“Oh, no matter, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower, waving the apologies aside testily. “You and I are in the same condition. Let me see that drawing, Mr Spendlove.”
He was continually being led into playing the part of a peppery old gentleman, when he knew himself to be nothing of the sort. He was able to mellow again as they went once more through the details of the construction of the drogue, and he gave his approval.
“I believe, Sir Thomas,” he said, “that you have decided to entrust the work to Mr Sefton during our absence ashore?” Fell bowed his agreement.
“Mr Spendlove will remain under your orders, Mr Sefton. Mr Gerard will accompany Sir Thomas and me. I don’t know what you have decided, Sir Thomas, but I would suggest that you bring a lieutenant and a midshipman with you to His Excellency’s reception.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
“Mr Sefton, I am sure I can trust you to have this work completed by the time of our return, early in the middle watch, I fancy?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
So there it was all settled, except for the dreary interval of waiting. This was just like war-time, standing by with a crisis looming in the near future.
“Dinner, My Lord?” suggested Gerard, eagerly. He wanted no dinner. He was weary now that all was settled and the tension easing.
“I’ll call for Giles if I want some,” he said, looking round the crowded cabin. He wanted to dismiss the horde of people, and sought words to do so politely.
“Then I’ll attend to my other duties, My Lord,” said Fell, suddenly and surprisingly tactful.
“Very well, Sir Thomas, thank you.”
The cabin emptied itself rapidly; Hornblower was able by a mere look to put an end to Gerard’s tendency to linger. Then he could sink back into his chair and relax, sturdily ignoring Giles when he came in with another lighted lamp for the darkening cabin. The ship was full of the sound of the business of watering, sheaves squealing in blocks, pumps clanking, hoarse orders; the noise was sufficiently distracting to prevent his thoughts maintaining any regular course. He was in half a doze when a knock on the door preceded the arrival of a midshipman.
“Cap’n’s respects, My Lord, and the shore boat is approaching.”
“My compliments to the captain, and I’ll be on deck at once.”
The shore boat was bright with a lantern hanging over the stern-sheets in the midst of the darkness of the harbour. It lit up Mendez-Castillo’s resplendent uniform. Down the side they went, midshipman, lieutenants, captain, Admiral, in the reversed order of naval precedence, and powerful strokes of the oars carried them over the black water towards the city, where a few lights gleamed. They passed close by the Estrella; there was a light hanging in her rigging, but apparently she had completed her watering, for there was no activity about her.
Nevertheless, there came a continuous faint wailing from up her open hatchways. Perhaps the slaves there were mourning the departure of those of them who had been taken from them; perhaps they were voicing their apprehension at what the future held in store for them. It occurred to Hornblower that these unfortunate people, snatched from their homes, packed into a ship whose like they had never seen before, guarded by white men (and white faces must be as extraordinary to them as emerald green ones would be to a European) could have no idea at all of what lay in store for them, any more than he himself would have if he were to be abducted to another planet.
“His Excellency,” said Mendez-Castillo beside him, “has had pleasure in deciding to receive Your Excellency with full ceremonial.”
“That is most kind of His Excellency,” replied Hornblower, recalling himself to his present duties with an effort, and expressing himself in Spanish with even more effort.
The tiller was put over and the boat turned abruptly round a corner, revealing a brightly-lit jetty, with a massive gateway beyond. The boat ran alongside and half a dozen uniformed figures stood to attention as the party climbed on shore.
“This way, Your Excellency,” murmured Mendez-Castillo.
They passed through the gateway into a courtyard lit by scores of lanterns, which shone on ranks of soldiers drawn up in two treble lines. As Hornblower emerged into the courtyard a shouted order brought the muskets to the present, and at the same moment a band burst into music. Hornblower’s tone-deaf ear heard the jerky braying, and he halted at attention with his hand to the brim of his cocked hat, his fellow officers beside him, until the deafening noise — echoed and multiplied by the surrounding walls — came to an end.
“A fine military appearance, Major,” said Hornblower, looking down the rigid lines of white cross-belts.
“Your Excellency is too kind. Would Your Excellency please proceed to the door in front?”
An imposing flight of steps, lined on either side with more uniforms; beyond that an open doorway and a vast room. A prolonged whispered conference between Mendez-Castillo and an official beside the door, and then their names blared out in resounding Spanish — Hornblower had long given up hope of ever hearing his name pronounced intelligibly by a foreign tongue.
The central figure in the room rose from his chair — which was almost a throne — to receive the British Commander-in-Chief standing. He was a much younger man than Hornblower had expected, in his thirties, dark complexioned, with a thin, mobile face and a humorous expression at odds with his arrogant hooked nose. His uniform gleamed with gold lace, with the Order of the Golden Fleece on his breast.
Mendez-Castillo made the presentations; the Englishmen bowed deeply to the representative of His Most Catholic Majesty and each received a polite inclination in return. Mendez-Castillo ventured so far as to murmur their host’s titles — probably a breach of etiquette, thought Hornblower, for it should be assumed that visitors were fully aware of them.
“His Excellency the Marques de Ayora, Captain-General of His Most Catholic Majesty’s dominion of Puerto Rico.”
Ayora smiled in welcome.
“I know you speak Spanish, Your Excellency,” he said. “I have already had the pleasure of hearing you do so.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency?”
“I was a major of migueletes under Claros at the time of the attack on Rosas. I had the honour of serving beside Your Excellency — I remember Your Excellency well. Your Excellency would naturally not remember me.”
It would have been too flagrant to pretend he did, and Hornblower was for once at a loss for a word, and could only bow again.
“Your Excellency,” went on Ayora, “has changed very little since that day, if I may venture to say so. It is eleven years ago.”
“Your Excellency is too kind.” That was one of the most useful phrases in polite language.
Ayora had a word for Fell — a compliment on the appearance of his ship — and a supplementary smile for the junior officers. Then, as if it were a moment for which he had been waiting, Mendez-Castillo turned to them.
“Perhaps you gentlemen would care to be presented to the ladies of the company?” he said; his glance passed over Hornblower and Fell and took in only the lieutenants and the midshipmen. Hornblower translated, and saw them depart a little nervously under Mendez-Castillo’s escort.
Ayora, etiquette and Spanish training notwithstanding, wasted no time in coming to the point the moment he found himself alone with Hornblower and Fell.
“I watched your pursuit of the Estrella del Sur today through my telescope,” he said, and Hornblower once more found himself at a loss for a word; a bow and a smile also seemed out of place in this connection. He could only look blank.
“It is an anomalous situation,” said Ayora. “Under the preliminary convention between our governments the British Navy has the right to capture on the high seas Spanish ships laden with slaves. But once within Spanish territorial waters those ships are safe. When the new convention for the suppression of the slave trade is signed then those ships will be forfeit to His Most Catholic Majesty’s government, but until that time it is my duty to give them every protection in my power.”