Hornblower in the West Indies. C. S. Forester

Hornblower fixed his eyes on his youthful flag-captain’s face, trying to estimate his discretion. He remembered so well the emphatic words of the First Sea Lord regarding the necessity for the utmost tenderness regarding American susceptibilities. Hornblower decided the young man could be trusted.

“Now, Mr Harcourt,” he said, “pay special attention to what I have to say. The more I know about that cargo the better. But don’t go at it like a bull at a gate. Should an opportunity present itself for finding out what it is, you must seize upon it. I can’t imagine what that opportunity may be, but opportunities come to those who are ready for them.”

Long, long ago, Barbara had said to him that good fortune is the portion of those who merit it.

“I understand, My Lord.”

“If the slightest hint of this gets out – if the Americans or the French get to know what you are doing – you will be sorry you were ever born, Mr Harcourt.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“I’ve no use for a dashing young officer in this connection, Mr Harcourt. I want someone with ingenuity, someone with cunning. You are sure you understand?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Hornblower at last took his eyes from Harcourt’s face. He himself had been a dashing young officer once. Now he had far more sympathy than ever before with the older men who had entrusted him with enterprises. A senior officer had perforce to trust his juniors, while still carrying the ultimate responsibility. If Harcourt should blunder, if he should be guilty of some indiscretion leading to a diplomatic protest, it would certainly be true that he might wish he had never been born – Hornblower would see to that. But Hornblower would be wishing he himself had never been born, too. But there was no useful purpose to be served in pointing that out.

“That is all, then, Mr Harcourt.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Come on, Mr Gerard. We’re late already.”

The upholstery of Mr Sharpe’s carriage was of green satin, and the carriage was admirably sprung, so that although it lurched and swayed over the uneven street surfaces, it did not jolt or jerk. Yet after five minutes of lurching and swaying – the carriage had been standing for some time in the hot May sun – Hornblower felt himself turning as green as the upholstery. The Rue Royale, the Place d’armes, the Cathedral, received hardly a glance from him. He welcomed the halts despite the fact that each halt meant a formal meeting with strangers, the kind of meeting he disliked most heartily. He stood and gulped in the humid air during the blessed moments between descending from the carriage and entering in under the ornate porticoes that stood to welcome him. It had never occurred to him before that an Admiral’s full dress uniform might with advantage be made of something thinner than broadcloth, and he had worn his broad red ribbon and his glittering star far too often by now to feel the slightest pleasure in displaying it.

At the Naval Headquarters he drank an excellent Madeira; the General gave him a heavy Marsala; at the Governor’s mansion he was given a tall drink which had been iced (presumably with ice sent down during the winter from New England and preserved in an icehouse until nearly at midsummer it was more precious than gold) extraordinarily to the point where actual frost was visible on the tumbler. The delicious cold contents of that tumbler disappeared rapidly, and the tumbler was as rapidly refilled. He checked himself abruptly when he found himself talking a little too loudly and dogmatically regarding some point of trivial importance. He was glad to catch Gerard’s eye and withdraw as gracefully as he could; he was also glad that Gerard seemed perfectly cool and sober and had charge of the cardcase, dropping the necessary number of cards into the silver trays that the coloured butlers held out to receive them. By the time he reached Sharpe’s house he was glad to see a friendly face – friendly even though it was only that morning that he had first set eyes on it.

“It is an hour before the guests are due to arrive, My Lord,” said Sharpe. “Would Your Lordship care for a short rest?”

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