And for Hornblower it was unexpectedly painful when Galbraith died. Hornblower always looked upon himself as a man content to make use of others, pleasingly devoid of human weaknesses. It was a surprise to him to find how hurt and sorry he was at Galbraith’s death, and to find his voice trembling and tears in his eyes as he read the service, and to feel a shudder of distress at the thought of what the sharks were doing to Galbraith’s body, down there below the blue surface of the Pacific. He told himself that he was being weak, and then hastened to assure himself that he was merely annoyed at the loss of a useful subordinate, but he could not convince himself. In a fury of reaction he flung himself into the business of driving his men harder in their task of refitting the Lydia, and yet now when his eyes met Lady Barbara’s on deck or across the dinner table, it was not with the complete lack of sympathy which had previously prevailed. There was a hint of understanding between them now.
Hornblower saw little enough of Lady Barbara. They dined together on some occasions, always with at least one other officer present, but for the most part he was busy with his professional duties and she with her care of the sick. They neither of them had the time, and he at least had not the superfluous energy to spare for the flirtations that those mild tropic nights should have brought in their train. And Hornblower, as soon as they entered the Gulf of Panama, had sufficient additional worries for the moment to drive away all possibility of a flirtation.
The Pearl Islands were just in view over the port bow, and the Lydia, close hauled, was heading for Panama one day’s sail ahead when the guarda-costa lugger which had encountered them before hove up over the horizon to windward. At sight of the Lydia she altered course and came running down wind towards her, while Hornblower kept steadily on his course. He was a little elated with the prospect of making even such a fever-ridden port as badly equipped as Panama, because the strain of keeping the Lydia afloat was beginning to tell on him.
The lugger hove-to a couple of cables’ lengths away, and a few minutes later the same smart officer in the brilliant uniform came clambering on to the Lydia’s deck as had boarded from her once before.
“Good morning, Captain,” he said, bowing profoundly. “I trust Your Excellency is enjoying the best of health?”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower.
The Spanish officer was looking curiously about him; the Lydia still bore many marks of her recent battle — the row of wounded in hammocks told a good part of the story. Hornblower saw that the Spaniard seemed to be on his guard, as though determined to be noncommittal at present until something unknown had revealed itself.
“I see,” said the Spaniard, “that your fine ship has been recently in action. I hope that Your Excellency had good fortune in the encounter?”
“We sank the Natividad if that is what you mean,” said Hornblower brutally.
“You sank her, Captain?”
“I did.”
“She is destroyed?”
“She is.”
The Spaniard’s expression hardened — Hornblower was led for a moment to think that it was a bitter blow to him to hear that for a second time the Spanish ship had been beaten by an English ship of half her force.
“Then, sir,” said the Spaniard, “I have a letter to give you.”
He felt in his breast pocket, but with a curious gesture of hesitation — Hornblower realised later that he must have had two letters, one in one pocket and one in another, of different import, one to be delivered if the Natividad were destroyed and the other if she were still able to do damage. The letter which he, handed over when he was quite certain which was which was not very brief, but was worded with a terseness that implied (having regard to the ornateness of the Spanish official style) absolute rudeness, as Hornblower was quick to realise when he tore open the wrapper and read the contents.