“I shall be very happy to send you and your men to Spain as quickly as it can be arranged,” he said. “I will issue orders to-day for shipping to be collected.”
The Conde was profuse in his thanks, but Hornblower had something to add.
“There is one thing I ask in return,” he said, and the Conde’s countenance fell a little.
“What is it, sir?” he asked. The embittered suspicion resulting from years of being a victim of international double-dealing, of lies and deception and threats — from Godoy’s pitiful subterfuges to Bonaparte’s mailed-fisted bullying — showed instantly in his face.
“Your signature to a proclamation, that is all. I shall endeavour to circulate among Bonaparte’s other forced allies the news of your joining the cause of liberty, and I would like you to attest its truth.”
The Conde darted one more keen look at Hornblower before he agreed.
“I will sign it,” he said.
That immediate consent was a pretty compliment, first to Hornblower’s obvious honesty of purpose, and second to the reputation the Navy had acquired of always fulfilling its engagements.
“There is nothing more to be done, then,” said Hornblower, “save to draw up the proclamation and to find ships for your forces.”
Essen was fidgeting in his saddle beside them while this conversation was going on in Spanish; he clearly knew no word of that language and was restless in consequence — Hornblower found it gratifying, for during the past few months he had had to be an uncomprehending listener to so many conversations in Russian and German. This was some slight revenge.
“Has he told you about conditions in Bonaparte’s army?” asked Essen. “Have you heard about the hunger and the disease?”
“Not yet,” said Hornblower.
The story came out rapidly, staccato, drawn from the Conde’s lips by explosive promptings from Essen. Bonaparte’s army had been dying on its feet long before it reached Moscow; hunger and disease had thinned its ranks as Bonaparte hurried it by forced marches across the desolated plains.
“The horses are nearly all dead already. There was only green rye to give them,” said the Conde.
If the horses were dead it would be impossible to drag supplies in to the main body of the army; it would have to scatter or starve, and as long as the Russians had any sort of army in existence it would be impossible for the main body to scatter. As long as Alexander’s nerve held, as long as he maintained the struggle, there was still hope. It began to seem certain that Bonaparte’s army in Moscow had spent its strength, and the only way in which the French could bring fresh pressure upon Alexander would be by advancing upon St Petersburg with the army here before Riga. That made it more imperative still to hold on here. Hornblower felt considerable doubt as to Alexander’s constancy if he were to lose both his capitals.
The wretched Spanish infantry had been standing presenting arms during all this long conversation, and Hornblower felt uncomfortable about them. He let his attention wander to them obviously, recalling the Conde to a sense of his duty. The Conde gave an order to his staff, and the colonels repeated it; the regiments ordered arms awkwardly and then stood easy, the latter to the manner born.
“His Excellency tells me,” said the Conde, “that you have recently served in Spain, sir. What is the news of my country?”
It was not easy to give a thumbnail sketch of the complicated history of the Peninsula for the last four years, to a Spaniard who had been cut off from all news during that time. Hornblower did his best, glossing over the innumerable Spanish defeats, laying stress on the devotion and efficiency of the guerrilleros, and ending on a hopeful note as he told of Wellington’s recent capture of Madrid. The Spanish staff pressed more and more closely round him as he spoke. For four long years, ever since the Spanish people had declared their will, ceasing to be subservient allies and becoming the most bitter enemies of the Empire, Bonaparte had seen to it that these Spanish troops of his, three thousand miles from home, had received not a single word which might tell them of the real situation in Spain. They had had only the lying Imperial bulletins on which to base their vague theories. It was a strange experience to talk to these exiles; Hornblower felt a curious sensation, as if there were an actual movement inside his brain, as he remembered the conditions in which he himself had learned of the Spanish change of front. That had been on the deck of the Lydia, in the uncharted tropical Pacific. For a few seconds his brain was a battleground of memories. The blue and gold of the Pacific, the heat and the storms and the fighting there, el Supremo and the Governor of Panama — he had to tear himself away from them to bring himself back to this parade ground on the shores of the Baltic.