“It will be sunset before we sight St Philip, My Lord,” reported Harcourt, saluting.
“Very well, Mr Harcourt.”
There would be no salutes fired, then. He would make his departure from the United States with his tail between his legs, so to speak. There could hardly fail to be comment about the briefness of his visit. Sharpe might do his best to explain why he had left so hurriedly, but any explanation would be unsatisfactory. In every way this command for which he had yearned was turning out to be a ridiculous fiasco.
Even this visit, to which he had looked forward so eagerly, was a disappointment. He had seen almost nothing of New Orleans, of America, or of the Americans. He could take no interest in this vast Mississippi. His problems deprived him of interest in his surroundings and his surroundings distracted him from a proper attention to his problems. This fantastic method of progression, for instance – Crab was going through the water at a good five knots, and there was the current as well. Quite a breeze was blowing past him in consequence; it was extraordinary to be going ahead with the wind dead foul, without a heel or a pitch, with the standing rigging uttering a faint note and yet not a creak from the running rigging.
“Your dinner is served, My Lord,” said Gerard, appearing on deck again.
Darkness was closing in round the Crab as Hornblower went below, but the cabin was hot and stuffy.
“Scotch broth, My Lord,” said Giles, putting a steaming plate before him.
Hornblower dipped his spoon perfunctorily into the plate, tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, and laid his spoon down again, Giles poured him a glass of wine; he wanted neither wine nor soup, yet he must not display human weaknesses. He forced himself to take a little more of the soup, enough to preserve appearances.
“Chicken Marengo, My Lord,” said Giles, putting another plate before him.
Appearances were more easily preserved with chicken; Hornblower haggled the joints apart, ate a couple of mouthfuls, and laid down his knife and fork. They would report to him from the deck if the miracle had happened, if Daring’s two steam tugs had broken down, or if Daring had run aground, and they were passing her triumphantly. Absurd hope. He was a fool.
Giles cleared the table, reset it with cheese dish and cheese plate, and poured a glass of port. A sliver of cheese, a sip of port, and dinner might be considered over. Giles set out the silver spirit lamp, the silver coffee pot, the porcelain cup – Barbara’s last present to him. Somehow there was comfort in coffee despite his misery; the only comfort in a black world.
On deck again it was quite dark. On the starboard bow gleamed a light, moving steadily aft to the starboard beam; that must be one of the lighthouses installed by the Americans to make the navigation of the Mississippi as convenient by night as by day. It was one more proof of the importance of this developing commerce – the fact that as many as six steam tugs were being constantly employed was a further proof.
“If you please, My Lord,” said Harcourt in the darkness beside him. “We are approaching the Pass. What orders, My Lord?”
What could he do? He could only play a losing game out to the bitter end. He could only follow Daring, far, far astern of her, in the hope of a miracle, a fortunate accident. The odds were a hundred to one that by the time he reached Corpus Christi the bird would be flown, completely vanished. Yet perhaps the Mexican authorities, if there were any, or local gossip, if he could pick up any, might afford him some indication of the next destination of the Imperial Guard.
“As soon as we are at sea, set a course for Corpus Christi, if you please, Mr Harcourt.”
“Aye aye, My Lord. Corpus Christi.”
“Study your Sailing Directions for the Gulf of Mexico, Mr Harcourt, for the pass into the lagoon there.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
That was done, then the decision was taken. Yet he stayed up on deck, trying to wrestle with the problem in all its vague and maddening complexity.