Hornblower reached for the main-chains and swung himself up into them; a seaman raised the boarding-nettings so that he could struggle under them to the deck.
“Kindly tell your boat to sheer off, Commodore. We’re taking no risks,” said a voice.
It was a white-haired old man who addressed him, the telescope under his arm marking him out as officer of the watch. White hair fluttered about his ears; sharp blue eyes in a wrinkled face looked at Hornblower from under white brows. The only thing in the least bizarre about his appearance was a pistol stuck in his belt. Hornblower turned and gave the required order.
“And now may I ask your business here, Commodore?” asked the old man.
“I wish to speak to the leader of the mutineers.”
“I am captain of this ship. You can address yourself to me, Nathaniel Sweet, sir.”
“I have addressed myself to you as far as I desire, unless you are also the leader of the mutineers.”
“Then if you have done so, you can call back your boat and leave us, sir.”
An impasse already. Hornblower kept his eyes on the blue ones of the old man. There were several other men within earshot, but he could sense no wavering or doubt among them; they were prepared to support their captain. Yet it might be worth while speaking to them.
“Men!” said Hornblower, raising his voice.
“Belay that!” rapped out the old man. He whipped the pistol out of his belt and pointed it at Hornblower’s stomach. “One more word out of turn and you’ll get an ounce of lead through you.”
Hornblower looked steadily back at him and his weapon; he was curiously unafraid, feeling as if he were watching move and counter-move in some chess game, without remembering that he himself was one of the pawns in it with his life at stake.
“Kill me,” he said with a grim smile, “and England won’t rest until you’re swinging on a gallows.”
“England has sent you here to swing me on a gallows as it is,” said Sweet, bleakly.
“No,” said Hornblower. “I am here to recall you to your duty to King and Country.”
“Letting bygones be bygones?”
“You will have to stand a fair trial, you and your confederates.”
“That means the gallows, as I said,” replied Sweet. “The gallows for me, and I should be fortunate compared with some of these others.”
“A fair and honest trial,” said Hornblower, “with every mitigating circumstance taken into consideration.”
“The only trial I would attend,” replied the old man, “would be to bear witness against Chadwick. Full pardon for us — a fair trial for Chadwick. Those are our terms, sir.”
“You are foolish,” said Hornblower. “You are throwing away your last chance. Surrender now, with Mr. Chadwick unbound and the ship in good order, and those circumstances will weigh heavily in your favour at your trial. Refuse, and what have you to look for? Death. That is all. Death. What can save you from our country’s vengeance? Nothing.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but Boney can,” interposed the old man, dryly.
“You trust Bonaparte’s word?” said Hornblower, rallying desperately before this unexpected counter-attack. “He’d like to have this ship, no doubt. But you and your gang? Bonaparte won’t encourage mutiny — his power rests too much on his own army. He’ll hand you back for us to make an example of you.”
It was a wild shot in the dark, and it missed its bull’s-eye by an unmeasurable distance. Sweet stuck his pistol back into his belt and produced three letters from his pocket, waving them tauntingly in front of Hornblower.
“Here’s a letter from the Military Governor of Harbour-Grace,” he said. “That only promises us welcome. And here’s a letter from the Prefect of the Department of the Inferior Seine. That promises us provisions and water should we need them. And here’s a letter from Paris, sent down to us by post. It promises us immunity from arrest, civil rights in France, and a pension for every man from the age of sixty. That is signed ‘Marie Louise, Empress, Queen, and Regent’. Boney won’t go back on his wife’s word, sir.”