Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

The Americans were fighting a war of their own, at Tripoli far up the Mediterranean; and presumably this Preble — Hornblower could not be sure of the exact name as he heard it — was the latest of a series of American commanders‑in‑chief. Drums beat and men lined the side and hats were lifted in salute as Hotspur wept by.

“French frigate Félicité,” went on the Spanish officer, indicating the other ship of war.

Twenty‑two ports on a side — one of the big French frigates, but there was no need to pay her further attention. As enemies in a neutral harbour they would ignore each other, cut each other dead, as gentlemen would do if by unlucky chance they met in the interval between the challenge and the duel. Lucky that he did not have to give her further thought, too, seeing that the sight of the Constitution was causing modification in his other plans — the bye plot was intruding on the main plot again.

“You can anchor here, Captain,” said the Spanish officer.

“Helm‑a‑lee! Mr Bush!”

Hotspur rounded‑to, her topsails were taken in with commendable rapidity, and the anchor cable roared out through the hawse. It was as well that the operation went through faultlessly, seeing that it was carried out under the eyes of the navies of three other nations. A flat report echoed round the bay.

“Sunset gun! Take in the colours, Mr Bush.”

The Spanish officers were standing formally in line, hats in hand, as they bowed their farewells. Hornblower put on his politest manner and took off his hat with his politest bow as he thanked them and escorted them to the side.

“Here comes your consul already,” said the naval officer just before he went down.

In the gathering darkness a rowing skiff was heading out to them from the town, and Hornblower almost cut his final farewell short as he tried to recall what honours should be paid to a consul coming on board after sunset. The western sky was blood red, and the breeze dropped, and here in a bay it seemed breathless and stifling after the airy delights of the Atlantic. And now he had to deal with secrets of state and with Doughty.

Recapitulating his worries to himself revived another one. There would now be a break in his letters to Maria; it might be months before she heard from him again, and she would fear the worst. But there was no time to waste in thinking. He had to act instantly.

Chapter 21

With the wind dropping Hotspur had swung to her anchors, and now from the stern window of the chart‑room USS Constitution was visible, revealed by her lights as she rode idly in slack water.

“If you please, sir,” asked Doughty, as respectful as ever, “what is this place?”

“Cadiz,” replied Hornblower; his surprise was only momentary at the ignorance of a prisoner immured below — it was possible that some even of the crew still did not know. He pointed through the cabin window. “And that’s an American frigate, the Constitution.”

“Yes, sir.”

Until Hornblower had seen the Constitution at anchor he had been visualizing a drab future for Doughty, as a penniless refugee on the waterfront at Cadiz, not daring to ship as a hand before the mast in some merchant ship for fear of being pressed and recognized, starving at worst as a beggar, at best as a soldier enlisted in the ragged Spanish army. A better future than the rope, all the same. Now there was a better one still. Ships of war never had enough men, even if Preble did not need a good steward.

Bailey came in from the cabin with the last bottle of claret.

“Doughty will decant that,” said Hornblower. “And Doughty, see that those glasses are properly clean. I want them to sparkle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bailey, get for’ard to the galley. See that there’s a clear fire ready for the marrow bones.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was as simple as that as long as each move was well‑timed. Doughty applied himself to decanting the claret while Bailey bustled out.

“By the way, Doughy, can you swim?”

Doughty did not raise his head.

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