CHAPTER SEVEN — THE SPANISH GALLEYS
The old Indefatigable was lying at anchor in the Bay of Cadiz at the time when Spain made peace with France. Hornblower happened to be midshipman of the watch, and it was he who called the attention of Lieutenant Chadd to the approach of the eight‑oared pinnace, with the red and yellow of Spain dropping at the stern. Chadd’s glass made out the gleam of gold on epaulette and cocked hat, and bellowed the order for sideboys and marine guard to give the traditional honours to a captain in an allied service. Pellew, hurriedly warned, was at the gangway to meet his visitor, and it was at the gangway that the entire interview took place. The Spaniard, making a low bow with his hat across his stomach, offered a sealed envelope to the Englishman.
“Here, Mr Hornblower,” said Pellew, holding the letter unopened, “speak French to this fellow. Ask him to come below for a glass of wine.”
But the Spaniard, with a further bow, declined the refreshment, and, with another bow, requested that Pellew open the letter immediately. Pellew broke the seal and read the contents, struggling with the French which he could read to a small extent although he could not speak it at all. He handed it to Hornblower.
“This means the Dagoes have made peace, doesn’t it?”
Hornblower struggled through twelve lines of compliments addressed by His Excellency the Duke of Belchite (Grandee of the First Class, with eighteen other titles ending with Captain‑General of Andalusia) to the Most Gallant Ship-Captain Sir Edward Pellew, Knight of the Bath. The second paragraph was short and contained only a brief intimation of peace. The third paragraph was as long as the first, and repeated its phraseology almost word for word in a ponderous farewell.
“That’s all, sir,” said Hornblower.
But the Spanish captain had a verbal message with which to supplement the written one.
“Please tell your captain,” he said, in his lisping Spanish-French, “that now as a neutral power, Spain must enforce her rights. You have already been at anchor here for twenty‑four hours. Six hours from now” — the Spaniard took a gold watch from his pocket and glanced at it — “if you are within range of the batteries at Puntales there they will be given orders to fire on you.”
Hornblower could only translate the brutal message without any attempt at softening it, and Pellew listened, white with anger despite his tan.
“Tell him —” he began, and then mastered his rage. “Damme if I’ll let him see he has made me angry.”
He put his hat across his stomach and bowed in as faithful an imitation of the Spaniard’s courtliness as he could manage, before he turned to Hornblower.
“Tell him I have received his message with pleasure. Tell him I much regret that circumstances are separating him from me, and that I hope I shall always enjoy his personal friendship whatever the relations between our countries. Tell him — oh, you can tell him the sort of thing I want said, can’t you, Hornblower? Let’s see him over the side with dignity. Sideboys! Bosun’s mates! Drummers!”
Hornblower poured out compliments to the best of his ability, and at every phrase the two captains exchanged bows, the Spaniard withdrawing a pace at each bow and Pellew following him up, not to be outdone in courtesy. The drums beat a ruffle, the marines presented arms, the pipes shrilled and twittered until the Spaniard’s head had descended to the level of the maindeck, when Pellew stiffened up, clapped his hat on his head, and swung round on his first lieutenant.
“Mr Eccles, I want to be under way within the hour, if you please.”
Then he stamped down below to regain his equanimity in private.
Hands were aloft loosing sail ready to sheet home, while the clank of the capstan told how other men were heaving the cable short, and Hornblower was standing on the portside gangway with Mr Wales the carpenter, looking over at the white houses of one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.
“I’ve been ashore there twice,” said Wales. “The wine’s good — vino, they calls it — if you happens to like that kind o’ muck. But don’t you ever try that brandy, Mr Hornblower. Poison, it is, rank poison. Hello! We’re going to have an escort, I see.”