Hornblower neither ate nor slept. He dismounted and gave his horse over into Brown’s charge, and then hobbled up and down on his hill top looking down at Rosas, with his heart full of bitterness. He had written carefully to the admiral to explain the reason of his halt — carefully, because he did not want to belong to the type of officer who sees difficulties at every turn — and the answer had simply enraged him. Was it not possible, Leighton had asked in his reply, to attempt something against the fortress with the fifteen hundred men he had in hand? Where was Colonel Rovira? The tone of that question indicated that Hornblower was somehow at fault regarding Rovira’s non-arrival. Captain Hornblower must remember the need to work in the closest and most cordial co-operation with England’s allies. The squadron could not possibly continue to supply Rovira’s force with food for long; Hornblower must tactfully call Colonel Rovira’s attention to the need of drawing upon his own sources of supplies. It was highly important that the arrival of the British squadron should be signalised by a great success, but on no account was any operation to be undertaken which might imperil the safety of the landing party. Leighton’s letter was a completely futile piece of writing, having regard for the present facts, but a Court of Inquiry who knew nothing of them would consider it eminently sane and sensible.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Brown, suddenly. “The Froggies down there is on the move.”
Startled, Hornblower looked down at Rosas. There were three serpents issuing out of the fortress — three long narrow columns of troops creeping out on to the plain, one each from the citadel, the village, and the Trinidad. A hoarse shout from the Spanish cavalry picket proclaimed that they had seen the same phenomenon; the little party left their post and rode headlong back to the scattered Spanish army. Hornblower went on staring for two more minutes; the columns showed no sign of ending, but wound on interminably out of the fortifications. Two were heading towards him, while the one from the citadel was taking a different route, off to his right, with the dear intention of cutting off the Spanish retreat to the mainland. Hornblower’s eye caught the flash of musket barrels in the sunlight; still the columns were winding out — there must be a thousand men at least in each. The Spanish information which had estimated the garrison’s strength at two thousand as a maximum must be as faulty as all the rest.
Claros came clattering up with his staff to gaze out over the plain. He paused only for an instant to take in the significance of what he saw — every man with him pointed simultaneously to the outflanking column — and then he wheeled about and spurred back again. As he wheeled his eyes met Hornblower’s; they were expressionless as ever, but Hornblower knew what he intended. If he abandoned the convoy and marched his men with all haste for the mesa, he could just get away in time, and he was set upon it. Hornblower knew in that instant that there was not the least use appealing to him to cover the retreat of the convoy, even if the Catalans were steady enough to fight a rearguard action against greatly superior numbers.
The safety of the landing party was dependent solely on its own exertions, and there was not a moment to be lost Hornblower scrambled on to his horse — the heads of the French columns were well out on to the plain now, and some would be soon ascending the steep escarpment of the plateau — and dashed back after Claros. Then, as he neared the place where Major Laird had his marines already drawn up into line, he checked the pace of his weary horse to a sober trot. It would never do to display too much haste or anxiety. That would only unsteady the men.
And he had a difficult problem to decide, too. The obvious best course was to abandon everything, guns, stores, and all, and march his men back to the ship headlong. The lives of trained seamen were too valuable to be lightly thrown away, and if he did as common sense directed he would have every man safely on board before the French column caught them up; in any matter-of-fact scale of relative values even a few seamen were worth more than ten twenty-four pounders, and their ammunition and whatever food stuffs had been landed. Yet in war the matter-of-fact frequently held only second place. A headlong flight to the ships, and abandonment of guns and stores, would depress the spirits of the men inordinately; a fighting retreat with next to no loss would raise them. He made up his mind as he halted his horse beside Major Laird.