That meant another broken night for Hornblower to make the vital chance of course off Cape St Vincent so as to head, with the wind comfortably over Hotspur‘s port quarter and every stitch of canvas still spread, direct for Cadiz. In the afternoon, with Hotspur still flying along at a speed often reaching eleven knots, the look-out reported a blur of land, low-lying, fine on the port bow, as the coast-wise shipping — hastily raising neutral Portuguese and Spanish colours at sight of this British ship of war — grew thicker. Ten minutes later another hail from the masthead told that the landfall was perfect, and ten minutes after that Hornblower’s telescope, trained fine on the starboard bow, could pick up the gleaming white of the city of Cadiz.
Hornblower should have been pleased at his achievement, but as ever there was no time for self-congratulation. There were the preparations to be made to ask permission of the Spanish authorities to enter the port; there was the excitement of the prospect of getting into touch with the British representative; and — now or never — there was the decision to be reached regarding his plan for Doughty. The thought of Doughty had nagged at him during these glorious days of spread canvas, coming to distract him from his day-dreams of wealth and promotion, to divert him from his plans regarding his behaviour in Cadiz. It was like the bye-plots in Shakespeare’s plays, rising continually from the depths to assume momentarily equal importance with the development of the main plot.
Yet, as Hornblower had already admitted to himself, it was now or never. He had to decide and to act at this very minute; earlier would have been premature, and later would be too late. He had risked death often enough in the King’s service; perhaps the service owed him a life in return — a threadbare justification, and he forced himself to admit to mere self-indulgence as he finally made up his mind. He shut up his telescope with the same fierce decision that he had closed with the enemy in the Goulet.
“Pass the word for my steward,” he said. No one could guess that the man who spoke such empty words was contemplating a grave dereliction from duty.
Bailey, all knees and elbows, with the figure of a youth despite his years, put his hand to his forehead in salute to his captain, within sight, and (more important) within earshot of a dozen individuals on the quarter-deck.
“I expect His Majesty’s Consul to sup with me tonight,” said Hornblower. “I want something special to offer him.”
“Well, sir —” said Bailey, which was exactly what, and all, Hornblower had expected him to say.
“Speak up, now,” rasped Hornblower.
“I don’t exactly know, sir,” said Bailey. He had suffered already from Hornblower’s irascibility — unplanned, during these last days, but lucky now.
“Damn it, man. Let’s have some ideas.”
“There’s a cut of cold beef, sir —”
“Cold beef? For His Majesty’s Consul? Nonsense.”
Hornblower took a turn up the deck in deep thought, and then wheeled back again.
“Mr Bush! I’ll have to have Doughty released from confinement this evening. This ninny’s no use to me. See that he reports to me in my cabin the moment I have time to spare.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very well, Bailey. Get below. Now, Mr Bush, kindly clear away number one carronade starboard side for the salutes. And isn’t that the guarda costa lugger lying-to for us there?”
The sun declining towards the west bathed the white buildings of Cadiz to a romantic pink as Hotspur headed in, and as health officers and naval officers and military officers came on board to see that Cadiz was guarded against infection and violations of her neutrality. Hornblower put his Spanish to use — rusty now, as he had not spoken Spanish since the last war, and more awkward still because of his recent use of French — but despite its rustiness very helpful during the formalities, while Hotspur under topsails glided in towards the entrance to the bay, so well remembered despite the years that had passed since his last visit in the Indefatigable.
The evening breeze carried the sound of the salutes round the bay, as Hotspur‘s carronade spoke out and Santa Catalina replied, and while the Spanish pilot guided Hotspur between the Pigs and the Sows — Hornblower had a suspicion that the Pigs were Sea Pigs, Porpoises, in Spanish — and the hands stood by to take in sail and drop anchor. There were ships of war lying at anchor already in the bay, and not the Spanish navy, whose masts and yards Hornblower could just make out in the inner harbours.
“Estados Unidos,” said the Spanish naval officer, with a gesture towards the nearer frigate. Hornblower saw the Stars and Stripes, and the broad pendant at the main-topmast-head.
“Mr Bush! Stand by to render passing honours.”
“Constitution. Commodore Preble,” added a Spanish officer.
The Americans were fighting a war of their own, at Tripoli far up the Mediterranean; and presumably this Preble — Hornblower could not be sure of the exact name as he heard it — was the latest of a series of American commanders-in-chief. Drums beat and men lined the side and hats were lifted in salute as Hotspur wept by.
“French frigate Félicité,” went on the Spanish officer, indicating the other ship of war.
Twenty-two ports on a side — one of the big French frigates, but there was no need to pay her further attention. As enemies in a neutral harbour they would ignore each other, cut each other dead, as gentlemen would do if by unlucky chance they met in the interval between the challenge and the duel. Lucky that he did not have to give her further thought, too, seeing that the sight of the Constitution was causing modification in his other plans — the bye plot was intruding on the main plot again.
“You can anchor here, Captain,” said the Spanish officer.
“Helm-a-lee! Mr Bush!”
Hotspur rounded-to, her topsails were taken in with commendable rapidity, and the anchor cable roared out through the hawse. It was as well that the operation went through faultlessly, seeing that it was carried out under the eyes of the navies of three other nations. A flat report echoed round the bay.
“Sunset gun! Take in the colours, Mr Bush.”
The Spanish officers were standing formally in line, hats in hand, as they bowed their farewells. Hornblower put on his politest manner and took off his hat with his politest bow as he thanked them and escorted them to the side.
“Here comes your consul already,” said the naval officer just before he went down.
In the gathering darkness a rowing skiff was heading out to them from the town, and Hornblower almost cut his final farewell short as he tried to recall what honours should be paid to a consul coming on board after sunset. The western sky was blood red, and the breeze dropped, and here in a bay it seemed breathless and stifling after the airy delights of the Atlantic. And now he had to deal with secrets of state and with Doughty.
Recapitulating his worries to himself revived another one. There would now be a break in his letters to Maria; it might be months before she heard from him again, and she would fear the worst. But there was no time to waste in thinking. He had to act instantly.
Chapter 21
With the wind dropping Hotspur had swung to her anchors, and now from the stern window of the chart-room USS Constitution was visible, revealed by her lights as she rode idly in slack water.
“If you please, sir,” asked Doughty, as respectful as ever, “what is this place?”
“Cadiz,” replied Hornblower; his surprise was only momentary at the ignorance of a prisoner immured below — it was possible that some even of the crew still did not know. He pointed through the cabin window. “And that’s an American frigate, the Constitution.”