Bit by bit the newcomer from the lugger heard the truth about recent events, about the capture of the Natividad, and the success of el Supremo’s rebellion. He realised that the whole of the Spanish overlordship of the Americas was in jeopardy, and as he realised that, a fresh and harassing aspect of the situation broke in upon him.
“The Manila galleon is at sea!” he exclaimed. “She is due to arrive at Acapulco next month. The Natividad will intercept her.”
One ship a year crossed the wide Pacific from the Philippines, never bearing less than a million sterling in treasure. Her loss would cripple the bankrupt Spanish government hopelessly. The three captains exchanged glances—Hornblower was telling himself that this was why el Supremo had agreed so readily to the Lydia sailing south westward; he had doubtless been pleased at the thought of the Natividad to the north eastward acquiring this wealth for him. It would take the Spaniards months to bring round the Horn a ship capable of dealing with the Natividad, and in the interval el Supremo would enjoy all those advantages of sea power which Hornblower had foreseen for the Lydia. The rebellion would be so firmly rooted that nothing would put it down, especially as, apparently, the Spaniards of Spain were engaged in a life-and-death struggle with Bonaparte and would have neither ships nor men to spare for America. Hornblower could see where lay his duty.
“Very well,” he announced abruptly. “I will take my ship back to fight the Natividad.”
All the Spanish officers looked their relief at that.
“Thank you, Captain,” said the officer of the lugger. “You will call in at Panama to consult the Viceroy first?”
“Yes,” snapped Hornblower.
In a world where news took months to travel, and where complete upheavals of international relationships were not merely possible but likely, he had learned now by bitter experience to keep in the closest contact with the shore; his misery was in no way allayed by the knowledge that the present difficulties were occasioned merely by his strict obedience to orders—and he knew, too, that the Lords of the Admiralty would not allow that point to influence them in their opinion of a captain who could cause such terrible trouble.
“Then,” said the captain of the lugger. “I will bid you good-bye for the time. If I reach Panama first, I will be able to arrange a welcome for you. Perhaps you will allow my compatriots to accompany me?”
“No I won’t,” rasped Hornblower. “And you, sir, will keep under my lee until we drop anchor.”
The Spaniard shrugged and yielded. At sea one can hardly argue with a captain whose guns are run out and whose broadside could blow one’s ship out of the water, especially as all Englishmen were as mad and as domineering as el Supremo. The Spaniard had not enough intuition to enable him to guess that Hornblower still had a lurking fear that the whole business might be a ruse to inveigle the Lydia helpless under the guns of Panama.
Chapter IX
It was not a ruse at all. In the morning when the Lydia came stealing before a three knot breeze into the roadstead of Panama the only guns fired were the salutes. Boatloads of rejoicing Spaniards came out to greet her, but the rejoicing was soon turned to wailing at the news that the Natividad now flew el Supremo’s flag, that San Salvador had fallen, and that all Nicaragua was in a flame of rebellion. With cocked hat and gold-hilted sword (’a sword of the value of fifty guineas’, the gift of the Patriotic Fund for Lieutenant Hornblower’s part in the capture of the Castilla six years ago) Hornblower had made himself ready to go ashore and call upon the Governor and the Viceroy, when the arrival of yet one more boat was announced to him.
“There is a lady on board, sir,” said Gray, one of the master’s mates, who brought the news.
“A lady?”
“Looks like an English lady, sir,” explained Gray. “She seems to want to come aboard.”
Hornblower went on deck; close alongside a large rowing boat tossed and rolled; at the six oars sat swarthy Spanish Americans, bare armed and straw hatted, while another in the bows, boat hook in hand, stood waiting, face upturned for permission to hook on to the chains. In the stem sat a negress with a flaming red handkerchief over her shoulders, and beside her sat the English lady Gray had spoken about. Even as Hornblower looked, the bowman hooked on, and the boat closed in alongside, two men fending off. Somebody caught the rope ladder, and the next moment the lady, timing the movement perfectly, swung on to it and two seconds later came on deck.
Clearly she was an Englishwoman. She wore a wide shady hat trimmed with roses, in place of the eternal mantilla, and her grey-blue silk dress was far finer than any Spanish black. Her skin was fair despite its golden tan, and her eyes were grey-blue, of just the same evasive shade as her silk dress. Her face was too long for beauty and her nose too high arched, to say nothing of her sunburn. Horn-blower saw her at that moment as one of the horsefaced mannish women whom he particularly disliked; he told himself that all his inclinations were towards clinging incompetence. Any woman who could transfer herself in that fashion from boat to ship in an open roadstead, and could ascend a rope ladder unassisted, must be too masculine for his taste. Besides, an Englishwoman must be unsexed to be in Panama without a male escort—the phrase ‘globe trotting’, with all its disparaging implications, had not yet been invented, but it expressed exactly Hornblower’s feeling about her.
Hornblower held himself aloof as the visitor looked about her. He was going to do nothing to help her. A wild squawk from overside told that the negress had not been as handy with the ladder, and directly afterwards this was confirmed by her appearance on deck wet from the waist down, water streaming from her black gown on to the deck. The lady paid no attention to the mishap to her maid; Gray was nearest to her and she turned to him.
“Please be so good, sir,” she said, “as to have my baggage brought up out of the boat.”
Gray hesitated, and looked round over his shoulder at Hornblower, stiff and unbending on the quarterdeck.
“The captain’s here, ma’am,” he said.
“Yes,” said the lady. “Please have my baggage brought up while I speak to him.”
Hornblower was conscious of an internal struggle. He disliked the aristocracy—it hurt him nowadays to remember that as the doctor’s son he had had to touch his cap to the squire. He felt unhappy and awkward in the presence of the self-confident arrogance of blue blood and wealth. It irritated him to think that if he offended this woman he might forfeit his career. Not even his gold lace nor his presentation sword gave him confidence as she approached him. He took refuge in an icy formality.
“Are you the captain of this ship, sir?” she asked, as she came up. Her eyes looked boldly and frankly into his with no trace of downcast modesty.
“Captain Hornblower, at your service, ma’am,” he replied, with a stiff jerk of his neck which might charitably be thought a bow.
“Lady Barbara Wellesley,” was the reply, accompanied by a curtsy only just deep enough to keep the interview formal. “I wrote you a note, Captain Hornblower, requesting a passage to England. I trust that you received it.”