*The Crisis*

Author’s Note:

This is a loose reinterpretation of Forester’s unfinished novel ‘Hornblower at the Crisis’. I’ve tried to keep direct overlap with Forester to a minimum and to avoid using his phrasing as much as possible. Since Forester spent more time on the preliminaries, and got no further than Hornblower’s acceptance of the mission, most of the plot developments are my own. Naturally the Hornblower characters still belong to C S Forester’s estate and not to me

I’ve taken a few historical liberties, but I think Forester would have had to do that too in order to make the story work. It’s intended to open a few months after the end of ‘Duty’.

* * *

One

“Captain Hornblower!”

Horatio Hornblower turned and his face flashed open in surprise and welcome. “Archie!”

The two men clasped hands with the warmth of friends who had seen too little of each other recently. “I read of your promotion to post-captain in the Gazette,” Kennedy said. “I must be a long way from the first to offer my congratulations, but you have them.”

“They may be premature,” Hornblower said, as stolidly as he was able. “The Admiralty have not confirmed my promotion yet.”

“They’ve not given you a ship? Where have you been then?”

“I was given temporary command of a troop transport, voyaging to the Mediterranean.” An obvious delaying tactic by the Admiralty, although he was not going to say so, not even to Kennedy. “And you, Archie?” Kennedy had a cloak on over his uniform, there was a cold wind blowing through the Portsmouth streets, but there had been a trace of constraint when he congratulated his friend.

“Still lieutenant.” His tone, like Hornblower’s, was carefully controlled.

“They gave the Greyhound to someone else?”

“They haven’t given her to anyone yet. When full repairs were started it was discovered much of the bottom was wormeaten. She’ll be laid up for another three months or so. Meanwhile, the Admiralty dithers. And the longer they delay the more people will remember a nephew or a cousin or an old friend’s son in need of a command. Probably the only reason it hasn’t happened already is that Greyhound is no great prize.”

With anyone else Hornblower would have said something to check such talk about the Admiralty, but he could not do that with Archie. Nor could he, in honesty, deny the words.

“Then it seems we are both in the same position,” he said, and at once wondered if the words had been wise. They were not strictly true, for he was still a rank above Kennedy and that was a subject he wished to avoid. The estrangement that had followed his promotion – or more accurately the revelation that his closest friend did not wish to serve under his command – had been set aside rather than resolved.

“I don’t think you need worry.” Was there a slight stress on the ‘you’? “They won’t deny an admiral’s recommendation, they’re just dragging their heels. At worst you’ll be fobbed off with some old tub no-one else would want, and” – he smiled – “I’m sure you could make a decent fighting vessel out of a hen-coop.”

Hornblower wanted to reply in kind, the best he could come up with was a slightly awkward “I expect they’ll confirm you. They should.”

Kennedy looked sceptical, but refrained from making any of the obvious answers. Instead he said, “If you’re at a loose end too, perhaps we could find somewhere to have a drink and discuss the state of the war.”

Hornblower shook his head. “I’m sorry, Archie, I’m on my way to see the port admiral. And I may have to go on to London then. I haven’t even been to see my wife.”

“Oh?” Kennedy looked curious, but knew better than to ask questions. “Then I mustn’t delay you. Here.” He pulled out his pocket book and quickly scribbled a couple of lines. “My direction, if you do end up back here for any length of time.”

“Thank you.” Hornblower pushed the torn paper into a pocket, clasped Kennedy’s hand again, and hurried on. He wished briefly he had more time but that could not be helped. Such hasty meetings and partings were the penalty of naval life.

Two

Hornblower had never liked coach travel. A post-chaise paid for by the Navy was at least an improvement on the stage; he still had vivid memories of his journey to join HMS Justinian, crammed between a fat man with foul breath and a woman with a sharp-edged basket. Still the jolting jarred his bones and curdled his stomach, he had never actually been sick on a coach but it felt like a close thing. Sleep was impossible. A message sent by a handy boy had allowed him a brief, public meeting with Maria before joining the chaise, and her strained bravery had done nothing to improve his mood. Reaching London he allowed himself time to hire a room where he could wash and change his clothes, before he set out to present his dispatches to the Admiralty. It hardly freshened him, but at least improved his appearance

He had never visited the London Admiralty before. The closest he had come was a decade back, when he had journeyed to London with Captain Pellew before the Muzillac campaign, but had not actually accompanied him to receive his orders. Much had changed since then and not just himself, although he had difficulty understanding how he could have been quite so naive as to think victory a foregone conclusion. The war had changed also, this fight was no mere continuation of the last. The declaration of war in 1793 had been from outrage at the excesses of the revolution, and not a little fear that it would spread, the fighting had dragged on from mere habit long after the original cause had passed, and peace had been brought about by a general feeling that further war was pointless. The renewal of fighting a year later had been no unfounded turnaround or whim of the politicians, rather a realisation that Bonaparte would not, as many had thought, be content with what he had gained, there was no limit to the man’s ambition. The end of the peace had been accompanied by the public proclamation, no less than a speech made by the king in parliament, that Britain was under threat of invasion. Hornblower knew as well as anyone that this had not been scaremongering. Bonaparte would come if he could, but to come he had to cross the channel and the British Navy still blocked his way. The battle now was for survival, no less.

Yet even as he entered the handsome stone building, even as he requested to see the Secretary, with the credentials of the port admiral’s letter to back the request, there was in his mind the thought that this might provide a chance for him to bring himself to the Admiralty’s attention, get his promotion confirmed at last. Was it a good or bad thing that St. Vincent was no longer First Lord of the Admiralty? The old admiral was famously a believer in promotion by merit, but equally famously implacable faced with even the whiff of insubordination; he would not look kindly on the Renown affair if it had come to his ears. Perhaps irrelevant anyway, it was not the First Lord he would deal with today, but the Secretary to the Lords of the Admiralty, a man he knew only because his was the name to whom all dispatches were addressed. The Honourable William Wellesley-Pole.

Wellesley-Pole was a man in his early forties with a long face and keen eyes. His handsome desk was neatly stacked with papers, and his manners were punctilious. “Captain Hornblower, good morning.”

“Commander Hornblower,” Hornblower corrected. A commander in charge of a ship was entitled to be styled captain, but at present he had no ship.

Wellesley-Pole frowned. “I remember reading Admiral Pellew’s recommendation for your promotion. Not confirmed yet? There are never as many ships as officers to man them, it seems.” To Hornblower’s disappointment he made no further comment, merely motioned him to a chair and read the letter from the port admiral carefully.

“It says here that the Guepe attacked your ship, not the other way around?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Still, the captain could not have known that you carried troops and he would therefore be at a great disadvantage in a boarding action. And he was killed outright in the fighting?”

“Yes, sir.” Lt Bush had almost beheaded the man, but why was that relevant? Of course, the Secretary wanted to be sure the captured dispatches were genuine and not a deliberate deception by the French.

Wellesley-Pole called a clerk over from the far side of the room. “Get these open without breaking the seal.” He turned back to Hornblower with words of polite dismissal patently on his lips, but before he could say them an inner door opened and another, slightly younger, man came in.

“A report’s just come in,” he said, the news so urgent he seemed not to notice Hornblower’s presence. “Villeneuve’s in El Ferrol.”

Wellesley-Pole’s expression taughtened. “Ferrol? Well, that’s better than if he had headed for Brest. But there was a squadron in harbour at El Ferrol, wasn’t there? He’ll have added that to his fleet.”

“Undoubtedly.”

There was a grim silence, then Wellesley-Pole seemed to remember Hornblower’s presence. As he turned back to his visitor, Hornblower took a chance and asked, “Calder missed Villeneuve, then?”

He knew the situation well enough. Villeneuve, with twenty ships of the line, had been on the loose since the spring. When last heard of he had been in the Indies. Admiral Calder had been posted off Finisterre to intercept him should he attempt to make for northern Europe. If he should reach the channel the ships would be invaluable to Bonaparte in any attempt to force a crossing, especially with Nelson’s fleet, which had been in pursuit of Villeneuve, still not back from the Indies.

Wellesley-Pole’s eyes seemed to weigh him for a moment. Then the Secretary answered, “Calder met Villeneuve and took a couple of prizes, but the weather was murky and the bulk of the fleet escaped. It will be in the papers soon enough.” He did not have to add that a public accustomed to naval victories would most likely regard the escape as shameful.

“And Ferrol’s a tricky place to invest,” Hornblower mused.

Wellesley-Pole’s expression sharpened. “Are you familiar with the place, Commander?”

“I was a prisoner there for some months a few years back,” Hornblower realised that the Secretary was not asking out of curiosity, but from a desire for information. Drawing a long breath he launched into an account of the peculiarities of El Ferrol, memorised so thoroughly during his captivity. The Secretary listened attentively, and appeared to follow.

“You seem to have used your time as a prisoner well, Commander,” he said at the end.

Hornblower had not yet mastered the art of accepting compliments. “I did manage to acquire some Spanish,” he said awkwardly.

What Wellesley-Pole would have replied to that he would never know; for whilst he had been speaking earlier the clerk whom Wellesley-Pole had dispatched had returned and handed the opened dispatches to the younger civil servant, who seemed to have been struck by something in the contents.

“Look at this,” he said, passing the dispatches to his superior. “He’s changed his signature. ‘Napoleon’, not ‘Bonaparte’. The seal is new as well.”

“The mark of the new Empire.” Wellesley-Pole commented dryly. “Are the contents of interest?”

“Not great interest, unfortunately. It confirms there will be no reinforcements to Martinique, no more. You’ll notice he’s not adopted the imperial style yet, still ‘I’, not ‘We’.”

While the man was speaking an idea had come into Hornblower’s head. It was fantastic, it might well be unworkable, yet he summoned his nerve to voice it.

“Excuse me, sirs, but am I right in thinking that it would be of great advantage if Villeneuve were to sail from Ferrol to some port further south that can be invested more easily? Cadiz, for instance?”

“It would,” Wellesley-Pole said, with a touch of impatience, “But unless he conveniently goes mad I see little chance of it.”

“If he were to receive an order from Bonaparte, or apparently from Bonaparte.” Hornblower was speaking quickly in his eagerness, and also to give himself no chance to feel embarrassed. “With this as a model – I presume Bonaparte will send dispatches overland, through Spain. If a courier could be intercepted.…”

“Land a party secretly – yes, it could work. We would have to act fast of course.” Wellesley-Pole seemed to be taking to the idea. “Too risky to send men in uniform, the party would have to fit in, pose as Spaniards, some members at least.” He paused, apparently for consideration, and the other man put in,

“That South American firebrand, Miranda, he could be of use.”

“Yes, he might serve. And there are enough French royalists around who could act as substitute couriers. But there would need to be a naval man in charge. One who knows Spanish, and the area. Do you speak French, Commander?”

“Yes sir.” Hornblower realised what he had really been asked, and found he did not know what to say.

“I will not order a man on such a mission as this,” Wellesley-Pole said quietly. “You must know the penalty if the party is caught. But consider: Bonaparte needs only six hours to command the channel. Villeneuve could give them to him, especially if he escapes before Nelson can join with Calder and Cornwallis. Delay, even a brief delay, would be invaluable. Bonaparte grows tired of waiting for his navy to clear a passage, just a few more weeks could convince him to turn his forces elsewhere.”

Hornblower felt cold, but there was only one answer he could give. “I’ll do it.”

A pause, then Wellesley-Pole inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Captain Hornblower.” The rank was not a mistake, Hornblower had just been guaranteed a ship. If he survived.

“It might be wise to include a second naval officer,” the younger civil servant put in. The Secretary nodded.

“Can you recommend a man, Captain? One who can be here quickly.”

The answer seemed so inevitable it left his mouth before he was fully aware. “Lt Kennedy. He knows Ferrol as well as I or better, and he has both French and Spanish. He’s at Portsmouth, was recommended for command of a brig but has not had confirmation yet.”

“If he agrees, he can consider himself confirmed,” Wellesley-Pole said crisply. “Do you know where he can be reached? It would save time.” For a moment Hornblower was not sure what he had done with the scribbled note, but fortunately it was in his pocket-book.

“We will need the outline of a plan by tomorrow,” Wellesley-Pole told him. “Confer with Mr Barrow.” He indicated the younger man. “Any resources we have are at your disposal.” With that the interview was at an end. The sequence of events had been so fast Hornblower could barely understand they had happened at all. He was confirmed in his new captain’s rank, but he had just committed himself, and his oldest friend if he agreed, to a murky and extraordinarily dangerous mission. All in the space of less than an hour. He was used to events moving fast in battle, but such rapidity ashore left him feeling quite stunned. Yet he had to master himself, for the day was far from over. Drawing in a long breath, he followed Barrow from the room.

Three

Kennedy looked almost as frazzled as he himself had felt the day before. Hornblower was secretly a little pleased by that, not wanting to think of his own exhaustion as weakness. He was pleased also that the Admiralty civil servants had left it to him to do the explaining. Well trained by the Navy, he managed to outline the case in as few words as possible. Kennedy, no less a professional, listened intently despite his weariness. Apart from a soundless whistle when Hornblower first described the nature of the plan, he made no comment.

“Will you do it?” Hornblower said at the end.

“Yes.”

Hornblower felt a spontaneous smile break out. “Thank you, Commander.”

As he had done Kennedy got the point at once, unlike Hornblower his first response was indignant. “Why, you… would you have told me if I’d said no?”

“Of course I would. But I hoped, very much, you’d say yes.” Quite why it had mattered he was not really sure, but it had. Kennedy gave him a fulminating look, then let it go.

“So what else do I need to know?”

“There’s a man called de Miranda is going to act as front to the mission. I haven’t met him yet, but I understand he’s from South America and a campaigner for South American independence from Spain. That means he’s on our side, or has been since Spain’s alliance with France. He’s had some support from the British government, it seems, and hopes for more. And he knows Spain. The idea is that he should pose as a Spanish nobleman showing the country to French guests. There are going to be two Frenchmen with the mission, the Admiralty is responsible for finding those. They are also going to produce the false dispatches, I didn’t ask how.”

“Probably better not.” Kennedy grinned. “Just as long as they’re not expecting you or me to develop forger’s skills.”

“The first thing we need to do is decide on a landing place. I’ve got some maps and have been listing possibles. Mr Barrow has promised all the information that can be got from the Admiralty files. It needs to be somewhere in the north, somewhere it’s possible to make a landing undisturbed, but also to get to a good road reasonably fast.”

“We’d need to hire or buy horses, maybe a carriage. I assume it would be too tricky to bring them with us.”

“Oh. Yes.” Hornblower cursed himself inwardly. “Add near to a settlement large enough to hire transport. I should have thought of that.”

“You’ve spent too much time at sea, Horatio. You forget ship’s boats are no help on land.”

Hornblower felt himself smile, and did not notice how the sting of self-reproach had disappeared.

“Do we know the courier route?” Kennedy asked.

“No. The Admiralty may have some information, but if not we’ll just have to deduce the most likely routes and try to find out when we get there. Something else to check on the maps.”

They were completely absorbed in the maps when Barrow came in about an hour later. They had planned like this sometimes on Indefatigable, where Pellew believed in encouraging his juniors to learn, and just one time aboard Renown. Some corner of Hornblower’s mind was vaguely registering that this was quite different from making plans with William Bush. There there was always the awareness of rank on both sides, Bush careful not to speak out of turn, he conscious of the need to maintain captain’s authority. But Archie was different, and this situation was far enough out of the ordinary for rank to seem less important than it ever did on Hotspur.

With Barrow was a man of about fifty-five, who had a high forehead and iron-grey hair. Hornblower knew this had to be General de Miranda before the introductions were performed. As deep-set, dark eyes scanned both the younger men he was aware of a certain, slightly unpleasant, sense of surprise. He had not expected Miranda to be a man of personality so forceful it seemed to fill the small room, even though he had uttered no more than formal pleasantries.

“Have you a plan prepared?” Barrow asked, apparently taking Kennedy’s consent for granted from his presence.

“We’ve chosen a potential landing site, and two back-ups,” Hornblower was glad to report. “And identified the most likely seeming courier routes.”

“I should look at those,” Miranda said, politely enough but in a tone which plainly expected no argument. Hornblower silently stood back to let him see, Miranda appeared to absorb the map and accompanying notes quickly. “Yes. Yes. I will need to study these more closely, however.”

“You will have to find time for that when you can,” Barrow said. “There is none to waste. I need to show the preliminary plans to Lord Barham and get his approval.” Hornblower, who had already had a brief meeting with the First Lord of the Admiralty the previous night (of which he remembered little except for the struggle to control his fatigue), was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he was not to be included this time.

As the door closed behind Barrow, Miranda said, in the same polite but decided tone, “I understand both you gentlemen speak some Spanish.”

“Yes.” Hornblower stopped himself from adding ‘sir’. “Also French.”

“I need to know how much before we go any further.” There followed a volley of Spanish which both officers had difficulty keeping up with, although Kennedy fared a little better than Hornblower. It was much the same story when Miranda switched to French, although both were somewhat stronger there. Although he knew perfectly well that Kennedy’s superior skill in both languages was solely the product of his far from enviable time as a prisoner, Hornblower was quite annoyed with himself for not doing better.

At the end of a thoroughly exhausting half-hour Miranda said firmly, “We would be ill-advised to attempt to pass either of you off as Spanish or French. You, Captain, have a reasonable command of the languages, which may be improved, but also one of the worst accents I have encountered.” Hornblower suppressed a retort, he knew very well he had no ear for accents, but that did not make the condemnation easier to hear. “You,” Miranda was addressing Kennedy now, “have a better ear, but not good enough to deflect the suspicion that your appearance would arouse.” Kennedy looked unsure how to take this, but he had to know it was true. Years of service in warm waters had left his hair bleached almost to silver, and his light blue eyes stood out vividly against a deep tan, it would be hard to imagine anyone less likely to blend in in Spain. “It will be best,” Miranda went on, “if we pass both off you off as belonging to some other continental nation. I propose Holland. There are Dutch in many places and the accent is very like the English one.”

“Do I need to point out that neither of us speaks Dutch?” Kennedy asked wryly.

“As long as we encounter no genuine Dutchmen that will not be a problem. It is not a widely spoken tongue. I will be taking a valet and secretary as part of the necessary entourage, I suggest you two gentlemen travel as my grooms. That way you are unlikely to attract much attention. Do you know anything about caring for horses?”

“Yes,” both replied, almost together. “That sounds to be an acceptable plan,” Hornblower added, rather more abruptly than he had intended. The Secretary had made it clear that he was in command of this mission, but Miranda seemed to be taking charge regardless and he was more than a little annoyed by this rapid stream of decisions.

Miranda also seemed to be impervious to hints. “Then, if that is settled, shall we examine the maps again?” It was phrased as a question but not intended as one. Hornblower felt his hackles rising further.

“General de Miranda, this is a British Naval mission.”

“Of course,” Miranda replied absently, with no indication he had taken the point, although Kennedy’s swift glance at Hornblower showed that he had. Knowing of no way to press the issue without a bluntness that was likely to alienate Miranda, Hornblower could only let it go, for the time being.

Four

My dear Maria,

I am writing to tell you that the Admiralty have some new employment for me. I regret that I am not at liberty to give details but it will be some time before I can visit you or even write to you again. Naturally I am very sorry for this, and also that our last meeting in Portsmouth had to be so brief. Please do not worry if much time should pass before you next have word from me. I trust that you are well and that our son continues to flourish. Please convey my regards to your mother.

yr affct husband,

Horatio Hornblower

They had managed to arrive at a plan that satisfied all, not fully refined yet, but good enough that the final details could be worked out whilst aboard ship. Barrow had assured the other men that he had secured the services of two French loyalists and of a fast schooner to be waiting at Dover tomorrow. It was as much as could be reasonably done that day.

Hornblower had written to Maria. Writing to his wife never came easily, and here he was further handicapped by an inability to tell her what he was really doing. Reading the single page over he knew it was a cold and formal letter, but he knew too it was not in his power to alter it, even though it might be the last time she would ever hear from him.

If he died, then no doubt she would never know the truth. The government would never admit to an unsuccessful spying mission. Wellesley-Pole or another would come up with some convenient lie. At least they would no doubt do so once they were sure he was dead, who could say how long that would take? Still, Maria would not know him for a spy, and he was glad of that if nothing else. His affairs were in order, not that there was very much to order. She would get a pension – he must remember to ask for a guarantee it would be the full pension for a post-captain. She might even remarry. The thought was unexpectedly painful, as was the thought of the small Horatio growing up without ever knowing him. Bleakly he reflected that it might not make much difference to the boy, for he severely doubted his own ability to prove a good father. He wanted to be one, but he had little idea of how to set about it.

He was about to become a spy. To go into enemy territory with the intention to deceive. To betray the principles of truth he had always tried to honour. To become a thing which all fighting men despised. His own idea. And not content with committing himself he had drawn in his oldest friend, exposed him to the chance of a shameful death. He told himself not to be patronising, Archie Kennedy was an adult and by no means a fool. He had been at liberty to say no. Yet still the whole thing was his scheme, his responsibility. With some difficulty Hornblower shook free of the bleak thoughts, telling himself this was no mood to take to the last leisurely dinner he might ever eat.

~~#~~

“I propose,” Kennedy said, “we talk about anything except what we’re about to embark on.” It had been his insistence that they should have a proper dinner together, when Hornblower would have been content to simply snatch some food and get some sleep. Kennedy had argued that rest was not essential, this was not like going into battle. They would do better to get some relaxation.

Surprisingly Hornblower found he was indeed able to relax and put the doubts out of his mind. He’d missed this, it seemed he had not realised until now how much he had missed it. William Bush was a good man, a good friend and a very good first lieutenant, but Archie Kennedy was still the only person with whom he felt completely at ease.

They talked at first about the Navy, not about the progress of the war but exchanges of news about mutual acquaintances and pieces of gossip about their superiors. Kennedy supplied most of the latter, along with an irreverent commentary that had Hornblower one-third shocked and two-thirds highly amused. As the wine sank lower they moved, as they usually had in the past, onto literature. Kennedy had long since won the battle to convince Hornblower it was not a dereliction of duty to broaden his reading beyond sailing manuals and mathematical texts, but their preferences were dissimilar enough to make for some stimulating exchanges. Hornblower preferred classical styles and his favourite poets came from his grandfather’s generation. Kennedy had more eclectic tastes, but a particular liking for some of the writers of the Elizabethan and Jacobean era. He had recently discovered George Chapman’s translation of the Iliad, and was full of praise for it. Hornblower agreed to give Chapman a try, whilst maintaining no translation was likely to be superior to Pope’s splendid version. He recommended Swift, a discovery of his own, and Kennedy countered with Defoe, saying he thought Horatio would enjoy ‘Robinson Crusoe’, if he could make allowances for the author’s lapses in seafaring knowledge. Sometime towards the end of the evening they got onto the old wrangle about whether Shakespeare or Ben Jonson was the better playwright. Hornblower insisted that, whilst Shakespeare could turn a memorable phrase, his lack of regard for the classical unities made his work hopelessly disorderly. Kennedy argued that Jonson had a great talent for satire, but could not touch Shakespeare in characterisation or approach his gift for the sublime. They’d been through this argument so often it was like a well worn garment, could be happily kept up even when they were both half asleep and lasted right through until they said good-night before parting for their last night ashore. That night Hornblower slept soundly. The first night aboard ship was to be another matter.

~~#~~

*The crowd was eager, jostling. The small group of boys had managed to worm their way to the very front, ignoring cuffs and curses. Catterail, to Horatio’s right, nudged him sharply in the ribs. “Here they come! Ready for the show?” Horatio nodded, in fact he was starting to wish he had not come, but ten-year-old pride could never let him admit this.

He had always thought that condemned men had the hood put over their faces only on the scaffold. Yet this man was wearing one already, his head completely covered, but walking as though he could see. Another surprise, the hangman was wearing uniform, but not any uniform he was familiar with. Certainly not English.

“They say their eyes pop out when it happens,” Catterail whispered. Horatio swallowed.

The rope was being adjusted round the condemned man’s neck, the watching crowd jeered and hooted. He could not remember hearing a sound so ugly. He started to turn, but it was no longer Catterail beside him. A slight, brown-haired man stood with his eyes wearing a fixed stare and blood staining the front of his coat. With mounting sickness he recognised Bunting beyond Clayton and… he jerked round to face front, but not without the knowledge that an audience of the dead stood around him, silent now, expectant. Unwillingly, he looked back at the scaffold and the man who stood there quietly and the knowledge came to him in that moment before the hangman jerked the hood away, so he could see the face. His face. And as the trapdoor dropped the Hornblower on the scaffold screamed….*

Five

Archie Kennedy could not quite get used to being on a ship with no watch to stand, or convince himself that its sailing was none of his affair. He had more than half expected Hornblower to be pacing the decks, tense with frustration at not being able to participate, but in fact he was leaning over the rail, gazing out across the leaden sea. Kennedy had already noted the shadows under his friend’s eyes and a certain tensity about him, beyond what could be expected before a dangerous trip ashore. He strongly suspected that Horatio had had a nightmare last night. They shared a cabin, and something had certainly woken him, but by the time he had collected his wits all was quiet, so he had said nothing. He briefly considered whether to approach him about it now and decided to wait for a better opening. Hornblower was probably feeling seasick, which would not make him inclined for discussion.

He spied Miranda strolling the deck, and made his way over to speak to the man. French royalists were two a penny, but the South American intrigued him. Hornblower had already made a determined attempt to get on good terms with Miranda and succeeded quite well, discovering a common interest in of all things mathematics. Kennedy, who found calculations a necessity rather than a pleasure, had been itching for a chance to talk to Miranda without Euclid intruding. “I hope you are not finding the sea voyage inconvenient, General.”

“No, indeed.” Although possessed of a certain aristocratic hauteur, Miranda seemed ready enough to talk. “I have endured far longer voyages than this.”

“The conditions are somewhat cramped,” Kennedy commented. “Monsieur Levallier was complaining of it earlier.” Miranda smiled.

“I believe M. Levallier would think it beneath his dignity not to complain about something.” This agreed with Kennedy’s own assessment so completely he could not help a brief spurt of laughter.

“I believe you have hit the nail squarely on the head, General.” He judged they had exchanged enough pleasantries for him to raise the question he really wanted answered. “General, whilst we were preparing for this journey I gathered that you had some knowledge of the French armies.”

“It is no secret,” Miranda replied. “I served in the French army for some time, not long after the revolution.”

“After the revolution?”

“Yes. I believed a country extolling the virtues of liberty should be an inspiration to us all. I also hoped it might sooner or later be an ally in my own fight for freedom. But the craze for blood and persecution of the innocents that overcame the revolution led to my imprisonment and almost to my execution.” He thinned his lips briefly. “Naturally I was disappointed in the revolution, but I believe the experience to have been most valuable all the same.”

“It should certainly be useful to us,” Kennedy said, a trifle stunned. “Is that where your rank comes from?”

“I have served in more armies than one.” There was a strong touch of grandiloquence about the declaration, yet it did not sound absurd.

“How did you become a supporter of revolution, General?”

Miranda was more than willing to tell him, but it was none too easy to follow a story which assumed much greater knowledge of South American affairs than he possessed. Arbitrary rule, high taxes, severe trade laws, the arrogance of the Spanish towards colonials and various injustices done to a younger Miranda jostled one another bewilderingly. However, he could not but be impressed by the man’s obvious devotion to his cause, and a little dazed by his plans for South America’s future, which seemed to consist of a constitutional empire, modelled after the British system and presided over by a hereditary emperor drawn from a people called – if he had heard aright – the Incas. No-one could accuse Miranda of lacking vision.

Or of much discretion for that matter. He himself would have been happy enough to leave things there, but it turned out he had not been Miranda’s only confident as Levallier, the older of the two Frenchmen included in the mission, stormed up to the pair of them, with a taut-looking Hornblower in tow.

“See if he denies it!” Levallier declaimed dramatically. Although not much past forty he was a visible relic of the ancien regime, lean and elegant, his hair powdered in the old-fashioned style, his manners fastidious to the point of affectation. Kennedy had already taken a dislike to the man, although he found him more amusing than annoying.

Hornblower was attempting to look impassive, but Kennedy knew him well enough to tell he was both irritated and embarrassed. “General, did you indeed tell M. d’Atigny–”

“The Vicomte d’Atigny,” Levallier interrupted.

“–that you have served with the revolutionary French army?”

“It is the truth,” Miranda replied, in the tone of one unable to see what all the fuss was about. Although it might have been entertaining to watch Levallier explode, Kennedy thought it as well to intervene.

“The General has severed his ties with the French, who saw fit to accuse him of treason.”

“That I can believe,” Levallier said haughtily. “But unless General de Miranda’s treatment has caused him to perceive the great error of his judgement, he cannot expect us to consider him an associate of trust.

Miranda stared back with an equal haughtiness. “So long as the French Emperor supports the present Spanish government you may be sure I will oppose him.”

“No doubt if that canaille were to alter his support, then you would also alter your own!” Levallier hissed. “You are a supporter of the base!”

“That will do, Monsieur,” Hornblower cut in forcefully. “General de Miranda was selected for this mission by the highest authorities in England. They are fully informed of his views, and would not have chosen him for this mission were there the slightest doubt of his fidelity.”

“Do you expect me to associate with this, this revolutionary?” Levallier spat out the last word as though it were coated with poison.

“You may chose between working with him or returning to England. M. Levallier, we are all working for the same end, surely we can set aside differences of opinion to achieve it.”

Levallier stood stiffly for a moment. Then he said, “For France, and for my king, I do this,” and stalked away. Miranda looked after him with a slight, scornful smile.

“My apologies, gentlemen, for that disturbance.” He too walked away, his carriage implying dismissal of the matter.

“Phew!” Kennedy let out a breath. “I haven’t met anything like that since Master Bowles and Captain Rourke got to arguing religion on the Indy.”

“No religion and no politics is a good rule in the services,” Hornblower said with a slight, but absent, smile. “Not that this is the services, precisely.”

“My compliments, Horatio. You carried that off splendidly.”

Hornblower frowned. “Archie, did you know that Miranda had been a supporter of the revolution?”

“Not until a few minutes past. He had just finished telling me when you came up.”

“I wouldn’t say so in front of Levallier,” Hornblower said. “But it did give me a bit of a jolt hearing that. A man who would oppose his country and his king.…”

“I don’t think he sees either of them as his. And I don’t know much about South American affairs, but according to Miranda, Spain hasn’t been ruling its colonies well.”

“All the same, there should be a principle of loyalty involved. A man who does not have that principle, who would overturn the established order, such men are dangerous.”

“Shouldn’t loyalty work both ways?” Kennedy asked, curious to see what response he would get. “Should men be expected to submit to tyranny, unprotesting?”

“Surely you are not a supporter of revolution, Archie?” Hornblower exclaimed. “Not after the things you told me you saw in France!”

“Of course I don’t approve of that kind of atrocity,” Kennedy replied, a bit too sharply. In fact those memories were still a little disturbing. “And neither does Miranda. I’m not saying revolution is a good thing, but men can be driven to it. Would you unquestioningly support an order that was headed by men like Moncoutant?”

“He was just one man, Archie.”

“Was he, Horatio? But anyway, isn’t all this beside the point? Miranda is on our side at the moment, and that’s what matters for the mission.”

“But if Bonaparte was to support revolution in South America, what then?”

“I daresay Miranda would support him, but he doesn’t. I really can’t see what there is to worry about.”

Hornblower sighed. “I don’t really think Miranda will betray the mission. I just feel his way of thinking is dangerous.”

“To Spain, perhaps. The only way it’s likely to be dangerous to us is if things get out of hand between him and Levallier. Now there’s a man who makes me understand why the French had a revolution. That long nose of his is enough to start a riot single-handed. He’s probably complaining to d’Atigny right now about not having a trained chef to prepare our meals.” He spoke lightly, and was pleased to see Horatio smile.

Six

“I do apologise for the trouble,” d’Atigny said, with a slight smile. “I did not expect M. Levallier to react quite so fiercely.”

It was late in the evening, after a final intensive period of planning which had been complicated by Levallier’s unyielding attitude towards Miranda, whom he addressed only when absolutely necessary and in tones of acid formality. The three youngest members of the party were alone, in the cramped below-decks room where they ate and planned, the others already retired to their tiny cabins. The next night they would be landed ashore.

“You do not yourself object to the General’s past history, Monsieur – do you mind being addressed as ‘Monsieur’?” Hornblower asked.

“Why should I mind? Oh, you mean I have a title. Rather absurd for an exile, besides it is acceptable to address French nobles as ‘Monsieur’. A more dignified title than your own ‘Mister’.” D’Atigny spoke lightly, he was a young man, mid-twenties perhaps, with a round face that was pleasant without being handsome, and a perfect command of English. The two naval officers had already learned that his father was a Marquis and the whole family had escaped from France as the revolution was turning ugly, since when they had maintained close links with both the titular king Louis XVIII and elements of the British government in continuing efforts to bring about a royalist restoration. “As for General de Miranda, I confess I was taken aback, but on reflection his loyalty to the present mission is all that matters. After all in war it is not unusual for enemies of one week to be allies the next – or the other way around.”

“True, although that usually applies to countries rather than individuals,” Hornblower said, not quite managing a casual tone.

“Have you been to Spain before, Monsieur?” Kennedy asked; there had not been very much time to learn the credentials of their associates.

“Not since childhood, but my mother is Spanish by birth, and I know a good deal about Spain. Which is no doubt why I was chosen, when a man was needed for this mission at short notice.” He smiled, rather engagingly. “I must admit to being pleased. I’ve not been involved in anything half as important, or exciting, before.”

“I think that’s true of all of us,” Hornblower said. “The important part, anyway.”

“I’m sure the naval life does not lack for excitement,” said d’Atigny, still smiling. “I hold a captain’s rank – army rank that is – myself, but I don’t pretend that is worth much, with the French royalist forces being what they are. I’ve not seen action.”

“Do you want to?” Hornblower asked.

“I want to serve my country,” d’Atigny said, his voice seeming the more sincere for its lightness. “Speaking of which, perhaps I can serve it best at this moment by trying to talk some sense into M. Levallier, if he’s still awake.”

“Do you think you can do it?” Kennedy said wryly.

“Quite possibly not, although he does respect me because I have a title. Well, ‘if t’were done, t’were well done quickly.’”

Kennedy gave a swift smile of recognition at the quote. “Very true. Do you like drama?”

“Yes, and I like most of your playwrights, although what I would really like is to see the plays of my own country. Yours seems to know nothing of Molière or Racine or even of Voltaire. My father speaks often of the performances at Paris and Versailles in the old days…. But now is not the time to talk of that. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Goodnight,” Kennedy returned. “And I would like to hear your father’s stories, some other time.” D’Atigny looked a little embarrassed, but smiled.

After the door closed behind the young Frenchman, the two sat in silence for a little before Hornblower said, “We should get some sleep.”

“Will you sleep?” Kennedy asked him. “You’re not happy about this mission, are you?”

Hornblower drummed his fingers, absently. “I don’t like playing the spy, it’s true. It doesn’t feel honourable. But in the present circumstances I do believe it has to be justified. For England.”

“Britain, Horatio, Britain.” He acknowledged Hornblower’s apologetic gesture with a fleeting smile before asking on impulse. “What do you think of when you speak of England?”

Hornblower frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind. I do understand what you mean about spying. But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

There was a pause, then Hornblower said quietly, “Do they hang spies in Spain?”

“I think it’s the garrotte. That’s what I was threatened with, after my fourth escape.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Didn’t I? It was a long time ago.” The silence stretched out for a time before Kennedy said, “Horatio. Is there a reason why you dread hanging so much?”

Another long pause. “Is it so obvious?”

“I do know you rather well. On Renown, when we were facing a mutiny charge, I’ve never seen you dread anything else like that. Fear of death doesn’t take you that way, so I guessed it was fear of hanging. Was I right?”

Hornblower stared at the far wall. “It’s foolish really,” he said, in an absolutely level voice. “I saw a hanging, when I was ten. A group of us, young boys I mean, went together. I suppose we thought it was bold or grown-up, something like that. It was a woman, she struggled so much the hood came off.… Like I said, foolish really.”

“I don’t think it’s foolish. It’s an ugly end. I never saw a hanging, but I do remember when we were on Mediterranean duty in the Indefatigable, and there was a ship with a man swinging from the yard-arm–” He stopped suddenly. “I thought you were sea-sick, but I suppose that wasn’t it.”

“Only in part. I remember.”

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Horatio. After all, you’re here.”

“We really should get some sleep, Archie. There’ll be no chance tomorrow night.”

“In a little, Horatio. I want a breath of air.”

~~#~~

He did take a turn on deck, but the fresh breeze did nothing to dispel his mood. Typical of Horatio to trot out that line about patriotism. Kennedy, a Scot by birth and ancestry, had often been irritated by appeals to fight for England. Perhaps that was why he could not take claims of country on simple terms. Or perhaps it was just that life had made him sceptical. He knew it wasn’t thoughts of a country that kept him on deck with cannonballs hailing or storm raging. He didn’t believe that was true of Horatio either, though Horatio might think it was. Sailors didn’t fight for a country, they fought from pride and fear, perhaps for glory and booty, at best for their shipmates. They might be patriotic in their way, but patriotism didn’t mean much when the world was bounded by a heaving deck, eyes nearly blind with smoke or spray. Anything else was romantic fable. Of course Horatio was romantic, although he would deny it, quite sincerely, to his dying day.

Still, this mission was different. He’d never really been in an action likely to make much difference on the wider stage. Moreover in the last war Britain had hardly been fighting for life. Oh, there had been some attempted landings in Ireland, even one in Wales, said to have been defeated by some locals armed with pitchforks. Basically though, the French navy of that time would have been hard put to it to invade a desert island. This was different. This was Bonaparte.

He was afraid. Afraid of dying, afraid of what the Spanish might do before they killed him, but most of all afraid of doing something to ruin the whole mission, get them all killed, wreck what might be the only chance of averting an invasion.

The responsibility was terrifying. The same fear he’d felt at Muzillac, his first sole command, the first time other lives had hung by his decisions. That was long years past, he was not in danger of panicking this time, he told himself. But he was afraid.

Stop it. Horatio had been right. The more he brooded the worse he was going to feel. It would be better to get some sleep.

Shaking his head briskly in an attempt to dispel the thoughts, he returned to the cramped, shared cabin. Hornblower had not yet taken his own advice, but was seated on the edge of his bunk, still fully dressed and frowning. He had taken out the thin, leather case that held the reason for their presence and was examining the contents, yet again.

“No-one been tampering, I hope?” Kennedy said it lightly but the reply was given in all seriousness.

“No, of course not. I just wanted to be sure.” Hornblower turned the document over, examining the seal in a somewhat restless way. Kennedy perched down on the bunk beside him, and idly picked up another sheet, given by Barrow ‘just in case’. A blank document, over an authentic looking seal and signature.

“I don’t suppose we’ll really need these. They’re a chancy thing to be carrying about.”

“No more so than the rest.” Hornblower took the document from him and smoothed it, in the same almost irritated way.

“Are you going to keep these once we go ashore?” Kennedy asked.

“That’s what I’ve been wondering. Miranda wants to carry them. He says there’s a secret compartment in his trunk. I don’t know how much of this kind of secret work the man must do.”

“Then let him take the papers by all means, might be safer not to carry them into servants’ quarters in any case.”

“They are my responsibility.”

“They are the responsibility of all of us,” Kennedy said mildly.

Hornblower returned the dispatches to the case, and closed it with a snap. “I suppose we have to trust him.”

“If we can’t,” said Kennedy, “we’re all dead anyway.”

Seven

It could not be called a beautiful night, the sky was overcast, dim and dreary despite the faint filter of light from a moon which would be almost full. A brisk breeze might have freshened things, but the air felt oddly heavy and the wash of the waves on the shore held a sullen sound. The landing place was not good to look on either, a bay with a rather ugly slope of grass and scrub behind it, and a ridge of lumpen rocks to one side. Perhaps some of this was merely a reflection of the general mood, but more than one of those on the pebbled beach would have had their thoughts lifted by a sight of the stars. It was fortunate that enough light came from the moon, even through the thin clouds, to grant a just sufficient view to the boat crew waiting uneasily at the water’s edge and the party conducting a low-voiced argument in the shadows of the bay.

“General de Miranda, I appreciate your desire to be of service, but I must remind you once again, this is a British Naval mission.”

“Pray do not be foolish.” Miranda replied in a dismissive tone. “I am speaking here of practicalities. It is certainly better for a small party, consisting of those with the most experience of Spain and full command of the Spanish language to make the first exploration.”

“Captain Hornblower!” Levallier hissed, “I must protest in the strongest possible terms against any proposal to allow this revolutionary out of the sight of loyal and decent men!”

“Are you insinuating that I intend to betray this mission?” Miranda asked haughtily. “If so, you should perhaps ask yourself what you, or anyone else, can do to prevent me.”

“There is no question of your fidelity, General,” Hornblower insisted, with what he hoped was a quelling look at Levallier.

“Miranda does have a point,” Kennedy said, too low for anyone other than Hornblower to hear.

Hornblower paused for a second. “Take no undue risks, General, and return as soon as possible. We need to get away from this beach quickly.” As Miranda and his secretary, Escudero, disappeared up the uneven slope behind the beach he swung away from the rest of the little group. Although he was indeed annoyed by Miranda’s high-handedness, his chief reason for objecting to the plan had been a marked distaste for being stranded on the beach with nothing to do and no way of knowing what was going on further inland. He hated the frustration of helplessness more than almost anything else.

Behind him Levallier seethed. “We will be fortunate indeed if that homme d’revolution does not bring troops upon us.”

“Oh, take a damper, Levallier,” Kennedy said. “He was right, you know. If he does want to betray us there is nothing we can do about it.”

“I noticed,” said Levallier stiffly, “that you spent much time in that man’s company today. Is it an impertinence to ask of what you spoke?”

“Russia, mostly,” said Kennedy. “He seems to have spent a lot of time there, it was fascinating. Although I’m not sure I believe that he had an affair with the Empress Catherine.”

“I am sure that no true monarch would consort with such a man!” was Levallier’s predictable response.

Kennedy eyed him thoughtfully. “What is your own background, Monsieur?”

“In France I held a position in the army of our martyred King Louis.”

“Fair enough, but what about your family? What was your father’s position?”

Levallier stiffened. “He lived entirely in the country. I am sure his history would be meaningless to you.”

Touche! Kennedy thought. That had been a lunge in the dark, but it had plainly gone home. Levallier was no aristocrat, his father had had at best a small country property.

“Oh, I think it might mean a great deal,” he drawled, with the scorn that could only be felt by an aristocrat genuinely careless of birth towards a parvenu who worshipped it. Then as Levallier went even more rigid, “But really, my dear fellow, there’s no need to take it that way. In the Navy we believe in allowing men of all backgrounds to prove their abilities.”

The response took him slightly aback, a furious stream of French, too fast to follow, then a switch to English, “I should have realised more than to expect true standards for a nation of boors, such as are the English, but I would have believed, at the less, that a man in the military of his country would not take the part of such a traitor, a coquin a–”

“Monsieur Levallier!” Hornblower interrupted, striding over. “Do you want to bring the Dons down on us? Lower your voice!”

Levallier turned red, then white. “I- I have no wish to bring down endanger, but I have been most mortally insulted!”

“A simple question about your family an insult?” Kennedy asked with deliberate amusement. “Or was it that I suggested you are a man of ability?”

Levallier drew himself up. “I will not prolong this. I know already what party the captain will take.” He strode angrily away, taking up a stance at the edge of the water, near the ugly rocks and some way from the waiting boat.

Hornblower said in his coldest official tone, “I don’t know what you did to enrage him, but you should not have done it.”

Kennedy flushed angrily, but after a second his inherent sense of justice won out. “You’re right, I shouldn’t. But he… no, you’re right.” He drew a deep breath and swallowed his pride. “Do you want me to apologise?”

“I think you’d better,” Hornblower said, still coldly. “Although I see little hope of his being mollified.” He softened then, and added, “However, he can’t really dislike us much more than he already did.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. I am sorry, you’ve got quite enough on your plate already.”

Kennedy did force himself to go over and apologise, but it was plain that did little to soothe Levallier, who remained standing pointedly and silently apart from the rest of the group. A rather uncomfortable silence then prevailed until Miranda and Escudero suddenly slipped out of the darkness and rejoined the little party.

It seemed things had gone well. The locals had accepted the story of an unfortunate carriage accident, and a vehicle had been hired. The next day should, according to the plans, see them at a larger settlement where it should be possible to purchase transport. A few minutes later the boat that had brought the party ashore was slipping away, the schooner would be well clear of the coast by dawn. The men who began picking their careful way up the thinly grassed slope that led from the beach were on their own now.

Eight

“So far, so good,” Kennedy said, three nights later.

They were in a stables, at a large coaching inn some way inland. Things had indeed gone smoothly so far, no-one had questioned the party of travellers. The two British officers had concentrated mostly on keeping their mouths shut and looking as stupid as possible (Hornblower considered that Kennedy had overdone that somewhat, much of the time he had looked positively half-witted). The Spanish and French had fulfilled their roles effectively, although Levallier’s dislike of Miranda was barely concealed, no-one seemed to think this at all odd. (“It probably isn’t, when you think about it,” Kennedy had said, “I expect the alliance between the Spanish and the French is pretty uneasy.”)

Nonetheless Hornblower was not so well satisfied with the way that things were going. So far the journeying had actually taken them further from El Ferrol, which lay on the western tip of Spain’s north coast, for long study of the maps had shown a distinct lack of good roads on the northern coastline. Couriers wishing to travel at speed would be forced to take an inland route. Going inland had been necessary, but he was starting to fret about the amount of time that was passing, their travel being slowed both by the roads, which had been very poor, and the need to make absolutely sure they did not unwittingly cross over the courier route. He was also worrying over whether it had been wise to land so far east. Balancing time against the chances of arousing suspicion by appearing near the fleet it had seemed the right decision in London; now he felt days sliding past them far too fast.

“We really need to concentrate on identifying the courier routes and finding the right place at interception,” he said now. “And quickly. Who knows how much time we have to spare?”

“Agreed, but we can’t do it. It’s a job for Miranda and the French.”

Hornblower nodded, although not very happily. “Miranda mostly. I wouldn’t count on Levallier to discover anything, and d’Atigny’s pretty green.”

“Spoken like a greybeard.” Kennedy smiled and then sighed, rubbing at an eye reddened by dust from the sun-baked roads. “All right I don’t like it either.”

“Don’t like what?”

“Having to just watch, whilst others do the real work. Makes me wonder why they even wanted a naval man for this mission, never mind two.”

Hornblower actually laughed. “That’s easy, Archie. To keep an eye on the foreigners.”

It was a minor embarrassment that Escudero the secretary chose this moment to enter the stables, followed by d’Atigny. There was a reason for this, the stables were less likely to house listening ears than the inn itself, and it had already been agreed that any conferring needed should be done there, after dinner.

“Have you learned anything?” Hornblower asked, with a sharpness that drew interested reactions from the two nearest horses.

“No, I am merely concerned.” Escudero replied. “I think there is something amiss with M. Levallier.”

“We already know that.” Kennedy said impatiently. “He doesn’t like any of us – except possibly M. d’Atigny.”

“Something apart from that,” the secretary replied, with a slight flicker that might or might not have been amusement. It was difficult to read expressions in the faded half-light that was all the stables held. “He hardly ate at all tonight and he barely seemed even to be aware of the General’s presence.”

“Oh,” Hornblower said, rather blankly. “Did you notice this, M. d’Atigny?”

“I merely thought that he was tired,” d’Atigny relied. “But there might be more to it... I don’t know.”

Hornblower was tired himself, his muscles sore and aching from the unfamiliar form of travel, grit from the roads scratching against his skin. He did not want to have to think about Levallier. “Have you spoken of this to General de Miranda?”

“No,” Escudero replied. “The General seldom notices the moods of other men, and never knows what he should think about them. That is why I came to you.”

“Perhaps the mission is straining his nerves?” Kennedy suggested.

“Perhaps,” Hornblower agreed. It would be a straightforward explanation anyway. “M. d’Atigny, perhaps you could convince him to speak of it. He certainly won’t do so to any of the rest of us.”

“I’ll try, but it’s unlikely I shall succeed,” d’Atigny replied. He hesitated, with obvious unease. “You don’t think... no, it’s absurd.”

“What are you speaking of?” Hornblower asked sharply.

“He has been very angry. I have heard him expressing himself in the strongest possible terms, against all of you gentlemen. He is even angry with me since I attempted to defend you. I wondered… perhaps he no longer wishes the mission to succeed....”

“You mean he might be thinking of betrayal?” Hornblower considered for a few moments, then shook his head. “No. He might abandon the mission, but he wouldn’t betray it.”

“I daresay you are right. Probably it is simply the mission. I-I am finding it something of a strain myself.” D’Atigny gave a rueful smile, and before anyone could make further comment said, “I will speak with him,” and went quickly out. Hornblower hoped that would be all for now, but Escudero lingered a little longer.

“No doubt that is all that can be done on that matter.” Hornblower was about to make a brief agreement when Escudero added in the same dry tone, “I trust you two gentlemen are not finding the your duties too onerous?” It took Hornblower a moment to realise he was speaking of horse-care, and then he could not tell if the question was intended as a joke. Escudero had so far spoken little to either of the naval officers, having been laid low by seasickness for most of the voyage out; Hornblower had not yet learned if he possessed a sense of humour.

“No. No, not at all.” Not onerous, but not exactly his choice of passing the time either. As a boy he had been expected to care for the old cob horse, a quiet, good-natured beast, on which his father did his rounds, but he had never much liked horses in general; nor did he enjoy riding, it continued to be a source of bafflement to him how people could do something so uncomfortable for pleasure. However, duties to date had consisted largely of keeping an eye on the ostlers employed at wherever they were staying, most of whom did not want interference. At least it was not necessary to sleep with the beasts; the party hired cramped indoor accommodation for the two ‘grooms’. Not for the world would Hornblower admit he missed the precarious privileges of a captain’s life.

“I wish you both good night, then.” Escudero said, still in the same deadpan tone which made it impossible to tell whether there was any humour behind the words. He left again as swiftly and quietly as he had entered, leaving a slight, but inescapable, disquiet behind.

The two remaining men eyed one another in doubt for a few moments before Kennedy said, “We may as well get some sleep,” and moved to follow Escudero from the stables.

“What do you think? About Levallier, I mean?” Hornblower asked abruptly. Although he had spoken with certainty earlier, he was none too confident about his judgement of other men. He had missed Kennedy’s appraisals on Hotspur, knowing that, if sometimes cynical, they were usually clear-sighted.

“I think you’re right. He’d probably like all our guts for garters, but he wouldn’t sell us out to Bonaparte. Let’s hope it is only nerves – or if not that d’Atigny can learn the real trouble.”

There was little more that could be said.

Nine

The next evening saw them at the large town of Burgos, established as usual at a busy inn. Also as usual the two ‘grooms’ could pretend to check on the horses well after the others had gone inside, having fobbed off the local ostlers with a display of limited Spanish. A large stables was a surprisingly good place for private conversation, even when busy.

“We need information quickly, Archie,” Hornblower said in low tones. Burgos was on a major crossroads and the westward road offered a likely route to El Ferrol. “There’s a very strong probability the couriers come this way. If so, they may well stop here. If not, we need to find out now, so we can look elsewhere. Every day counts.”

Kennedy eyed him thoughtfully. “What are you planning?”

“Find out if there are other large inns here – and pay them a visit.”

“You don’t mean ‘have one of the others pay a visit’, I suppose?”

“I think we are capable of managing this, Archie.”

Kennedy did not argue. Plainly Hornblower was deeply frustrated at having been pushed to the sidelines, and was determined to actually do something. At least he had said ‘we’. Besides he was rather pleased at a chance to see something of the town. Routine travel from stable to stable made a dreary round, especially in the wilting heat of a Spanish day. He supposed the scenery was decent if you liked that sort of thing, but he’d seen more than enough Spanish countryside during his attempts to escape the peninsula, and now simply found it alien. Observing people was more to his taste, despite the danger. The town would be bustling as the heat of the day wore off and travellers must be reasonably frequent here. They should be safe enough.

It was approaching dinner hour. It was easy enough to seek out one of the ostlers, who, although puzzled by the foreigners’ desire to know what other hostelries existed in the town, gave information quite willingly. A little later the two men were ordering a meal in a large inn a few streets distant. To Kennedy’s inexpert eye there did not seem a great deal to choose between this building and that where they were staying in either size or position. That, however, rather proved Hornblower’s point, couriers might stay at either.

For that matter the building was not so very different from large coaching inns in England, built to the same pattern with dusty, plastered walls and storied wings surrounding a central courtyard. The main difference was that, since the day was warm, they ate their meal outside, in a lesser courtyard with trellised vines running above to provide shelter from the sun. There were quite a number of customers, but a generous tip made the man who served the pair loquacious. If he found the curiosity of two Dutch travellers (they did not mention being part of a larger party) peculiar, he gave no sign. Kennedy, enjoying his portrayal of a rather simple stranger, wondered if the Spanish took odd behaviour by foreigners as much for granted as the British did.

Yes, custom was good here. Yes, many travellers stayed at the inn. Yes, foreigners were frequent, and French the most frequent. French officers sometimes, they were a mean lot. Those who travelled for their own pleasure were best, but there were fewer of those in time of war. The war was hard on all simple folk, well there was nothing to be done.

The look that Hornblower gave Kennedy after the man had finally gone to attend another customer said it all. This sounded very much like the couriers’ stopping point. They did not risk discussion, nor did they hurry away, but stayed where they were, downing their drink slowly to keep up the innocent appearance.

Suddenly Hornblower pushed back, as if trying to blend into the dimness near the wall behind him. It was evening, and the courtyard was heavily shadowed. Kennedy looked a question, and received in answer a slight movement of one hand, a wordless instruction to do nothing. Minutes passed, then Hornblower relaxed. Still he did not speak, but after a few minutes more got up and left at a pace that was not quite as casual as he tried to make it.

“What is it?” Kennedy asked when they were well away.

“There was a man. A Frenchman.”

“A courier?”

“No, at least I don’t think so. He wasn’t in uniform. There were a couple of others with him.”

“If he wasn’t in uniform,” Kennedy said, “how did you know he was French?”

“Because I know him,” said Hornblower grimly. “His name is Etienne De Vergesse. He was a guest of Don Massaredo at El Ferrol. I had to sit through an excruciating dinner with him once.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Kennedy said wryly. “He didn’t see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could be worse, then. What do you know about this man?”

“Unfortunately not much. He was a colonel, which means he could be a general by now.”

“If he’s still with the army. You realise we have to warn the others?”

“Yes.”

They walked two turns in silence before Kennedy said softly. “Horatio. Have you considered what we are going to do when the couriers do show up?”

He had of course. “It might be possible to exchange the papers and leave them none the wiser.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“We’ll confront that if it becomes necessary.” Oh, who was he trying to fool? He certainly wouldn’t succeed with Kennedy. “If it becomes necessary – this is war and preventing an invasion is worth more than one life.” It had to be true, but that didn’t mean he liked the prospect. This was not like battle. “We have to do this,” he said, and wondered uneasily which of them he was trying to convince.

“It needs doing, yes.” He wished he could read Kennedy as easily as Archie could read him. “But it’s as well to be prepared.”

“Right now,” Hornblower said, glad to change the subject, “we have more immediate problems.”

The two Frenchmen proved to be away from the inn, the Spanish (neither naval officer found it easy to think of them as South American) took the information there was most likely a senior French officer in town seriously but without alarm. It was agreed that they should take over the task of finding out whether French couriers did indeed stay at the other inn, whilst the British officers lay low to avoid attention. Hornblower was not happy about leaving matters in other hands, but realised it was the only sensible thing to be done.

This mission was turning out to be a strain in unexpected ways. The constant pretence was less difficult than he had expected, after all it was not so very different from wearing the captain’s mask aboard ship. What he had not anticipated was to have such trouble navigating a clear path through his colleagues. The intransigent royalist was at least straightforward: the elusive Spanish were in danger of driving him to distraction. In fact the glimpse of De Vergesse had been almost a relief, for here was a concrete problem, and one he had himself recognised and, at least for the present, evaded. Something substantial, not mist that slid away between the fingers. Yet it also increased their dependence on the foreigners, a source of irritation and increasingly of worry.

Chapter Ten

The next morning brought further cause for concern.

“M. Levallier did not return last night,” Escudero said baldly.

“He went off on his own straight after dinner,” d’Atigny confirmed, looking worried. “I attempted to find him, I wanted to try again to get him to explain what was on his mind, but I could not find where he had gone.”

“That’s difficult,” Hornblower said. “We don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves. And where can he be?”

“One would not think there was anything here likely to delay him,” said Escudero, apparently by way of agreement, although it was hard to be sure with the secretary. A slight man, dark enough to make it seem likely his blood was not all European, Escudero possessed an imperturbable air that Hornblower found simultaneously frustrating and rather enviable.

“I don’t like this.” D’Atigny was shaking his head. “I can’t help feeling that any explanation is likely to compromise the mission.”

“You surely don’t suggest abandoning it?” Kennedy said sharply.

“I do think it might be wise.”

“Try and pull yourself together!” Hornblower snapped, then regretted his sharpness as d’Atigny’s face went stiff. Getting angry with the young man wouldn’t help. “We don’t know yet that anything has happened to threaten us,” he went on more moderately, “And we knew when we agreed to this there would be risks.” Still, here was another thing to worry about: d’Atigny’s nerves were evidently frayed. Hornblower noted that his normally cheerful face was pinched and hollow-eyed. It had surely been unwise of the Admiralty to choose so young a man for a mission such as this.

“I still don’t believe Levallier would go over to the enemy,” Kennedy argued. “He might desert us, perhaps, but I’d have expected him to make it very clear what he was doing.”

“We all made a choice,” Hornblower said, looking firmly at d’Atigny. “We cannot back out at the first sign of trouble.”

“Agreed,” Kennedy supported him unhesitatingly. Escudero nodded, and after a moment, d’Atigny did too, more slowly. “But what do we do about Levallier?”

“I don’t believe there’s much that we can do,” Hornblower answered reluctantly, “except perhaps try to make some discreet enquiries.”

“Is that wise?” d’Atigny asked. “We should not be drawing too much attention.”

“I feel we must try,” said Hornblower, “He may be in trouble of some kind.” Kennedy gave a snort, which said as far as he was concerned Levallier could extract himself from his own difficulties, but Hornblower was not to be deflected. “If M. Levallier is in trouble, we must help him. At the least we should try and find out what has happened.” Secretly he was fretting over the possibility that the disappearance might have something to do with his expedition of the previous evening. He had gambled on his own slender acting skills, had Levallier paid the penalty?

“Torrellos will be best placed to ask the questions that we need,” said Escudero, referring to Miranda’s valet. Hornblower hesitated a moment, then nodded tautly. “I will see to it,” the secretary said calmly. During the few days of their mission it had already become usual for Escudero to act as a go between for the naval officers and the other Spaniards. It made good sense, for the whole Spanish party to fall into the habit of frequenting the stables would be asking for suspicion. Still, Hornblower was uncomfortable with the dividing of the party in two, nor did he like the sense it gave him that Miranda was putting himself above the concerns of the others. Once again, however, there was little to be done about it.

D’Atigny continued to hover after Escudero had quit the place. “I don’t wish to make trouble,” he said nervously, “But I’m beginning to think there was more in M Levallier’s opinions than I ever gave him credit for… Some of the views that General de Miranda shared with us a couple of days ago… he is even more of a Radical than I had thought.”

“We didn’t enter on this to be turned back by our allies.” Hornblower said firmly. “Moreover flaunting his views openly is no way to go about a betrayal. Although perhaps if Miranda wished to sabotage the mission.…”

“Why?” Kennedy said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Do the sort of views Miranda holds make sense?” Hornblower snapped, with more irritation than logic. It occurred to him that d’Atigny might not be the only one whose nerves were fraying. He rubbed at an itch, and wished that he could have a bath.

“Presumably to Miranda.” Kennedy shrugged. “After all the Frog– er, French hold views that make no sense to us. Republicanism and the like.”

“Not all Frogs,” d’Atigny said gravely, giving Hornblower a chance to enjoy a rare moment of discomfiture on the part of his friend.

“Well,” he said, trying to calm things, “If Miranda intended to betray us, I really don’t think he’d show his hand so openly. As to the rest – I suppose we should expect odd views from a bunch of Dons.” Even d’Atigny smiled at that.

Eleven

A light tap came on the door of the dingy room where the two naval men were trying to occupy their time by playing cards for straws, Kennedy having flatly refused to play any game for money against his friend.

“It’s not my fault if you haven’t made a proper study of the skills,” Hornblower had said, with the note of humour he never risked with anyone else.

Kennedy snorted. “Skill? You are skilful, Horatio, but you’ve also got the devil’s own luck. Oh yes you have, you know. Well, you know what they say, ‘lucky at cards unlucky– in love.” Realising the slip just too late he tried to mend it, “As well that you’re a settled man.”

Hornblower gave a slightly strained smile, Kennedy cursed the moment of carelessness, he’d quite forgotten Horatio’s marriage. Maria Hornblower was a nice enough young woman but as a wife for Horatio… how could an intelligent man be such a fool? Why had Bush let him be such a fool? Why hadn’t he himself been in Portsmouth, so he could have banged Horatio’s head against the nearest wall until he’d knocked some sense into it?

“Anyway,” he said “I’m not green enough to let you clean me out, Captain. Not even out of Spanish money.” So they played for straws.

The tap was Torrellos, the valet. A colourless man who was so much the typical ‘good servant’ it was hard to think of him as possessing any character.

“There are three pieces of news that I believe you should be acquainted with,” he said. “One is that I have been to the other inn, representing myself as enjoying a little leave from a demanding master. French couriers stay there frequently. The last one was over two weeks since, quite a long gap in time.” Under other circumstances this might have been a cause for excitement, the news bringing their goal tantalisingly close. Now, however, there was too much else to worry about. “The second concerns the gentlemen you wished to learn more of, General De Vergesse.”

“He is a general now, then?” Kennedy said sharply.

“Apparently, although not currently on active service. He has a house in the district, he entertains, and he has many visitors. Some open, and some not so open. The general opinion is that he is here to watch the Spaniards for his master, Bonaparte, and perhaps to conduct matters of intelligence. He is a man that nobody speaks ill of, yet I think few would be comfortable if he were present in the room.” There was a pause whilst the officers considered this illuminating description.

“What else?” Hornblower asked at last.

“The last piece of news is that a man’s body has been found, in a ditch on the outskirts of town. He was stabbed and robbed. The description fits M. Levallier.”

There was a shocked silence. Perhaps not wholly surprised, but nonetheless shocked, and dismayed.

“Could it have been a genuine robbery?” Hornblower said slowly.

“Perhaps,” Torrellos said. “They do occur. General de Miranda has gone with the intention of discovering whether the body is indeed M. Levallier.”

“Oh, has he?” Hornblower said grimly, “Well, I will want to know when he returns.”

“What are you meditating?” Kennedy asked sharply, when the valet had deferentially withdrawn.

Instead of a direct answer, Hornblower said, “It might have been just a robbery.”

“He was troubled,” Kennedy said. “Everyone agrees on that. He was troubled and now he’s dead and that’s too much of a coincidence for me. I’m sorry, Horatio. If I hadn’t antagonised him, he might have told us whatever was on his mind.”

“No point dwelling on that, we’ll never know.” Hornblower got up and began to pace the little room. “He quarrelled with Miranda, we know that. Maybe he did hit a deeper nerve than anyone suspected. I wish we weren’t so at the mercy of these Spaniards, how can we ever know how much of what they say is truth?”

Kennedy shook his head. “I can’t make sense of any of this, Horatio. I fear I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”

“I don’t wish to be cut out for it!” Hornblower said violently. “I just want some reasonable answers! Dammit, Archie, you’re the one whose so friendly with Miranda, what do you think is going on here?”

“I told you. I don’t know.” Kennedy met the spurt of anger levelly. “All I know about Miranda is what he told me. If that was pretence, I know nothing. And if he’s as much in the dark as we are, then nothing I know about him is going to help. Certainly I can’t think of anything that throws the least light on all this.”

“Except for de Vergesse perhaps.” He did not look at Kennedy as he spoke.

“I doubt it. Levallier was acting strangely before we ever reached here. And he really vanished too soon for our trip into town to have anything to do with it.” Why did common sense always seem so much more convincing from someone else’s lips? “But that still leaves us none the wiser about what did happen to him.”

“There must be an explanation.” Hornblower sat down again, anger gone and ran a hand wearily over his face. “But we’re in a fog, the landmarks can’t be seen, and we’ve no training for this kind of navigation.” He set his mouth in determination. “We have to learn as we go along, and time is very short.”

~~#~~

“You should have consulted me! This is a Royal Naval operation, and I am in command!”

“And what was there to consult over?” Miranda asked calmly. “We needed to learn if the dead man was indeed M. Levallier. It was clearly necessary that I should be the one to go, for a groom to do so would have looked very odd. We now know for certain it was he.”

“It might have been better to avoid drawing attention to ourselves,” Hornblower insisted.

“It would have most certainly seemed strange if we had simply ignored the disappearance of a member of our party. Now we know the truth, it would be sensible to take precautions. It was most likely mere robbery and murder, but we would be foolish to count on it.”

“We do not abandon the mission,” Hornblower said, glad of a chance to assert his authority.

“Of course not,” Miranda said, in the casually dismissive tone that infuriated Hornblower more than any other. “I am removing with Escudero and my valet to a village some two hours travel from this town, that is all. It would be unwise to stay here, but we cannot yet quit this place entirely, the removal will, with good fortune, be enough that our new hosts will know nothing of our stay here. Torellos is already packing my belongings. You and the others may come with me if you prefer, but it might be better to keep an eye on things from close quarters, since you have not drawn attention to yourselves a poorer inn should be a sufficient shelter.”

“I assume,” Hornblower said, in cold fury, “it did not occur to you to consult me before forming your plans?”

“What was there to consult about? The wise course is obvious.”

“I am in charge of this party,” Hornblower insisted, “By God if you were a Royal Naval man I could have you charged with insubordination!”

“But I am not,” Miranda said, unanswerably. “And my rank and experience are far greater than yours, captain.”

Hornblower was forced to quit the room before he throttled the man.

~~#~~

“Failed to make a dent, did you?” Kennedy asked, leaning back in the rickety chair. He’d chosen not to attend the confrontation with Miranda.

“The man’s impossible!” Hornblower fumed. “He doesn’t seem to possess any normal standards, or even to comprehend them. I don’t know what he thinks he is.”

Kennedy gave the question some genuine thought. “You were a classical scholar, Horatio. Do you remember the phrase ‘deus ex machina’?”

“ ‘The God in the Machine’. Yes, of course.” Suddenly his mouth twitched. “Yes, you’re quite right. That’s just how he sees himself. A god in a machine, raised above the heads of other people. Probably expects to swoop down and rescue we mere mortals all the time!”

“And it would be too much to expect such a lordly individual to concern himself with trivial details, such as what we should do next.”

“Actually,” Hornblower admitted, “he does have a scheme.” He outlined it quickly. “Better not waste time. Unearth d’Atigny and see whether he wants to come with us or with the Spanish.” Having cooled down he could acknowledge Miranda’s plan was quite a good one. However arrogant, the man was not a fool.

On the whole Hornblower, still uneasy about the state of d’Atigny’s nerves, hoped that he would opt for the slightly greater safety of accompanying the Spanish party. However, although he looked distinctly haggard, the young Frenchman set his jaw firmly and insisted that he wished to stay in Burgos, and, if possible, learn what had happened to his compatriot. Since it would plainly be unwise to force him, the two naval men did not try. The three of them were able to remove quite swiftly to a run down tavern in a poorer part of town. The landlord looked at his guest as though he found them odd, but took their money without question.

The change of inn, however, proved not enough to satisfy d’Atigny. After an evening meal which made naval food look rather good, he argued that something further should be done and, on a slightly exasperated Kennedy demanding what he had in mind, proposed they should examine the spot where Levallier’s body had been found.

“What good will that do?” Hornblower asked impatiently.

“It might suggest something… at least an idea of what he might have been doing in that area. At all events I feel we should make an attempt to learn what happened.”

This was close enough to Hornblower’s own feeling for him to accept it on the spot. “Well, it can’t do any harm,” he said, and then, realising that sounded a bit ungracious, “It’s certainly worth a try.”

Kennedy pushed back his stool. “No point in delaying then.”

“Perhaps one of you should stay here?” d’Atigny suggested uneasily.

“I don’t see why. The more pairs of eyes the better. Lead on, Macduff.”

“Lay on,” d’Atigny corrected.

“Same thing. Let’s go.”

Twelve

“I can’t imagine,” Hornblower said, “what can have brought Levallier here.”

‘Here’ was a little distance from the last buildings of the town, at the edge of a rather straggly piece of woodland and some way from the nearest road. Hornblower had unconsciously been imagining a backstreet district, the kind of rough area a visitor to the town might wander into accidentally. But no visitor would be likely to come to this place without a reason. What reason? A rendezvous, perhaps? With whom?

A good place for a murder. Cautiously he laid one hand on the pistol that was thrust into his waistband beneath his coat.

“He could simply have fallen a victim to footpads or brigands,” said Kennedy, “The trees would be an easy place to hide.”

“True. But that doesn’t explain what he was doing here at all.” As Kennedy moved a little way away, in exploration of the woodland, Hornblower stood frowning. There was something that had been bothering him, but he hadn’t quite placed it. Something d’Atigny hadn’t said... ah, yes.

“Who told you where the body was discovered?” he asked. “Torrellos just said to us that it was found in a ditch on the outskirts.” He was surprised by the young Frenchman’s look of discomfiture.

“I, er, I heard it.”

“Heard it? From whom?”

“An acute question, Monsieur,” another voice interrupted deliberately, “Although asked a little late.”

Three men had come out of the trees behind them. Two were holding pistols and had the stolid look of those employed for brawn rather than brain. The third was in the lead, and had not bothered to hold a weapon. Hornblower had drawn his own pistol even as he spun around, and now trained it on the man, who did not seem perturbed at all.

De Vergesse had changed with the years. Hornblower, perhaps with a touch of prejudice, remembered a man who smacked as much of ballroom – or boudoir – as of battlefield. Now he looked like a man who would carry the echo of killing wherever he went. His hair was liberally silvered and he had put on some weight, which added to, rather than diminished, the sense of command he carried. A scar like a sword cut down one cheek was not disfiguring, yet gave him a sinister air. There was nothing of the ladies’ man about him now, but the hard face held not a trace of scruple.

De Vergesse’s eyes were fixed on Hornblower, and his face held a look of some surprise, although not that degree of surprise that makes a man look vulnerable. “Lieutenant Hornblower. An unexpected reunion.” His voice was grimly sardonic, a harder tone than any the younger Hornblower had heard from him.

“Captain Hornblower,” he corrected, playing for time. “I gather you were not expecting me.” Controlling his voice whilst fear and anger competed in his gut took a great effort, but he managed it.

“Not you in particular,” de Vergesse said, “M. d’Atigny did not give me a name. I think you should put down that pistol – Captain.”

“Can you give a reason?” He couldn’t really think of a way out of this, but there was no need to anticipate the inevitable.

“How about having you’re compatriot’s brains blown out?” Kennedy was pushed out of the wood by two more men with a pistol held to his head. He did not look at Hornblower.

“Why should I care?” How much did de Vergesse know? He could at least attempt to make a lie stick. “He’s only a common seaman. A troublemaking one as well.” D’Atigny could expose that, he turned the attack on the young Frenchman. “So what really happened to Levallier, traitor?”

“I am no traitor!” D’Atigny flushed scarlet, he looked very young. “I serve my country! My parents are fools, they and their like, refusing to support the greatest leader France has had in generations, preferring that fat fool who calls himself our king, only because of his ancestors.” His head came back proudly. “All true Frenchmen should follow Napoleon Bonaparte!”

“How long have you been spying?” No answer, d’Atigny merely raised his chin and tried for an unwavering stare. “Were you in contact with de Vergesse all along?”

“No.” It was de Vergesse who answered. “The young man is fairly new to his business. He seems to have had some idea of frustrating the mission without betraying yourself.”

“I did not wish….” d’Atigny stammered, his attempt at assurance crumbling swiftly. “I thought if I could steal the papers… but M. Levallier became suspicious. He saw me going into the wrong room the first night ashore, I lied it off, but he must have kept watching. Last night he caught me at a second attempt. But he did not want to think ill of a titled man. I lied again, said there was another traitor in the party and I could prove it if he would only come with me….” To this point the words had spilled out in a desperate torrent of self-exculpation, but now they dried up.

“And so he killed the man,” de Vergesse said, “and afterwards he panicked and came to me. If it interests you, he tried to argue that there was no need to arrest the spy, but I was able to convince him where his patriotic duty truly lay and he agreed to bring you here. Even then he misled me, I was not expecting two men.”

“No doubt he thought that one insignificant,” Hornblower said, his mind working rapidly. D’Atigny had told de Vergesse as little as he could, but that would never last, he would plainly tell all under pressure from a stronger will. He cursed himself for over-confidence but regrets would not help now.

“Is this heroic stand serving any purpose?” de Vergesse asked with almost casual arrogance. “You could shoot me, Captain, but you have only one bullet and my men would kill you slowly and painfully.”

“You have the advantage,” Hornblower admitted. He made as if to lower the pistol, then, seeing de Vergesse’s men relax slightly, pivoted fast – and shot d’Atigny in the throat at point blank range.

He had just time to look de Vergesse in the eye and say with as much force as he could manage, “But that is no reason to let a traitor live!” before he was knocked violently to the ground. A boot connected with his ribs, then de Vergesse spoke sharply in French and he was hauled, coughing in pain, to his feet. His hands were wrenched behind him and tied tightly. Hornblower dragged his head up, shaking with shock and fury at the roughness of his handling.

“A foolish gesture,” de Vergesse said. “You will regret it. Now, tell me what you are doing here.”

“You don’t... honestly expect that,” Hornblower gasped. D’Atigny’s body lay sprawled on the ground, blood seeping over the rough, parched grass. Although not looking directly, he could not fail to see.

“One way or another, I will learn.” De Vergesse took a pistol from one of his men, and pointed it at Kennedy. “If he will not tell me, perhaps you will.”

“What do ye want tae lairn?” Kennedy spoke in the Scots brogue he sometimes used for a joke in the mess. So he’d caught the words about a common seaman. It might not help, but yet it might. De Vergesse had never seen Archie Kennedy, could have no idea who he was.

“Who you are would be a start,” de Vergesse said.

“Name’s McTavish, if that’s any matter to ye.”

“Nothing at all. I want to know what kind of man you are.”

“I were an able-seaman, ‘til they tairned me off at the peace. Then I crewed on a Spaniard, it were a trader nae a fighter, but when it were taken he said I’d be hanged for a traitor unless I gang alang on this affair. And noe ye’ll execute me for a spy.” The whole was delivered with a fairly convincing imitation of lower-decks sullenness, eyes on the ground. Good! Hornblower applauded silently. Not good enough to fool a Britisher, but it would probably do for a Frog. He wouldn’t count on his own ability to make social distinctions among the French, if called upon to do so.

“So what is this business?” De Vergesse was, if not obviously accepting the story, at least not openly denying it either.

“Our mission must come first!” Hornblower exclaimed, with all the force he could manage, he wrenched at his bonds, as if trying to twist free. “It comes before our lives. Our country is at stake here. Understand me!” For a very brief moment his eyes locked with Archie’s and he tried to pour everything he had into the look that passed between. Understand, you must understand.…

Deliberately Kennedy spat on the ground, and turned back to de Vergesse. “He said we was lairning the minds of the Dago’s see if they could be turned agin ye. But I reckon he were after mair than that, he was ver’ set we should come here. But why I dinna ken. I were just alang on account of knowing a bit o’ the land and the talk. Mair than he did.”

“And these papers my countryman spoke of?”

“He had yon in his bags. That’s all I ken. Some sort of orders I reckon. But he never telled me.”

“And why should I believe your story?” de Vergesse asked.

“Why would I be lying? I don’t owe anything tae him.”

“But why should I believe you are only the common seaman that you claim?” Hornblower cursed inwardly, that was their weak point, no proof. Of course not.

“Get your men tae let go o’ me, and I’ll show ye.” Kennedy jerked free, striped off his rough jacket, then his shirt and turned his back to the Frenchman, revealing the scars, old and faded now, but unmistakable.

Officers in the British Navy were not flogged, nor were young gentlemen in training to be officers. The beatings midshipmen received sometimes did not leave scars such as marked the backs of many ratings. But Archie Kennedy had such scars, had them from his time in the French prisons. Hornblower knew they were there, but he’d not seen them often. And he had not remembered now. But Archie had.

De Vergesse eyed the scars coolly, “I see. Now….” he stepped a little way away, then drew out his sword, and to Hornblower’s surprise, used it to cut something from a tree. A thin, whippy branch, like a switch. He then moved round in front of Kennedy, who had not seen what he was doing, and, in one swift movement, brought the switch up and across his chest. Taken by surprise, Kennedy stumbled a pace back, Hornblower heard his gasp of pain and shock and had to school himself not to react.

With open deliberation de Vergesse raised the switch again, and brought it down across Kennedy’s cheek. This time Kennedy was braced for the blow, and met it squarely, without flinching or making any sound. He held himself rigid as de Vergesse raised it a third time and Hornblower bit on his own lip with the effort to hold still. Then de Vergesse lowered his arm, the blow still undelivered.

“Dress,” he said, “And tell me where your baggage is. If I find you have spoken the truth then you may live.”

Kennedy did as directed, and Hornblower had to summon all his self-control not to openly relax. So far de Vergesse knew nothing of Miranda, and if they could only keep him diverted the mission might yet succeed. There might even be a chance for Kennedy to survive. For him there would be none, but he must not dwell on that lest it numb his brain and paralyse his nerve.

To fight off the temptation of letting his mind sink into torpor he set himself the challenge of puzzling out what de Vergesse had meant by that sudden attack. If he was trying to beat the truth out of his captive he had not taken it very far. It had been more as if he were looking for something, something he had found, or not found, before he lowered the switch. Something in Kennedy’s reactions, then. But what?

His captors had turned him roughly and were propelling him across the uneven ground, taking a route around the outskirts of the town, he tried to mark the distance and direction, to keep watch for any landmarks. Not that it would help. He stumbled and one of them jerked him upright with casual roughness, causing him to jerk away from the hands in indignation, the man laughed and pushed him again, he seethed and had to force himself not to fight against the ropes.

That must be it. Realisation came. De Vergesse had been looking to see what reaction his blows brought. He expected that an officer would boil with open outrage and disbelief, probably lash out, however hopelessly. Most would have. He would have. Archie... had not.

It was nothing to do with courage or even pride, simply what a man was used to. Kennedy had suffered beatings enough in his past to accept them as a part of life, accept them, not easily, but with stubborn endurance rather than outrage. And though that time was years past and he had changed, still those memories must be close to the surface in Spain, in enemy hands. He had reacted as a seaman would, not without defiance, but with smouldering anger, not blazing fury. And de Vergesse had been satisfied. For now.

Thirteen

It was a makeshift prison they had pushed him into, a small room with old rotten shelves that must have once been used as a store. They had manhandled him a bit, but not too badly. Kennedy rubbed at some of his bruises, then leant against a wall and worked at steadying his breathing.

He had not been comfortable with small, enclosed places since his time in the oubliette. Shipboard cabins were all right, the structure was so flimsy that they hardly felt closed in at all, but the further down he went in a ship the less easy he felt. Now, still shaken from rough handling, with memories of a hideous past closer than they had been in years… deliberately he counted the space between breaths, reminding himself of just how many years had passed. He wasn’t a midshipman now, nor was he responsible only for himself. He had to stay calm.

That was better. The walls were still yammering insistently at his nerves, but he was not about to lose control. Now, think.

God, what would they do to Horatio? The bluff seemed to have bought him reasonably good treatment, at least for now, but Hornblower would have no such immunity. De Vergesse wanted information, and he was plainly not a man to observe the rules of war. It was hard enough to think of the kind of pain he might be capable of meting out, but worse than that, Horatio was not used to physical mistreatment. There was always the chance he would do something really stupid in response. Especially as he might well have given up on his own life already. He was far too prone to cast himself in a doomed role, not through lack of will, but from genuine conviction his life should be of small importance. Usually his sense of responsibility was there as a counter, but if he had decided his use to the mission was over.…

Stop it. Worrying wasn’t going to help. The only thing that would help would be to find a way out. He would have the better chance of doing that. Get out, rescue Hornblower, rejoin Miranda and complete the mission. Right. A good plan, if he could just work out the details.

Better be quick about it too. De Vergesse would be checking out the inn quarters now. When he didn’t find any papers, which he wouldn’t, because Miranda had them, he would return and demand more information. And not politely. He shivered with fear, then cursed himself vigorously. This was no time for that.

But he knew too well what men like de Vergesse were capable of towards those in their power. And why should he restrain himself, where self-admitted spies were concerned? No-one would care about spies, probably not even those who sent them, who would care mostly to avoid embarrassment.

Stop it. The brunt wouldn’t fall on him anyway. Not that that thought helped, in fact it made things worse. He’d take the punishment for both of them if he could ... but no chance of that. No. Stop dwelling on things. Think.

Thinking didn’t seem to be helping much, rather the reverse. So he straightened up, and started exploring the dim interior of the makeshift cell. And made a surprising discovery.

Against the far wall there had once been a window. Now a wooden cover, two planks roughly held together, covered it over. It was not very securely attached, shifted under his hands. A bit of work would probably pull it away from the wall completely. And the window was not so small. Almost certainly it was large enough for a man to get through.

Too easy. Surely it was far too easy. Every bone, every nerve and memory that had been made wary and distrustful through far too bitter experience cried out that this was far too easy. It had to be a trap of some kind. Didn’t it?

He crouched down in a corner, thoughts scurrying like rats. Escape? Remain? Surely it had to be a trap. But if it was not? What other chance might there be of escape? Perhaps none. Time was passing, the night must be almost half over now. And not just his own escape, it might well be Horatio’s only chance.

Horatio would be all right, he always was. Ah, but even the most wondrous luck had its limits. And perhaps this was the luck, perhaps it was up to him to seize the chance? But was it really likely de Vergesse would make such a foolish slip? It had to be a trap. But if it was not?

Round and round.… What kind of trap? What harm in trying? If it was one, then there had to be some harm. He wasn’t subtle enough to guess how de Vergesse’s mind might work. But he should not let himself be paralysed by indecision. But if the right decision was not to act? Round and round.

Footsteps. Drawing a long breath he stood up and braced himself, determined that when – if – the door opened he would not flinch. A flicker of humour told him he would feel pretty foolish if the footsteps walked on by.

They did not. However the intrusion hardly justified the effort he had taken to prepare himself. A guard appeared and dumped a pitcher of water and an empty tin bucket, looked him up and down briefly, then left again without a word. He heard the bolt scrape back into place with a once familiar constriction of the throat. Then – more footsteps, drawing near, not the guard retreating again. A greeting in French, it sounded informal.

His captors had made an effort to find out whether he spoke French. He hoped to have convinced them he did not. Now he moved close to the door, pressed himself against the rough wood, in an effort to hear what was passing between the men.

The French was rapid and colloquial, as well as being somewhat muffled despite the fact that the door was not well fitting. He could make out though that one of the men was baffled and irritated by the orders he had been given and was looking for enlightenment from his colleague.

Both pairs of footsteps moved away at last and Kennedy leaned against the door with closed eyes and tried to order the information that he had been given.

Fragments. “The General’s orders… keep watch…the other one… the window… way out… the other one… watch and see… find the truth.”

A pattern. A terrible pattern.

He’d been right it was a trap. Or a test. The way out deliberately left, to see what he would do when he discovered it. Another attempt to tell if he was in truth what he claimed. The man he claimed to be would run as soon as he escaped. But if he had lied, if he were a willing participant, especially an officer participant, such a man would make every effort to find and release his colleague. Of course he would.

De Vergesse’s test. Wherever Hornblower was held must be most carefully watched. To see if his fellow spy would attempt to free him.

And that meant… that meant if there was any chance of escape it could only be alone.

‘The mission comes first,’ Hornblower had said, and ‘understand me!’ He understood all right.

Damn you, Horatio. Damn you for doing this to me.

And damn the mission.… But he couldn’t damn the mission. No, he couldn’t remember the devastation he had seen in war torn France and risk missing a chance to avert that for his homeland. It was too easy to picture.

Besides, he always did what Horatio asked, didn’t he?

Damn you, Horatio. But he was damning Horatio, by leaving him to De Vergesse’s hands.

He would do it. He had no choice about doing it.

Whether he’d be able to live with it afterwards was another matter.

Fourteen

Of course none of it would be of any use if he was caught. And he did not suppose that de Vergesse really wanted either prisoner to slip through his fingers.

He needed to think about this. There wouldn’t be a guard right outside, de Vergesse would need his victim to be unwary. Very well, then, the first step had to be to get outside and see what was there. He only retained a vague memory of the building from the evening gloom in which he had been hustled inside. His own fault that, he should have concentrated harder. But now he needed to get out.

The board came away quite quickly and quietly and there was no glass in the aperture. Getting up to it was not so easy, nor was squeezing through, he felt uncomfortably like a cork in a bottle, and could not forbear from picturing how horribly caught he’d be if a guard should happen along whilst he was halfway through.

By the time he was out his heart was hammering so loud it seemed that half of Spain must hear. But no-one came. First step accomplished, but that was the easiest. Arranged for him indeed.

Another shocking thought, what if the overheard talk had been a trap, a further subtlety of de Vergesse? Could it be so? Perhaps – but surely unlikely, he’d only just caught the vital words, surely de Vergesse would have made the conversation plainer if that were his intent. No, it was more likely that even the subtlest of plans could be let down by relying on fallible humans. Anyway, he was committed now.

He was in a courtyard. The main body of the villa was to his right, wings stretched out from it behind and directly opposite. To his left, a couple of outbuildings almost closed the square but not quite, a wide gap between them gave out on what he believed from his dim memories of being brought here to be open country. Now, what would de Vergesse be prepared for?

The obvious thing was to head straight for that gap to the outside world. So that was just what he must not do, it was sure to be guarded. He slipped along the inner wall instead.

This was no private house. The ground floor windows had bars on them, and surely there would be no door that was not either locked or watched. That left only one possibility. Yes, most of the upper floor windows on the main building were open, letting in the cool of the Spanish night, anyone who kept his windows shut in this country would stifle. And there, in the corner where the main building joined the wing, a convenient drainpipe. He must chance being seen. Even if he was, any watcher would probably assume he meant to look for his companion.

No. There wouldn’t be a chance. That decision had already been made.

It was not a particularly difficult climb and the room inside was entirely empty. It was the work of a few moments to slip out of the room, across the corridor, and into another, equally empty, on the other side. Up with the window, and out. He let himself dangle by his hands, willing his body to relax, then dropped. Fortunately it was grass beneath, he landed a trifle jarred but otherwise unhurt.

With any luck that would be one thing de Vergesse hadn’t expected. But he could not linger. A fast escape then, and a roundabout one, to shake any pursuit there might be.

Don’t look behind. Don’t think. Just go.

There were enough stars out still for him to get his bearings easily. There was only one possible place to head for, the village where Miranda and his companions were established. They had to be warned. They had to know what had happened, so a plan could be formed to act upon it. Which was why he had to do this, when every fibre screamed against it.

~~#~~

It took hours. Skirting Burgos carefully, taking as many precautions as were reasonably possible to ensure that he was not being tracked by de Vergesse’s men, doing all of this without drawing undue attention – he hoped – from the Spaniards, and finally locating the inn he needed, all of that was slow and taxing. And left far too much time for imagination to run riot. De Vergesse must have learned of his disappearance by now, and he had an easy target for the inevitable anger….

But he had to keep his thoughts reigned in, had to avoid any slip in concentration.

Fortune was with him for once, there was only one inn in the small village, and Escudero was actually leaning against a wall outside.

Whatever else one might say about the South Americans, they were not easily perturbed.

“If this man does not know about us then we still have an advantage,” Miranda said, his countenance as confident as ever. “He knows nothing of the real purpose of the mission, so it should still be possible to intercept the couriers.”

“We’ve lost both our substitutes, though,” Kennedy said grimly. “So unless we can swap the dispatches without the men knowing – which would be very difficult – someone else will have to take on the task. Who amongst you has the best French?”

“Unless you have a good reason otherwise, Commander,” Miranda said, “I believe you should take the dispatches. You have the most need to be away from here quickly.”

“I’m not sure my French is up to it.” A pretext. He was very reluctant to leave Burgos.

“Not all of Bonaparte’s officers speak French as their first language. And I believe the risk must be taken. Of those of us who remain I am the only one with a fluent command of the tongue, and I am rather too old for rapid rides.”

“There’s getting to be too many risks.” The truth was that he hadn’t given up hope of somehow getting Horatio out of de Vergesse’s clutches. “We needn’t decide before the couriers show up though. In the meantime, what about de Vergesse – and what about Captain Hornblower?” Now he had allies again the position was starting to look rather less hopeless than it had seemed last night.

“We can’t just abandon him,” he said flatly, reaching the decision in the same breath that he uttered the words. “There has to be a way.”

Now the resolution had been made, he was prepared to argue long and hard, but Miranda surprised him by saying immediately, “Yes, you are right. There has to be a way. We do have one great advantage, and that is myself. De Vergesse knows nothing about me. But if we are to act it must be fast.”

“Yes, it must be fast, but how? A raid on the place? I don’t like the odds. He may not know about you, but if he’s the man I take him for, he’ll be prepared for something.” He did not at all like the fact that he seemed to be arguing against the proposal, but a failed attempt would be worse than no attempt.

“Then,” said Miranda, “we must find a way to reduce the odds.”

~~#~~

They were not yet done with surprises.

“Are you sure?” Miranda asked his valet later in the day.

Torrellos, just returned from Burgos, was quite sure.

“I suppose we should have expected it,” said Kennedy, eyes bright with tension, “Troubles never come by single spies, but whole battalions.” Seeing Torrellos look blank, he added, “or in the vernacular, it never rains but it pours.”

The valet stared at him for a moment, still uncomprehending, then said, “We will need to plan rapidly.”

“Yes. We will.” Here was the crux, the moment so much more important than anything in his career or life so far. He was a little annoyed with himself for feeling relief that his companions seemed so thoroughly equal to the situation, producing plans as calmly as though it were a matter of everyday. At the same time it was easy to regret having felt even the slightest suspicion of these men, however reasonable it might have seemed. Yet there was little time for such feelings, and it had not surprised him when Miranda brushed aside his attempts at thanks. Probably they would part on similarly hasty terms and he would never see the men again and that had to be accepted.

Now there was room for concentration on one thing only. They had to get this right.

But not, please Heaven, at the cost of Horatio’s life.

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