Hornblower should have been pleased at his achievement, but as ever there was no time for self‑congratulation. There were the preparations to be made to ask permission of the Spanish authorities to enter the port; there was the excitement of the prospect of getting into touch with the British representative; and — now or never — there was the decision to be reached regarding his plan for Doughty. The thought of Doughty had nagged at him during these glorious days of spread canvas, coming to distract him from his day‑dreams of wealth and promotion, to divert him from his plans regarding his behaviour in Cadiz. It was like the bye‑plots in Shakespeare’s plays, rising continually from the depths to assume momentarily equal importance with the development of the main plot.
Yet, as Hornblower had already admitted to himself, it was now or never. He had to decide and to act at this very minute; earlier would have been premature, and later would be too late. He had risked death often enough in the King’s service; perhaps the service owed him a life in return — a threadbare justification, and he forced himself to admit to mere self-indulgence as he finally made up his mind. He shut up his telescope with the same fierce decision that he had closed with the enemy in the Goulet.
“Pass the word for my steward,” he said. No one could guess that the man who spoke such empty words was contemplating a grave dereliction from duty.
Bailey, all knees and elbows, with the figure of a youth despite his years, put his hand to his forehead in salute to his captain, within sight, and (more important) within earshot of a dozen individuals on the quarter‑deck.
“I expect His Majesty’s Consul to sup with me tonight,” said Hornblower. “I want something special to offer him.”
“Well, sir —” said Bailey, which was exactly what, and all, Hornblower had expected him to say.
“Speak up, now,” rasped Hornblower.
“I don’t exactly know, sir,” said Bailey. He had suffered already from Hornblower’s irascibility — unplanned, during these last days, but lucky now.
“Damn it, man. Let’s have some ideas.”
“There’s a cut of cold beef, sir —”
“Cold beef? For His Majesty’s Consul? Nonsense.”
Hornblower took a turn up the deck in deep thought, and then wheeled back again.
“Mr Bush! I’ll have to have Doughty released from confinement this evening. This ninny’s no use to me. See that he reports to me in my cabin the moment I have time to spare.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very well, Bailey. Get below. Now, Mr Bush, kindly clear away number one carronade starboard side for the salutes. And isn’t that the guarda costa lugger lying‑to for us there?”
The sun declining towards the west bathed the white buildings of Cadiz to a romantic pink as Hotspur headed in, and as health officers and naval officers and military officers came on board to see that Cadiz was guarded against infection and violations of her neutrality. Hornblower put his Spanish to use — rusty now, as he had not spoken Spanish since the last war, and more awkward still because of his recent use of French — but despite its rustiness very helpful during the formalities, while Hotspur under topsails glided in towards the entrance to the bay, so well remembered despite the years that had passed since his last visit in the Indefatigable.
The evening breeze carried the sound of the salutes round the bay, as Hotspur’s carronade spoke out and Santa Catalina replied, and while the Spanish pilot guided Hotspur between the Pigs and the Sows — Hornblower had a suspicion that the Pigs were Sea Pigs, Porpoises, in Spanish — and the hands stood by to take in sail and drop anchor. There were ships of war lying at anchor already in the bay, and not the Spanish navy, whose masts and yards Hornblower could just make out in the inner harbours.
“Estados Unidos,” said the Spanish naval officer, with a gesture towards the nearer frigate. Hornblower saw the Stars and Stripes, and the broad pendant at the main‑topmast‑head.
“Mr Bush! Stand by to render passing honours.”
“Constitution. Commodore Preble,” added a Spanish officer.