Everything happened at once, with everyone shouting at the full pitch of his lungs, seemingly. There was the crash of the collision, both boats heeling wildly as the bow of the Spanish boat rode up over the British boat but failed to overturn it. Someone fired a pistol, and the next moment the pursuing guard boat came dashing alongside, its crew leaping madly aboard them. Somebody flung himself on top of Hornblower, crushing the breath out of him and threatening to keep it out permanently with a hand on his throat. Hornblower heard Foster bellowing in protest, and a moment later his assailant released him, so that he could hear the midshipman of the guard boat apologizing for this rough treatment of a post captain of the Royal Navy. Someone unmasked the guard boat’s lantern, and by its light Foster revealed himself, bedraggled and battered. The light shone on their sullen prisoners.
“Boats ahoy!” came another hail, and yet another boat emerged from the darkness and pulled towards them.
“Cap’n Hammond, I believe!” hailed Foster, with an ominous rasp in his voice.
“Thank God!” they heard Hammond say, and the boat pulled into the faint circle of light.
“But no thanks to you,” said Foster bitterly.
“After your fire ship cleared the Santa Barbara a puff of wind took you on faster than we could keep up with you,” explained Harvey.
“We followed as fast as we could get these rock scorpions to row,” added Hammond.
“And yet it called for Spaniards to save us from drowning,” sneered Foster. The memory of his struggle in the water rankled, apparently. “I thought I could rely on two brother captains.”
“What are you implying, sir?” snapped Hammond.
“I make no implications, but others may read implications into a simple statement of fact.”
“I consider that an offensive remark, sir,” said Harvey, “addressed to me equally with Captain Hammond.”
“I congratulate you on your perspicacity, sir,” replied Foster.
“I understand,” said Harvey. “This is not a discussion we can pursue with these men present. I shall send a friend to wait on you.”
“He will be welcome.”
“Then I wish you a very good night, sir.”
“And I, too, sir,” said Hammond. “Give way there.”
The boat pulled out of the circle of light, leaving an audience open-mouthed at this strange freak of human behaviour, that a man saved first from death and then from captivity should wantonly thrust himself into peril again. Foster looked after the boat for some seconds before speaking; perhaps he was already regretting his rather hysterical outburst.
“I shall have much to do before morning,” he said, more to himself than to anyone near him, and then addressed himself to the midshipman of the guard boat, “You, sir, will take charge of these prisoners and convey me to my ship.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Is there anyone here who can speak their lingo? I would have it explained to them that I shall send them back to Cartagena under cartel, free without exchange. They saved our lives, and that is the least we can do in return.” The final explanatory sentence was addressed to Hornblower.
“I think that is just, sir.”
“And you, my fire-breathing friend. May I offer you my thanks? You did well. Should I live beyond to-morrow, I shall see that authority is informed of your actions.”
“Thank you, sir.” A question trembled on Hornblower’s lips. It called for a little resolution to thrust it out, “And my examination, sir? My certificate?”
Foster shook his head. “That particular examining board will never reassemble, I fancy. You must wait your opportunity to go before another one.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower, with despondency apparent in his tone.
“Now lookee here, Mr Hornblower,” said Foster, turning upon him. “To the best of my recollection, you were flat aback, about to lose your spars and with Dover cliffs under your lee. In one more minute you would have been failed — it was the warning gun that saved you. Is not that so?”
“I suppose it is, sir.”
“Then be thankful for small mercies. And even more thankful for big ones.”
CHAPTER NINE — NOAH’S ARK
Acting-Lieutenant Hornblower sat in the sternsheets of the longboat beside Mr Tapling of the diplomatic service, with his feet among bags of gold. About him rose the steep shores of the Gulf of Oran, and ahead of him lay the city, white in the sunshine, like a mass of blocks of marble dumped by a careless hand upon the hillsides where they rose from the water. The oar blades, as the boat’s crew pulled away rhythmically over the gentle swell, were biting into the clearest emerald green, and it was only a moment since they had left behind the bluest the Mediterranean could show.