“With this as a model?” repeated Marsden.
“Let us have your suggestion, Captain,” said Barrow.
“I can’t waste your time, gentlemen,” stammered Hornblower; he was on the verge of the abyss and striving unavailingly to draw back.
“You have given us an inkling, Captain,” said Barrow. “Please continue.”
There was nothing else to be done. An end to discretion.
“An order from Boney to Villeneuve, telling him to sail from Ferrol at all costs. It would have to give a reason — say that Décrès has escaped from Brest and will await him at a rendezvous off Cape Clear. So that Villeneuve must sail instantly — weigh, cut, or slip. A battle with Villeneuve is what England needs most — that would bring it about.”
Now he had committed himself. Two pairs of eyes were staring at him fixedly.
“An ideal solution, Captain,” said Marsden. “If only it could be done. How fine it would be if such an order could be delivered to Villeneuve.”
The Secretary to the Board of Admiralty probably received crackpot schemes for the destruction of the French Navy every day of the week.
“Boney will be sending orders from Paris, often enough,” went on Hornblower. He was not going to give up. “How often do you transmit orders from this office to CommandersinChief, sir? To Admiral Cornwallis, for instance? Once a week, sir? Oftener?”
“At least,” admitted Marsden.
“Boney would write more often than that, I think.”
“He would,” agreed Barrow.
“And those orders would come by road. Of course Boney would never trust the Spanish postal services. An officer — a French officer, one of the Imperial aidesde-camp — would ride with the orders through Spain, from the French frontier to Ferrol.”
“Yes?” said Marsden. He was at least interested enough to admit an interrogative note into the monosyllable.
“Captain Hornblower has been engaged on gathering information from the French coast for the last two years,” interposed Barrow. “His name was always appearing in Cornwallis’ dispatches, Mr. Marsden.”
“I know that, Mr. Barrow,” said Madden; there might even be a testy note in his voice at the interruption.
“The dispatch is forged,” said Hornblower, taking the final plunge. “A small party is landed secretly with it at a quiet spot on the Spanish Biscay coast, posing as French officials, or Spanish officials, and they travel slowly towards the frontier along the highroad. A succession of couriers is coming in the opposite direction, bearing orders for Villeneuve. Seize one of them — kill him, perhaps — or perhaps with the best of luck substitute the forged order for the one he is carrying. Otherwise one of the party turns back, posing as a French officer, and delivers the false letter to Villeneuve.”
There was the whole plan, fantastic and yet — and yet — at least faintly possible. At least not demonstrably impossible.
“You say you’ve seen these Spanish roads, Captain?” asked Barrow.
“I saw something of them, sir.”
Hornblower turned back from addressing Barrow to find Marsden’s gaze still unwavering, fixed on his face.
“Haven’t you any more to say, Captain? Surely you have.”
This might be irony; it might be intended to lure him into making a greater and greater fool of himself. But there was so much that was plainly obvious and which he had forborne to mention. His weary mind could still deal with such points, with a moment to put them in order.
“This is an opportunity, gentlemen. A victory at sea is what England needs more than anything else at this moment. Could we measure its value? Could we? It would put an end to Boney’s schemes. It would ease the strain of blockade beyond all measure. What would we give for the chance?”
“Millions,” said Barrow.
“And what do we risk? Two or three agents. If they fail, that is all we have lost. A penny ticket in a lottery. An infinite gain against an inconsiderable loss.”
“You are positively eloquent, Captain,” said Marsden, still without any inflexion in his voice.
“I had no intention of being eloquent, sir,” said Hornblower, and was a little taken aback at realizing how much truth there was in such a simple statement.
He was suddenly annoyed both with himself and with the others. He had allowed himself to be drawn into indiscretions, to appear as one of the featherbrained crackpots for whom Marsden must have so much contempt. He rose in irritation from his chair, and then restrained himself on the verge of being still more indiscreet by displaying irritation. A stiffly formal attitude would be better; something that would prove that his recent speeches had been mere polite and meaningless conversation. Moreover he must forestall the imminent and inevitable dismissal if he were going to preserve any of his selfrespect.
“I have consumed a great deal of your very valuable time, gentlemen,” he said.
There was a sudden sharp pleasure, despite his weariness, in thus being the first to make a move, to volunteer to quit the company of the Secretary to the Board, and of the Second Secretary, while dozens of junior officers were prepared to wait hours and days for an interview. But Marsden was addressing Barrow.
“What’s the name of that South American fellow who’s haunting every anteroom at present, Mr. Barrow? You meet him everywhere — he was even dining at White’s last week with Camberwell.”
“The fellow who wants to start a revolution, sir? I’ve met him a couple of times myself. It’s — it’s Miranda, or Mirandola, something like that, sir.”
“Miranda! That’s the name. I suppose we can lay hands on him if we want him.”
“Easily enough, sir.”
“Yes. Now there’s Claudius in Newgate Gaol. I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr. Barrow.”
“Claudius, sir? I met him, as everyone else did.”
“He’ll be coming up for trial within the week, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. He’ll swing next Monday. But why are you asking about him, Mr. Marsden?”
There was some faint pleasure in seeing one of those two, even though it was only the Second Secretary, so bewildered, and at the moment he was given no satisfaction.
“So there is no time to waste.” Marsden turned to Hornblower, who was standing uncomfortably aware that most of the drama of his exit had fallen a little flat with this delay. “The doorkeeper has your address, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall send for you very shortly.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower had shut the door before he experienced any qualm regarding using this purely naval expression towards a civilian, nor did it linger, with so much else for his weary brain to think about. He wanted food; he was desperately in need of sleep. He hardly cared about the unknown Miranda, this mysterious Claudius in Newgate Gaol. What he must do was to eat himself into a torpor, and then sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But also he must write to Maria.
Chapter Nine
Hornblower awoke in an overheated condition. The sunshine was blazing through the window, and his little attic was like an oven. Sleep had overcome him in the end while he lay under a blanket, and he was sweating profusely. Throwing off the blanket brought some relief, and he cautiously began to straighten himself out; apparently he had slept without a change of position, literally like a log. There was still an ache or two to be felt, which served to recall to mind where he was and how he came to be there. His formula for inducing sleep had worked after a long delay. But it must be well after sunrise; he must have slept for ten or perhaps twelve hours.
What day of the week was it? To answer that question called for a plunge into the past. It had been a Sunday that he had spent in the postchaise — he could remember the church bells sounding across the countryside and the churchgoers gathering round the postchaise in Salisbury. So that he had arrived in London on Monday morning — yesterday, hard to believe though that was — and today was Tuesday. He had left Plymouth — he had last seen Maria — on Saturday afternoon. Hornblower felt his pleasant relaxation replaced by tension; he actually felt his muscles tightening ready for action as he went back from there — it was during the small hours of Friday morning that the Princess had headed away from the disabled Guèpe. It was on Thursday evening that he had climbed on to the deck of the Guèpe to conquer or die, with death more probable than conquest. Last Thursday evening, and this was only Tuesday morning.