Lieutenant Hornblower. C. S. Forester

“Send it round in the launch, sir, with tackle and cables, near to where we landed yesterday. The cliff’s steep there. And there are big trees to attach the cables to. We could sway the gun up easy enough. Those nine‑pounders only weigh a ton.”

“I know that,” said Buckland, sharply.

It was one thing to make unexpected suggestions, but it was quite another to tell a veteran officer facts with which he was well acquainted.

“Yes, of course, sir. But with a nine‑pounder at the top of the cliff it wouldn’t be so difficult to move it across the neck of land until we had the upper bay under our fire. We wouldn’t have to cross any gullies. Half a mile — uphill, but not too steep, sir — and it would be done.”

“And what d’you think would happen then?”

“We’d have those ships under fire, sir. Only a nine‑pounder, I know, but they’re not built to take punishment. We could batter ’em into wrecks in twelve hours’ steady fire. Less than that, perhaps. An’ I suppose we could heat the shot if we wanted to, but we wouldn’t have to. All we’d have to do would be to open fire, I think, sir.”

“Why?”

“The Dons wouldn’t risk those ships, sir. Ortega spoke very big about making an alliance with the blacks, but that was only talking big, sir. Give the blacks a chance an’ they’ll cut every white throat they can. An’ I don’t blame ’em — excuse me, sir.”

“Well?”

“Those ships are the Dons’ only way of escape. If they see they’re going to be destroyed they’ll be frightened. It would mean surrendering to the blacks — that or being killed to the last man. And woman, sir. They’d rather surrender to us.”

“So they would, by jingo,” said Bush.

“They’d climb down, d’ye think?”

“Yes — I mean I think so, sir. You could name your own terms, then. Unconditional surrender for the soldiers.”

“It’s what we said at the start,” said Bush. “They’d rather surrender to us than to the blacks, if they have to.”

“You could allow some conditions to salve their pride, sir,” said Hornblower. “Agree that the women are to be conveyed to Cuba or Puerto Rico if they wish. But nothing important. Those ships would be our prizes, sir.”

“Prizes, by George!” said Buckland.

Prizes meant prize money, and as commanding officer he would have the lion’s share of it. Not only that — and perhaps the money was the smallest consideration — but prizes escorted triumphantly into port were much more impressive than ships sunk out of sight of the eyes of authority. And unconditional surrender had a ring of finality about it, proof that the victory gained could not be more complete.

“What do you say, Mr Bush?” asked Buckland.

“I think it might be worth trying, sir,” said Bush.

He was fatalistic now about Hornblower. Exasperation over his activity and ingenuity had died of surfeit. There was something of resignation about Bush’s attitude, but there was something of admiration too. Bush was a generous soul, and there was not a mean motive in him. Hornblower’s careful handling of his superior had not been lost on him, and Bush was decently envious of the tact that had been necessary. Bush realistically admitted to himself that even though he had fretted at the prospect of agreeing to Ortega’s terms he had not been able to think of a way to modify them, while Hornblower had. Hornblower was a very brilliant young officer, Bush decided; he himself made no presence at brilliance, and now he had taken the last step and had overcome his suspicions of brilliance. He made himself abandon his caution and commit himself to a definite opinion.

“I think Mr Hornblower deserves every credit,” he said.

“Of course,” said Buckland — but the slight hint of surprise in his voice seemed to indicate that he did not really believe it; and he changed the subject without pursuing it further. “We’ll start tomorrow — I’ll get both launches out as soon as the hands’ve had breakfast. By noon — now what’s the matter with you, Mr Hornblower?”