-consciousness, and he took refuge, as ever, in uncommunicativeness.

“Ha—h’m,” he rasped. “Call me if there is anything unusual to justify it.”

With that, and with no other word, he turned and went below to his cabin, where canvas screens replaced the torn down bulkheads.

Bush stared at his disappearing form. The volcanoes flickered and glowed round the bay. The crew, excited at their arrival in this strange land, and anxious to hear about the future, saw themselves doomed to disappointment, just like the officers, who watched with dropped jaws their captain descending the companion ladder.

For one brief instant Hornblower felt that his dramatic appearance and exit compensated him for his consciousness of failure, but it was only for an instant. Seated on his cot, having sent away Polwheal, he felt his spirits fall again. His weary mind set itself vaguely again to debate the question of whether he would be able to obtain stores on the morrow. He fretted about whether he would be able to raise a rebellion successful enough to satisfy the Admiralty. He fretted about the approaching duel with the Natividad.

And throughout these considerations he continually found himself blushing again at the recollection of his abrupt dismissal by El Supremo. He felt that there were few captains in His Britannic Majesty’s service who would have submitted so meekly to such cavalier treatment.

“But what the devil could I have done?” he asked himself pathetically.

Without turning out his lantern he lay on his cot sweating in the still tropical night while his mind raced back and forth through past and future.

And then the canvas screen flapped. A little breath of wind came stealing along the decks. His sailor’s instincts kept him informed of how the Lydia was swinging to her anchor. He felt the tiny tremor which ran through the ship as she brought up short to her anchor cable in a new direction. The land breeze had begun at last. The ship was cooler at once. Hornblower wriggled over on to his side, and slept.