I pray nightly for you.
Ever your devoted friend,
Katharine Cobham.”
Comfort in his affliction? A little, perhaps. There was some comfort in knowing that the despatches had been delivered; there was some comfort in a second‑hand report that Their Lordships were pleased with him. There was comfort even in knowing that the duchess was re‑established on the stage. But the sum total was nothing compared with his misery.
Here was a guard come to bring him to the commandant and beside the commandant was the Irish renegade who served as interpreter. There were further papers on the commandant’s desk — it looked as if the same cartel which had brought in Kitty Cobham’s note had brought in letters for the commandant.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the commandant, always polite offering a chair.
“Good afternoon, sir, and many thanks,” said Hornblower. He was learning Spanish slowly and painfully.
“You have been Promoted,” said the Irishman in English
“W‑what?” said Hornblower.
“Promoted,” said the Irishman. “Here is the letter — ‘The Spanish authorities are informed that on account of his meritorious service the acting‑commission of Mr Horatio Hornblower, midshipman and acting‑lieutenant, has been confirmed. Their Lordships of the Admiralty express their confidence that Mr Horatio Hornblower will be admitted immediately to the privileges of commissioned rank.’ There you are, young man.”
“My felicitations, sir,” said the commandant.
“Many thanks, sir,” said Hornblower.
The commandant was a kindly old gentleman with a pleasant smile for the awkward young man. He went on to say more, but Hornblower’s Spanish was not equal to the technicalities he used, and Hornblower in despair looked at the interpreter.
“Now that you are a commissioned officer,” said the latter, “you will be transferred to the quarters for captured officers.”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower.
“You will receive the half pay of your rank.”
‘Thank you.’
“And your parole will be accepted. You will be at liberty to visit in the town and the neighbourhood for two hours each day on giving your parole.”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower.
Perhaps, during the long months which followed, it was some mitigation of his unhappiness that for two hours each day his parole gave him freedom; freedom to wander in the streets of the little town, to have a cup of chocolate or a glass of wine — providing he had any money — making polite and laborious conversation with Spanish soldiers or sailors or civilians. But it was better to spend his two hours wandering over the goat paths of the headland in the wind and the sun, in the companionship of the sea, which might alleviate the sick misery of captivity. There was slightly better food, slightly better quarters. And there was the knowledge that now he was a lieutenant, that he held the King’s commission, that if ever, ever, the war should end and he should be set free he could starve on half pay — for with the end of the war there would be no employment for junior lieutenants. But he had earned his promotion. He had gained the approval of authority, that was something to think about on his solitary walks.
There came a day of south‑westerly gales, with the wind shrieking in from across the Atlantic. Across three thousand miles of water it came, building up its strength unimpeded on its way, and heaping up the sea into racing mountain ridges which came crashing in upon the Spanish coast in thunder and spray. Hornblower stood on the headland above Ferrol harbour, holding his worn greatcoat about him as he leaned forward into the wind to keep his footing. So powerful was the wind that it was difficult to breathe while facing it. If he turned his back he could breathe more easily, but then the wind blew his wild hair forward over his eyes, almost inverted his greatcoat over his head, and furthermore forced him into little tottering steps down the slope towards Ferrol, whither he had no wish to return at present. For two hours he was alone and free, and those two hours were precious. He could breathe the Atlantic air, he could walk, he could do as he liked during that time. He could stare out to sea; it was not unusual to catch sight, from the headland, of some British ship of war which might be working slowly along the coast in the hope of snapping up a coasting vessel while keeping a watchful eye upon the Spanish naval activity. When such a ship went by during Hornblower’s two hours of freedom, he would stand and gaze at it, as a man dying of thirst might gaze at a bucket of water held beyond his reach; he would note all the little details, the cut of the topsails and the style of the paint, while misery wrung his bowels. For this was the end of his second year as a prisoner of war. For twenty‑two months, for twenty‑two hours every day, he had been under lock and key, herded with five other junior lieutenants in a single room in the fortress of Ferrol. And today the wind roared by him, shouting in its outrageous freedom. He was facing into the wind; before him lay Corunna, its white houses resembling pieces of sugar scattered over the slopes. Between him and Corunna was all the open space of Corunna Bay, flogged white by the wind, and on his left hand was the narrow entrance to Ferrol Bay. On his right was the open Atlantic; from the foot of the low cliffs there the long wicked reef of the Dientes del Diablo — the Devil’s Teeth — ran out to the northward, square across the path of the racing rollers driven by the wind. At half‑minute intervals the rollers would crash against the reef with an impact that shook even the solid headland on which Hornblower stood, and each roller dissolved into spray which was instantly whirled away by the wind to reveal again the long black tusks of the rocks.