His thoughts moved into the other half of the circle. He could have done nothing else. If he had turned aside to Kingston or Port of Spain Daring would have slipped past him, as her time of arrival off Tobago proved, and any additional strength he might have brought with him – if any, as was not likely – would have been useless. If he had stayed at Kingston and sent a despatch to London? If he had done that he might at least have covered himself with the authorities. But it would have been unavailing. How much time would elapse between the arrival of his letter in London and the arrival of Daring on the coast of France with Bonaparte on board? Two week; Very likely less than that. The clerks at the Admiralty would have treated his despatch at first as coming from a madman. There would be delay in its reaching the First Lord’s hands, delay in its being laid before the Cabinet, delay while action was being debated, delay while the French ambassador was informed, delay while joint action was being agreed upon.
And what action, if any – if the Cabinet did not dismiss his letter as that of an unbalanced alarmist? The peacetime navy of England could never have been got to sea in time and in sufficient numbers to cover the whole coast of France so as to make it impossible for Daring to land her deadly cargo. And the mere inevitable leakage of the news that Bonaparte was at sea and expected to land would throw France into immediate revolution – no doubt about that, and Italy was in a turmoil too. By writing to London he would have covered himself, as he had already decided, from the censure of the Government. But it was not the measure of a man’s duty to avoid blame. He had a positive duty to do, and he had done it, in the only way possible. Nothing else would have stopped Cambronne. Nothing else. He had seen where his duty lay. He had seen what the price would be, and now he was paying it. He had bought the peace of the world at the price of his own honour. He had ceased to be a gentleman – his thoughts completed the other half of the circle.
His mind plunged on, struggling desperately, like a man in utter darkness waist deep in a slough. It would not be long before the world knew of his dishonour. Cambronne would talk, and so would the other Frenchmen. The world would hear soon of a British Admiral giving his plighted word in the certain knowledge that he was telling a lie. Before then he would have left the Service, resigned his command and his commission. That must be done at once; his contaminated flag must fly no longer; he must give no further orders to gentlemen. In Port of Spain there was the Governor of Trinidad. Tomorrow he would tell him that the West India squadron no longer had a Commander-in-Chief. The Governor could take all the necessary official action, in circularising the squadron and informing the Government – just as if yellow fever or apoplexy had taken off the Commander-in-Chief. In this way anarchy would be reduced to a minimum, and a change of command arranged as simply as possible; that was the last service he could perform for his country, the very last. The Governor would think he was mad, of course – he might be in a strait-jacket tomorrow unless he confessed his shame. And then the Governor would pity him; the first of the pity, the first of the contempt, he would have to face for the rest of his life. Barbara – Richard – the lost soul plunged on through the stinking slough, through the dark night.
At the end of that dark night a knock at the door brought in Gerard. The message he was bearing died on his lips as he looked at Hornblower’s face, white under the tan, and at his hollow eyes.
“Are you quite well, My Lord?” he asked, anxiously.
“Quite well. What is it?”
“Mr Harcourt’s respects, My Lord, and we are off the Dragon’s Mouth. The wind is fair at nor’-nor’-east and we can make the passage as soon as day breaks, in half an hour, My Lord. We’ll drop anchor in Port of Spain by two bells in the forenoon watch, My Lord.”