No, not quite all Europe, for England still had allies—Portugal under an insane queen, Sweden under a mad king, and Sicily, here, under a worthless king. Ferdinand, King of Naples and Sicily—King of the Two Sicilies—bad, cruel, selfish; brother of the King of Spain, who was Bonaparte’s closest ally; Ferdinand, a tyrant more bloodthirsty and more tyrannical than Bonaparte himself, faithless and untrustworthy, who had lost one of his two thrones and was only held on the other by British naval might and who yet would betray his allies for a moment’s gratification of his senses, and whose gaols were choked with political prisoners and whose gallows creaked under the weight of dead suspects. Good men, and brave men, were suffering and dying in every part of the world while Ferdinand hunted in his Sicilian presence and his wicked queen lied and intrigued and betrayed, and while Maria wrote simple little letters about the babies.
It was better to think about his duties than to brood over these insoluble anomalies. Here was a note from Lord William Bentinck, the British Minister in Palermo. “The latest advices from the Vice-Admiral Commanding in the Mediterranean are to the effect that he may be expected very shortly in Palermo with his flagship. His Excellency therefore begs to inform Captain Horatio Hornblower that in His Excellency’s opinion it would be best if Captain Horatio Hornblower were to begin the necessary repairs to Atropos immediately. His Excellency will request His Sicilian Majesty’s naval establishment to afford Captain Horatio Hornblower all the facilities he may require.”
Lord William might be—undoubtedly was—a man of estimable character and liberal opinions unusual in a son of a Duke, but he knew little enough about the workings of a Sicilian dockyard. In the three days that followed Hornblower succeeded in achieving nothing at all with the help of Sicilian authorities. Turner was voluble to them in lingua franca, and Hornblower laid aside his dignity to plead with them in French with o’s and a’s added to the words in the hope that in that manner he might convey his meaning in Italian, but even when the requests were intelligible they were not granted. Canvas? Cordage? Sheet lead for shot holes? They might never have heard of them. After those three days Hornblower warped Atropos out into the harbour again and set about his repairs with his own resources and with his own men, keeping them labouring under the sun, and deriving some little satisfaction from the fact that Captain Ford’s troubles—he had Nightingale over at the careenage—were even worse than his own. Ford, with his ship heeled over while he patched her bottom, had to put sentries over the stores he had taken out of her, to prevent the Sicilians from stealing them, even while his men vanished into the alleys of Palermo to pawn their clothing in exchange for the heady Sicilian wine.
It was with relief that Hornblower saw Ocean come proudly into Palermo, viceadmiral’s flag at the fore; he felt confident that when he made his report that his ship would be ready for sea in all respects in one day’s time he would be ordered out to join the Fleet. It could not happen too quickly.
And sure enough the orders came that evening, after he had gone on board to give a verbal account of his doings and to hand in his written reports. Collingwood listened to all he had to say, gave in return a very pleasant word of congratulation, saw him off the ship with his invariable courtesy, and of course kept his promise regarding the orders. Hornblower read them in the privacy of his cabin when the Ocean’s gig delivered them; they were commendably short. He was “requested and required, the day after tomorrow, the 17th instant,” to make the best of his way to the island of Ischia, there to report to Commodore Harris and join the squadron blockading Naples.
So all next day the ship’s company of Atropos toiled to complete their ship for sea. Hornblower was hardly conscious of the activity going on around Ocean–it was what might be expected in the flagship of the CommanderinChief in his ally’s capital. He regretted the interruption to his men’s work when the admiral’s barge came pulling by, and still more when the royal barge, with the Sicilian colours and the Bourbon lilies displayed, came pulling by to visit Ocean. But that was only to be expected. When the flaming afternoon began to die away into the lovely evening he found time to exercise his men in accordance with the new station and quarter bills so many had been the casualties that all the organization had to be revised. He stood there in the glowing sunset watching the men coming running down from aloft after setting topsails.
“Signal from the flag, sir,” said Smiley, breaking in on his concentrated thought. “’Flag to Atropos. Come on board!’”
“Call my gig,” said Hornblower. “Mr. Jones, you will take command.”
A desperate rush to change into his better uniform, and then he hurled himself down the ship’s side to where his gig awaited him. Collingwood received him in the wellremembered cabin; the silver lamps were alight now, and in the boxes under the great stern windows were strange flowers whose names he did not know. And on Collingwood’s face was a strange expression; there was a hint of distress in it, and of sympathy, as well as something of irritation. Hornblower stopped short at the sight of him, with a sudden pounding of the heart. He could hardly remember to make his bow properly. It flashed through his mind that perhaps Ford had reported adversely on his behaviour in the recent action. He might be facing court martial and ruin.
At Collingwood’s shoulder stood a large elegant gentleman in full dress, with the ribbon and star of an order.
“My lord,” said Collingwood, “this is Captain Horatio Hornblower, I believe you have already had correspondence with His Excellency, Captain. Lord William Bentinck.”
Hornblower made his bow again, his feverish mind telling him that at least this could not be anything to do with the action with the Castilla–that would not be the Minister’s business; on the other hand, in fact, Collingwood would keep strangers out of any scandal in the service.
“How d’ye do, sir?” asked Lord William.
“Very well, thank you, my Lord.”
The two Lords went on looking at Hornblower, and Hornblower looked back at them, trying to appear calm during those endless seconds.
“There’s bad news for you, Hornblower, I fear,” said Collingwood at last, sadly.
Hornblower restrained himself from asking “What is it?” He pulled himself up stiffer than ever, and tried to meet Collingwood’s eyes without wavering.
“His Sicilian Majesty,” went on Collingwood, “needs a ship.”
“Yes, my lord?”
Hornblower was none the wiser.
“When Bonaparte conquered the mainland he laid hands on the Sicilian Navy. Negligence—desertion—you can understand. There is no ship now at the disposal of His Majesty.”
“No, my Lord.” Hornblower could guess now what was coming.
“While coming out to visit Ocean this morning His Majesty happened to notice Atropos, with her paint all fresh. You made an excellent business of your refitting, Captain, as I noticed.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“His Majesty does not think it right that, as an island King, he should be without a ship.”
“I see, my Lord.”
Here Bentinck broke in, speaking harshly.
“The fact of the matter, Hornblower, is that the King has asked for your ship to be transferred to his flag.”