“They been torturing a pore devil up there, sir,” he said. “Lashed him to a spar and left him to die of thirst.”
“Silence!” bellowed Hornblower, beside himself with rage not merely at this breach of discipline but at realising the difficulties ahead of him. “Mr Galbraith!”
Galbraith was slow of speech and of mind.
“I don’t know how it started, sir,” he began; although he had been at sea since childhood there was still a trace of Scotch in his accent. “A party came running back from up there. They had Smith with them, wounded.”
“He’s dead now,” put in a voice.
“Silence!” roared Hornblower again.
“I saw they were going to attack us, and so I had the marines fire, sir,” went on Galbraith.
“I’ll speak to you later, Mr Galbraith,” snapped Hornblower. “You, Jenkins. And you, Poole. What were you doing up there?”
“Well, sir, it was like this, sir —” began Jenkins. He was sheepish and crestfallen now. Hornblower had pricked the bubble of his indignation and he was being publicly convicted of a breach of orders.
“You knew the order that no one was to go beyond the creek?”
“Yessir.”
“Tomorrow morning I’ll show you what orders mean, and you, too, Poole. There’s the sergeant of marines?”
“Here, sir.”
“A fine guard you keep, sergeant, to let these men get by. What were your pickets about?”
The sergeant could say nothing; he could only stand rigidly at attention in face of this incontrovertible proof of his being found wanting.
“Mr Simmonds will speak to you in the morning,” went on Hornblower. “I don’t expect you’ll keep those stripes on your arm much longer.”
Hornblower glowered round at the landing party. His fierce rebukes had them all cowed and subservient now, and he felt his anger ebbing away as he realised that he had managed this without having to say a word in extenuation of Spanish‑American justice. He turned to greet Hernandez, who had come riding up as fast as his little horse would gallop, reining up on his haunches in a shower of sand.
“Did el Supreme give orders for this attack on my men?” asked Hornblower, getting in the first broadside.
“No, Captain,” said Hernandez, and Hornblower rejoiced to see how he winced at the mention of el Supremo’s name.
“I think he will not be too pleased with you when I tell him about this,” went on Hornblower.
“Your men tried to release a man condemned to death,” said Hernandez, half sullenly, half apologetically. He was clearly not too sure of his ground, and was nervous about what would be Alvarado’s attitude towards this incident. Hornblower kept a rasp in his voice as he went on speaking. None of the Englishmen round him, as far as he knew, could speak Spanish, but he was anxious for his crew to believe (now that discipline was restored) that he was wholeheartedly on their side.
“That does not permit your men to kill mine,” he said.
“They are angry and discontented,” said Hernandez. “The whole country has been swept to find food for you. The man your men tried to save was condemned for driving his pigs into the bush to keep them from being taken and given to you.”
Hernandez made this last speech reproachfully and with a hint of anger; Hornblower was anxious to be conciliatory if that were possible without exasperating his own men. Hornblower had in mind the plan of leading Hernandez out of earshot of the Englishmen, and then softening his tone, but before he could act upon it his attention was caught by the sight of a horseman galloping down the beach at full speed, waving his wide straw hat. Every eye turned towards this new arrival — a peon of the ordinary Indian type. Breathlessly he announced his news.
“A ship — a ship coming!”
He was so excited that he lapsed into the Indian speech, and Hornblower could not understand his further explanations. Hernandez had to interpret for him.
“This man has been keeping watch on the top of the mountain up there,” he said. “He says that from there he could see the sails of a ship coming towards the bay.”