“Baron Basse,” he said.
Hornblower bowed.
“Captain Sir Horatio Hornblower, Commodore commanding this squadron.”
Basse was a heavily jowled man with a big hook-nose and a cold grey eye; and it was obvious that he could only guess faintly at what Hornblower said.
“You fight?” he asked, with an effort.
“I am in pursuit of a privateer under French colours,” said Hornblower, and then, realizing the difficulty of making himself understood when he had to pick his words with diplomatic care: “Here, where’s Mr Braun?”
The interpreter came forward with a brief explanation of himself in Swedish, and Hornblower watched the interplay of glances between the two. They were clearly the deadliest political enemies, meeting here on the comparatively neutral ground of a British man-o’-war. Basse brought out a letter from his breast pocket and passed it to Braun, who glanced at it and handed it to Hornblower.
“That is a letter from the Governor-General of Swedish Pomerania,” he explained, “saying that this gentleman, the Baron Basse, has his full confidence.”
“I understand,” said Hornblower.
Basse was already talking rapidly to Braun.
“He says,” explained Braun, “that he wants to know what you will do.”
“Tell him,” said Hornblower, “that that depends on what the Swedes do. Ask him if Sweden is neutral.”
Obviously the reply was not a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Basse offered a lengthy explanation.
“He says that Sweden only wants to be at peace with all the world,” said Braun.
“Tell him that that means neutrality, then, and neutrality has obligations as well as privileges. There is a ship-of-war under French colours there. She must be warned that her presence in Swedish waters can only be tolerated for a limited time, and I must be informed of what the time-limit is.”
Basse’s heavy face showed considerable embarrassment at Braun’s translation of Hornblower’s demand. He worked his hands violently as he made his reply.
“He says he cannot violate the laws of international amity,” said Braun.
“Say that that is exactly what he is doing. That ship cannot be allowed to use a Swedish port as a base of operations. She must be warned to leave, and if she will not, then she must be taken over and a guard put in her to make sure she does not slip away.”
Basse positively wrung his hands as Braun spoke to him, but any reply he was going to make was cut short by Bush’s salute to Hornblower.
“The French flag of truce is alongside, sir. Shall I allow them to send someone on board?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hornblower testily.
The new figure that came in through the entry-port was even more decorative than Basse, although a much smaller man.
Across his blue coat lay the watered red silk ribbon of the Legion of Honour, and its star glittered on his breast. He, too, swept off his hat in an elaborate bow.
“The Count Joseph Dumoulin,” he said, speaking French, “Consul-General in Swedish Pomerania of His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Republic.”
“Captain Hornblower,” said Hornblower. He was suddenly excessively cautious, because his government had never recognized those resounding titles which Dumoulin had just reeled off. In the eyes of King George and his ministers, Napoleon, Emperor of the French, was merely General Bonaparte in his personal capacity, and Chief of the French Government in his official one. More than once British officers had found themselves in serious trouble for putting their names to documents — cartels and the like — which bore even incidental references to the Empire.
“Is there anyone who can speak French?” asked Dumoulin politely, “I regret bitterly my complete inability to speak English.”
“You can address yourself to me, sir,” said Hornblower, “and I should be glad of an explanation of your presence in this ship.”
“You speak admirable French, sir,” said Dumoulin. “Ah, of course, I remember. You are the Captain Hornblower who made the sensational escape from France a year ago. It is a great pleasure to meet a gentleman of such renown.”
He bowed again. It gave Hornblower a queer self-conscious pleasure to find that his reputation had preceded him even into this obscure corner of the Baltic, but it irritated him at the same time, as having nothing to do with the urgent matter in hand.