Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“I want the small bower hove in, Mr Bush, and heave short on the best bower.”

“Aye aye, sir. If you please, sir —”

“I want this done in silence, Mr Bush. No pipes, no orders that Félicité can hear. Station two safe men at the capstan with old canvas to muffle the capstan pawls. I don’t want a sound.”

“Aye aye, sir. But —”

“Go and attend to that yourself personally, if you please, Mr Bush.”

No one else dare intrude on the captain as he strode the quarter‑deck in the warm night. Nor was it long before the pilot came on board; Carron had certainly succeeded in hastening the slow process of the Spanish official mind. Topsails sheeted home, anchor broken out, Hotspur glided slowly down the bay again before the first gentle puffs of the nightly land breeze, with Hornblower narrowly watching the pilot. It might be a solution of the Spaniard’s problem if Hotspur were to take the ground as she went to sea, and Hornblower determined that should not happen. It was only after the pilot had left them and Hotspur was standing out to the south westward that he had a moment to spare for Bush.

“Sir! Doughty’s gone.”

“Gone?”

It was too dark on the quarter‑deck for Hornblower’s face to be seen, and he tried his best to make his voice sound natural.

“Yes, sir. He must have nipped out of the stern window of your cabin, sir. Then he could have lowered himself into the water by the rudder‑pintles, right under the counter where no-one could see him, and then he must have swum for it, sir.”

“I’m extremely angry about this, Mr Bush. Somebody will smart for it.”

“Well, sir —”

“Well, Mr Bush?”

“It seems you left him alone in the cabin when the Consul came on board, sir. That’s when he took his chance.”

“You mean it’s my fault, Mr Bush?”

‘Well, yes, sir, if you want to put it that way.”

“M’m. Maybe you’re right, even if I do say it.” Hornblower paused, still trying to be natural. “God, that’s an infuriating thing to happen. I’m angry with myself. I can’t think how I came to be so foolish.”

“I expect you had a lot on your mind, sir.”

It was distasteful to hear Bush standing up for his captain in the face of his captain’s self‑condemnation.

“There’s just no excuse for me. I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I’ll mark him as ‘R’ on the ship’s muster, sir.”

“Yes. You’d better do that.”

Cryptic initials in the ship’s muster rolls told various stories — ‘D’ for ‘discharged’, ‘D D’ for ‘dead’, and ‘R’ for ‘run’ — deserted.

“But there’s some good news, too, Mr Bush. In accordance with my orders I must tell you, Mr Bush, in case of something happening to me, but none of what I’m going to say is to leak out to the ship’s company.”

“Of course, sir.”

Treasure; prize money, doubloons and dollars. A Spanish treasure fleet. If there were anything that could take Bush’s mind off the subject of Doughty’s escape from justice it was this.

“It’ll be millions, sir!” said Bush.

“Yes. Millions.”

The seamen in the five ships would share one quarter of the prize money — the same sum as would be divided between five captains — and that would mean six hundred pounds a man. Lieutenants and masters and captains of marines would divide one eighth. Fifteen thousand pounds for Bush, at a rough estimate.

“A fortune, sir!”

Hornblower’s share would be ten of those fortunes.

“Do you remember, sir, the last time we captured a flota? Back in ’99, I think it was, sir. Some our Jacks when they got their prize money bought gold watches an’ fried ’em on Gosport Hard, just to show how rich they were.”

“Well, you can sleep on it, Mr Bush, as I’m going to try to do. But remember, not a word to a soul.”

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

The project might still fail. The flota might evade capture and escape into Cadiz; it might have turned back; it might never have sailed. Then it would be best if the Spanish government — and the world at large — did not know that such an attempt had ever been contemplated.

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