Hornblower in the West Indies. C. S. Forester

“And that’s Montego Bay, My Lord,” said Spendlove, pointing.

Hornblower had visited the place in Clorinda last year – a lonely roadstead providing fair anchorage, and shelter for a few fishing boats. He gazed over to the distant blue water with longing. He tried to think of ways of escape, of some method of coming to honourable terms with the pirates, but a night entirely without sleep made his brain sluggish, and now that he had eaten it was more sluggish still. He caught himself nodding and pulled himself up with a jerk. Now that he was in his middle forties the loss of a night’s sleep was a serious matter, especially when the night had been filled with violent and unaccustomed exertion. Spendlove had seen him nod.

“I think you could sleep, My Lord,” he said, gently.

“Perhaps I could.”

He let his body sink to the hard ground. He was pillowless and uncomfortable.

“Here, My Lord,” said Spendlove.

Two hands on his shoulders eased him round, and now he was pillowed on Spendlove’s thigh. The world whirled round him for a moment. There was the whisper of a breeze; the loud debate of the pirates and their women was monotonous in pitch; the waterfall was splashing and gurgling; then he was asleep.

He awoke some time later, with Spendlove touching his shoulder.

“My Lord, My Lord.”

He lifted his head, a little surprised to find where it had been resting; it took him several seconds to recall where he was and how he had come there. Johnson and one or two other pirates were standing before him; in the background one of the women was looking on, in an attitude that conveyed the impression that she had contributed to the conclusion that had evidently been reached.

“We send you to the Governor, Lord,” said Johnson.

Hornblower blinked up at him; although the sun had moved round behind the cliff the sky above was dazzling.

“You,” said Johnson. “You go. We keep him.”

Johnson indicated Spendlove by a gesture.

“What do you mean?” asked Hornblower.

“You go to the Governor and get our pardon,” said Johnson. “You can ask him, and he will give it. He stays here. We can cut off his nose, we can dig out his eyes.”

“Good God Almighty,” said Hornblower.

Johnson, or his advisers – perhaps that woman over there were people of considerable insight after all. They had some conception of honour, of gentlemanly obligations. They had perceived something of the relationship between Hornblower and Spendlove – they may have been guided by the sight of Hornblower sleeping with his head pillowed on Spendlove’s thigh. They knew that Hornblower could never abandon Spendlove to the mercy of his captors, that he would do everything possible to obtain his freedom. Even perhaps – Hornblower’s imagination surged in a great wave over the barrier of his sleepiness – even perhaps to the extent of coming back to share Spendlove’s captivity and fate in the event of not being able to obtain the necessary pardons.

“We send you, Lord,” said Johnson.

The woman in the background said something in a loud voice.

“We send you now,” said Johnson. “Get up.”

Hornblower rose slowly; he would have taken his time in any case in an effort to preserve what dignity was left to him, but he could not have risen swiftly if he had wanted to. His joints were stiff – he could almost hear them crack as he moved. His body ached horribly.

“These two men take you,” said Johnson.

Spendlove had risen to his feet too.

“Are you all right, My Lord?” he asked, anxiously.

“Only stiff and rheumaticy,” replied Hornblower. “But what about you?”

“Oh, I’m all right, My Lord. Please don’t give another thought to me, My Lord.”

That was a very straight glance that Spendlove gave him, a glance that tried to convey a message.

“Not another thought, My Lord,” repeated Spendlove.

He was trying to tell his chief that he should be abandoned, that nothing should be done to ransom him, that he was willing to suffer whatever tortures might be inflicted on him so long as his chief came well out of the business.