Lucy Hough was a pretty enough girl of some seventeen or eighteen years of age whom Hornblower had already met on a few occasions. Hornblower told himself he could feel no interest in a child straight from the schoolroom — almost straight from the nursery — however pretty. He smiled at her and she dropped her eyes, looked up at him again, and once more looked away. It was interesting that she was not nearly so timid when she met the glances and acknowledged the bows of the young men who were far more likely to be of interest to her.
“Your Lordship does not dance, I understand?” said Hough.
“It is painful to be reminded of what I am missing in the presence of so much beauty,” replied Hornblower with another smile at Mrs Hough and at Lucy.
“Perhaps a rubber of whist, then, My Lord?” suggested Hough.
“The Goddess of Chance instead of the Muse of Music,” said Hornblower — he always tried to talk about music as if it meant something to him — “I will woo the one instead of the other.”
“From what I know about Your Lordship’s skill at whist,” said Hough, “I would say that as regards Your Lordship the Goddess of Chance has but small need for wooing.”
The ball had been in progress, apparently, for some time before Hornblower’s arrival. There were two score young people on the floor of the great room, a dozen dowagers on chairs round the wall, an orchestra in the corner. Hough led the way to another room; Hornblower dismissed his two young men with a nod, and settled down to whist with Hough and a couple of formidable old ladies. The closing of the heavy door shut out, luckily, nearly all the exasperating din of the orchestra; the old ladies played a sound game, and a pleasant hour enough went by. It was terminated by the entrance of Mrs Hough.
“It is time for the Polonaise before supper,” she announced. “I really must beg you to leave your cards and come and witness it.”
“Would Your Lordship — ?” asked Hough apologetically.
“Mrs Hough’s wish is my command,” said Hornblower.
The ballroom was, of course, stifling hot. Faces were flushed and shiny, but there was no lack of energy apparent as the double line formed up for the Polonaise while the orchestra grated out its mysterious noises to encourage the young people. Spendlove was leading Lucy by the hand and they were exchanging happy glances. Hornblower, from the weary age of forty-six, could look with condescension at these young men and women in their immature teens and twenties, tolerant of their youth and enthusiasm. The noises the orchestra made became more jerky and confusing, but the young people could find some sense in them. They capered round the room, skirts swaying and coattails flapping, everyone smiling and light-hearted; the double lines became rings, melted into lines again, turned and re-formed, until in the end with a final hideous crash from the orchestra the women sank low in curtsies and the men bent themselves double before them — a pretty sight once the music had ceased. There was a burst of laughter and applause before the lines broke up. The women, with sidelong looks at each other, gathered into groups which edged out of the room. They were retiring to repair the damages sustained in the heat of action.
Hornblower met Lucy’s eyes again, and once more she looked away and then back at him. Shy? Eager? It was hard to tell with these mere children; but it was not the sort of glance she had bestowed on Spendlove.
“Ten minutes at least before the supper march, My Lord,” said Hough. “Your Lordship will be kind enough to take in Mrs Hough?”
“Delighted, of course,” replied Hornblower.
Spendlove approached. He was mopping his face with his handkerchief.
“I would enjoy a breath of cooler air, My Lord,” he said. “Perhaps —”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hornblower, not sorry to have an excuse to be rid of Hough’s ponderous company.
They stepped out into the dark garden; so bright had been the candles in the ballroom that they had to tread cautiously at first.
“I trust you are enjoying yourself,” said Hornblower.
“Very much indeed, thank you, My Lord.”
“And your suit is making progress?”
“Of that I am not so sure, My Lord.”
“You have my best wishes in any case.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
Hornblower’s eyes were more accustomed now to the darkness. He could see the stars now when he looked up. Sirius was visible, resuming once more his eternal chase of Orion across the night sky. The air was warm and still with the cessation of the sea breeze.
Then it happened. Hornblower heard a movement behind him, a rustling of foliage, but before he could pay attention to it hands gripped his arms, a hand came over his mouth. He began to struggle. A sharp, burning pain under his right shoulder-blade made him jump.
“Quiet,” said a voice, a thick, heavy voice. “Or this.”
He felt the pain again. It was a knife point in his back, and he held himself still. The unseen hands began to hustle him away; there were at least three men round him. His nose told him they were sweating — with excitement, perhaps.
“Spendlove?” he said.
“Quiet,” said the voice again.
He was being hustled down the long garden. A momentary sharp cry, instantly stifled, presumably came from Spendlove behind him. Hornblower had difficulty in preserving his balance as he was hurried along, but the arms that held him sustained him; when he stumbled he could feel the pressure of the knife point against his back sharpen into pain as it pierced his clothes. At the far end of the garden they emerged into a narrow path where a darkness loomed up in the night. Hornblower bumped into something that snorted and moved — a mule, apparently.
“Get on,” said the voice beside him.
Hornblower hesitated, and felt the knife against his ribs.
“Get on,” said the voice; someone else was wheeling the mule round again for him to mount.
There were neither stirrups nor saddle. Hornblower put his hands on the withers and hauled himself up astride the mule. He could find no reins, although he heard the chink of a bit. He buried his fingers in the scanty mane. All round him he could hear a bustle as the other mules were mounted. His own mule started with something of a jerk that made him cling wildly to the mane. Someone had mounted the mule ahead and was riding forward with a leading rein attached to his mule. There seemed to be four mules altogether, and some eight men. The mules began to trot, and Hornblower felt himself tossed about precariously on the slippery back of the mule, but there was a man running on each side of him helping to keep him on his perch. A second or two later they slowed down again as the leading mule turned a difficult corner.
“Who are you?” demanded Hornblower, with the first breath that the motion had not shaken out of his body.
The man by his right knee waved something at him, something bright enough to shine in the starlight. It was a cutlass — the machete of the West Indies.
“Quiet,” he said, “or I cut off your leg.”
The next moment the mule broke into a trot again, and Hornblower could have said no more even if he were inclined to do so. Mules and men hurried along a path between great fields of cane, with Hornblower bounding about on the mule’s back. He tried to look up at the stars to see which way they were going, but it was difficult, and they altered course repeatedly, winding about over the countryside. They left the cane behind, and seemed to emerge into open savannah. Then there were trees; then they slowed down for a sharp ascent, broke into a trot again down the other side — the men on foot running tirelessly beside the mules — and climbed again, the mules slipping and plunging on what appeared to be an insecure surface. Twice Hornblower nearly fell off, to be heaved back again by the man beside him. Soon he was atrociously saddle-sore — if the word could be considered appropriate when he was riding bareback — and the ridge of the mule’s spine caused him agony. He was drenched with sweat, his mouth was parched, and he was desperately weary. He grew stupefied with misery, despite the pain he suffered. More than once they splashed across small streams roaring down from the mountains; again they made their way through a belt of trees. Several times they seemed to be threading narrow passes.