*The Crisis*

 

Part Two

 

Fifteen

 

The cellar was utterly dark.

 

He was in pain, of a kind he had only known once before in his life.  They had beaten him in the attempt to get information.  Not very original, yet it certainly hurt. But he was sure he hadn’t told them anything.  Not yet.

 

He knew it had been only the first step.  De Vergesse had told him so, quite clinically, making it plain the process of breaking captives was not new to him.  He was prepared to take his time.

 

They had given him no food and very little water, just a small amount to revive him during the questioning.  He was very thirsty now, and that, more than anything else, was a source of fear.  He knew shortage of water very often deprived a man of reason.  Who knew what he might be letting out in another day?

 

Perhaps, if the others moved quickly enough… but try as he might, he could feel no firm confidence in that.  They could not intercept a courier until a courier came. 

 

He wished he could stop thinking about water.

 

They were going to kill him.  No doubt of that.  They were going to choke the life out of him slowly and horribly, and he was terrified his courage would not hold up when it came to the point.  More than anything he was afraid of dying badly.  Of collapsing with fear, perhaps even begging at the last.

 

At least it would be – no, might be – just his own death.  De Vergesse had told him of his ‘desertion’ by his fellow spy.  A mistake of de Vergesse, for that knowledge was a consolation he clung to through the hours, if they were hours.  How could he tell with no light?

 

He could not stop thinking about water, thinking of the feel of it in mouth and throat, the cool smell so seldom noticed, the touch of it on hands and face.  Great casks of drinking water on ship-board, the cool, clear water drawn from the well of his childhood home, water running in a clear stream, water falling in a downpour, gushing through the metal grill above his head.…

 

At least this was not as bad as the oubliette.  Was it?  He could move freely, at least.  But he could not see, he could not see at all, and the dark was starting to undermine his sense of who he was.  It was as if his intrinsic self was somehow leaking away into the darkness, leaving – what?  He did not know.

 

They were going to kill him.  And de Vergesse was quite capable of making sure that England learned how and why he had died.  A deliberately shameful end, a failure, perhaps a coward.  Pellew who had done so much for him; Bush, who had willingly accepted the leadership of a man formerly his junior; Matthews, Styles and the other men who had followed him loyally....  What would they think of such an end?

 

Would Archie and the others be safe?  He did not know.  Unless the couriers came very soon the chances of the mission succeeding were now slim indeed.  He found himself hoping they would have the sense to abandon, and then cursed himself.  This mission might be the only hope of averting invasion.  The only hope for England....

 

‘What do you think of when you speak of England?….’  Words he had not understood at the time returned to him now with haunting force.  He tried to block them but could not.  He ought to have an answer, a certainty to lean on, a conviction to sustain him with the knowledge that his death, however unpleasant, was for England.  Yet there was no answer for him.  ‘What do you think of when you speak of England?….’ Here in the dark he knew he did not know.  He thought of invasion, and he did not know what to picture, what to fear, what to hate.  He knew only what he should feel, not how to feel it.

 

But he did not think he could bear to die with Archie’s death on his conscience.

 

They were haunting him.  D’Atigny and Levallier and all the deaths further in the past, and the ones that might lie in the future that he had helped to shape.  So much blood and there was no escape from it here.

 

He ought to pray, he knew.  He should be able to find support in praying, for Archie, for England, even for himself, that he should have the strength to die well.  He had tried to be religious in the past, not vocally pious but a sincere worshipper at service, because he knew it was expected of him.  That it was part of what a naval officer ought to be.  Yet he knew his piety to be essentially a thing of convention, of outward form and not of inner conviction.  More and more as the years passed he had known himself to be going through the motions of religion, with no belief behind the words.  Prayer would be no help to him now. 

 

The deeper shock was that his patriotism had been like his piety.  He had spoken the words of dedication to king and country because he knew they were expected of him.  That was all.  They were no use to him now, they held no meaning.

 

His soul was bleeding away into the dark.  What would there be left when de Vergesse came back?

 

He must not betray the others.  He must not.  He had conceived the mission, he had failed to spot the traitor in their midst, he had not learned what was troubling Levallier, and now one man was dead for his mistakes, and his only hope was to protect the others who were left.  Faith to Kennedy and those troublesome South Americans was all that remained to him now.  And the hope of keeping it.

 

And perhaps… of not disgracing his old shipmates in his death.  But he had little confidence there, and greater dread of their knowing how he died.  As a spy.

 

He was so very thirsty and he could not stop thinking of water.  And he could not tell if it were in truth cold or if the shivering he could not stop were from some other cause.  And de Vergesse would be coming back.…  If he stayed still it was not so painful, but if he moved, then it was bad.  Had it been as bad as this that time on Justinian?  He could not stop being afraid of what would happen when de Vergesse came back and he hated himself for it.

 

He had always dreaded physical pain.  A terrible weakness in a naval officer.  How humiliating to have others think him brave, when he had always known he was a secret coward.

 

He had thought of taking his own life before he could break, but there were no means here.  He had thought of provoking de Vergesse into killing him, but thought it unlikely that would work.  He could only wait now.

 

They were going to kill him.  And he was desperately afraid.

 

          ~~#~~

 

There was enough remaining of the lover of good things Etienne de Vergesse had been before he grew to love ambition more for him to relish a good meal, and the meals here were always good for he saw to it they should be.  Good company was welcome also, whether expected or not, and for a variety of reasons de Vergesse’s company was frequently not expected.

 

Today’s visitor had been no exception, but de Vergesse had had no hesitation in inviting him to dine.  Social occasions could be a rich source of information, and information was one of the reasons he was here.  A Spaniard from South America, with pretensions at least to nobility, returned to Spain due to the extremely unsettled state of affairs overseas and looking to settle down there; this man was something new in de Vergesse’s experience, and he would not pass up chance of increasing knowledge, any knowledge.  It did not surprise him that the man should have chosen to visit and pay his respects after hearing of the presence of General de Vergesse in the area.  Quite a lot of people found it politic to do exactly that. 

 

Of course he did not speak to his guest of the prisoner confined downstairs.  They passed a very pleasant meal.

 

In the meantime de Vergesse’s servants were quite unsuspicious of the general factotum (Escudero had found it politic to play down his status).  He seemed a pleasant man, and willing to gossip in a mild way.  A couple of de Vergesse’s servants were themselves professional gatherers of information, and their suspicions might have been aroused if Escudero had shown any marked curiosity; however he did not.

 

Neither de Vergesse nor anyone else had suspected any involvement of South Americans in the spying mission they had uncovered.

 

          ~~#~~

 

Sound.  Someone approaching.

 

He still could not see, but the knowledge of some other presence seemed to jerk him back, into some sort of proper awareness.  He was still afraid, a hideous, shameful fear that clutched him like disease, but he was conscious also that he was a post-captain in the British Navy, and it was up to him to act like one.  No-one would ever know the effort it cost him to stand, but he succeeded and, though he could not quite stop the shaking, he managed to keep his head up.  He would do what he could to hold out, for as long as he could. 

 

To his anger he flinched as the door opened, not through fear, but from the pain of even a dim torchlight striking weakened eyes.  He had to turn his head away and almost close his eyelids.  But he managed, he just managed, to stand still, as the footsteps crossed the room and he waited for the voice of his captor.

 

“Here, drink this.”  Not de Vergesse, he only recognised that it was not the voice of de Vergesse.  He took the drink, hoping it was water, and choked on spirit.

 

“You look bad,” he still did not recognise the voice.

 

“Water?”  It was weakness to ask, but he was so very thirsty.

 

“Outside,” the voice said.  “Can you walk?”

 

Walk?  An odd question for one of de Vergesse’s minions.  His eyes had grown a little more used to the light now.  He squinted, and made out the features of Escudero. 

 

Afterwards he would wonder that he had not felt joy or relief.  He must have clamped down on emotion too successfully, for he merely felt puzzled.  Escudero should not be here.  That made no sense.  But he allowed the man to take his arm and help him out of the dark prison, up a flight of steps, and through a doorway into the cool air of the night outside.

 

Only then did realisation dawn.  “You should not have,” he managed, “the mission….”

 

“Has not been forgotten,” Escudero said. 

 

“But this is too risky,” Hornblower insisted dazedly, “It will give you away.”

 

“Not so risky as leaving you in the hands of that man.”  Escudero said bluntly.  “Try trusting us for a little.  Now can you ride?”

 

Hornblower considered.  In his current state he very much doubted he could board a horse, let alone stay on one.  Escudero must have read that in his silence, for he said, “Well, can you cling on?  I am certainly not prepared to take you back and lock you in again.”

 

Hornblower was in too much pain, and if he was honest, too much dread, to put up much resistance.  “I will do what I must,” he said grimly.

 

Sixteen

 

Torrellos would not have been Kennedy’s choice to share this vigil.

 

He knew perfectly well that he was far too nervy.  A great effort kept him from jumping up and pacing, but the desperate anxiety kept on bursting out.

 

“Suppose de Vergesse sees through the trick?  How can we know...”

 

“We cannot,” the valet said placidly.  “But there is no reason to think that he will.”

 

Calm good sense should have helped, in fact it just irritated. 

 

“But if he does?  If they don’t come?”

 

“We have agreed what must be done.”  Yes, they had agreed, but that wasn’t making it any easier.  Pragmatism told him the mission must come first, Horatio had told him that the mission must come first, but he did not see how he could bring himself to leave here with Horatio’s fate still unknown to him.

 

“If they don’t come.…”

 

“Calm yourself.”  Torellos said, “There is nothing to be done but wait.”  Kennedy suppressed the urge to hit him.

 

At last, sounds.  Someone on horseback, riding slowly.  Then a slow whistle, that unoriginal but useful signal.  Torellos had to respond, Kennedy’s lips were too dry.

 

Then they were there.

 

“Horatio!”  Barely remembering to keep his voice low, he helped to lift the swaying figure from the saddle.  Hornblower collapsed against him and he swore.  “What has he done to you?”

 

“I don’t think there’s any serious damage.”  It was Escudero who had answered, in a low voice.  “It is a pity he had to be moved.  But he will survive.”

 

Still, Kennedy had a hard time reigning in his fury.  He would have liked to go back to the place and – but he got a check on his thoughts at this point.  That wasn’t going to help.

 

A short rest and a drink of water and Hornblower had managed to recover enough to start taking notice again.

 

“How...?  What did you do?”

 

“You need to rest,” Kennedy said.  “We’ll have to be off again soon, I’m afraid.”

 

“I need to know.  This is my mission.”

 

Typical Horatio.   That, at least, was reassuring. “Well, it was actually Miranda’s idea.  He thought that, since de Vergesse didn’t know about him, he could call on the man without arousing any suspicions, just pretend that he was passing through the neighbourhood and angle for a dinner invitation.  And since you are here, I suppose it worked.”

 

“Yes, it worked,”  Escudero said.

 

“Miranda sent Torrellos back to town to purchase a certain medicine that isn’t good taken in large doses,” Kennedy went on.  He grinned openly.  “The idea was that Escudero should visit the kitchen and look for an opportunity to dose the food.”

 

“You poisoned them?”

 

“Just a little.  They will not die, but they will not enjoy themselves for the next few days.” Escudero said.

 

“Meanwhile the couriers chose this night of all nights to arrive at Burgos,” Kennedy went on.  “Luckily Torrellos had had the intelligence to keep up with the friends he’d made in town.  So it’s all on one throw of the dice.”  He grinned again, the same reckless smile Hornblower remembered seeing sometimes in the thick of action.  He didn’t feel much like smiling himself, even aside from the pain.

 

“Who will substitute?”

 

“We will,” said Kennedy.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to change your clothes.”

 

There had been some thought given before leaving England as to how the matter of uniforms should be dealt with.  Luckily most items of uniform clothing were not so different from civilian dress.  The coats had been the main difficulty, the solution in the end had been to take coats of the right shade for French uniforms but with different cut and buttons, just in case the baggage should be searched.  Miranda had assured the others that his valet had sufficient skill to provide the necessary alterations at very short notice.  It seemed he had done the party proud, not only making the needed changes, but also altering coats originally intended for d’Atigny and Levallier to provide a reasonable fit for the British. 

 

“I can’t come with you,” Hornblower objected.  “How can we explain….”

 

“We’ll have to say it’s an illness,”  Kennedy said, “Luckily he hasn’t marked your face.”  The last words were spoken with a sharpness that barely covered a hard struggle to keep control.  “We need to get you away in any case.”

 

“Wait, what about the rest of – you,” he just remembered the Spaniards were there in time to say ‘you’ not ‘them’.  “When de Vergesse recovers…”

 

“I do not think he will suspect,” Escudero said, “Such things do happen naturally, and since the General will have been taken ill also.…”  he let the sentence trail off in explanation. 

 

“He will?”  Hornblower said, “That was.…”

 

“Well-advised,” said Escudero.

 

Changing was painful, but he managed it.  It was a humiliation that at the end his hands were shaking too much to comb his own hair, and he had to let Archie do it, whilst he took steady breaths in an effort to regain some control. Ready at last, he just wanted to sink down and close his eyes, but stubbornly refused.  This was his mission, and he needed to keep an eye on it.

 

Nor would his thoughts let him rest.  Things that had faded when he believed he was about to die suddenly assumed much more importance.  “Who would have thought,” he said aloud, “D’Atigny, I mean.”

 

Kennedy gave him a considering look, then decided it would be better to play along than to try and convince Hornblower to keep quiet and rest. 

 

“You couldn’t have known, Horatio.  He had us all fooled.”

 

Except Levallier, Hornblower thought, but did not say.  “But a man of his birth and background turning spy, and for that upstart Bonaparte.  That’s what I can’t understand.”

 

“Does it matter?”  Escudero asked.  He moved briefly a little way forward, peering down at the road which ran between high banks below the place where they waited, before, apparently satisfied, returning to his place. 

 

From a practical point of view the answer was ‘no’,  but after another look at his friend’s face, Kennedy said slowly, “I can see his point of view, in a way.  The French royalists aren’t exactly an inspiring bunch.  And if I was French, well, what would there be to say against Bonaparte, except that his surname isn’t Bourbon?”

 

“The man’s a tyrant!”  said Hornblower, rather too sharply for safety, he must remember to keep his voice down.  Or did he just want to think that, to believe in the war that he was fighting?  How much did he really know?  “Isn’t he?”  He cursed the doubt in the words the instant they were spoken.

 

“Is he any more so than the French kings were?”  Kennedy shrugged.  “I can see why d’Atigny would think he was being patriotic.  But he could have gone over to France openly, instead of betraying his allies.  That’s what sticks in my caw.”

 

“We’re hardly in a position to complain about spying,” Hornblower said grimly.  Patriotism… he thought.  What did he fight for, when he fought for England?  The dawn light was gradually gathering around them, sun-up could not be far away, nor could the crucial moment for which they were waiting.

 

“What do you consider your country?”  he asked Escudero abruptly.  “What do you fight for?”

 

“Country?”  Escudero made a dismissive gesture.  “How can one fight for a country?  A country is a thing of rocks and earth and grass.  How can one fight for that?  One can fight for people or for a principle or for a way of life.  Not for a country.”

 

Hornblower frankly stared.  “What else do you think men fight for?”  he asked blankly. 

 

“I could not say.  M. Levallier fought to put a certain group of people back in power.  You two gentlemen…”  Escudero shrugged again, “What you call a fight for country may be in fact a fight to keep a form of government unchallenged, to bring renewed power and glory to those who rule.  I do not know you well enough to say.”  Again he raised himself, Torrellos, ignoring the conversation, was keeping a keen eye on the road, but some nervousness seemed to be affecting even the usually imperturbable secretary.

 

“Years ago,”  Kennedy said, partly, but only partly, to keep the talk going, “I saw in France what happens in a country rent by invasion and conflict.  I would do much to keep that from happening in my homeland.  Do you not call that fighting for a country?”

 

“I call that fighting for people,” said Escudero, “Fighting to prevent suffering.  It’s a good reason.”

 

“And what of honour?”  Hornblower asked uneasily.  He felt sure there must be a flaw in Escudero’s argument somewhere, but he could not, for the moment, see where it was.  He wished he could get some understanding of these South Americans.  Although their worth to the mission was now beyond doubt, he still could not feel at ease with them.

 

“Honour?  That can mean so many things.  To fight from loyalty to one’s comrades, that is a good reason. To fight for fame and reputation… why not?  Fight for glory if you will, fight for rank, fight for money.  But be honest about it, don’t be what you English call a ‘mawworm.’”

 

“A what?”  Hornblower was not familiar with that bit of slang.

 

“A hypocrite, Horatio,”  Kennedy told him.  He eyed Escudero thoughtfully, a corner of his mind alive to the peculiarity of conducting this talk in such a time and place.  “Does the General know of your opinions on patriotism?”

 

“We have not discussed it,” Escudero replied.  “However I believe the General often becomes impatient with what passes for patriotism in your own country.  He believes that your governments should put the cause of liberty for their fellow men before their own self-interest.”

 

“He is an optimist then,” said Kennedy dryly.

 

Hornblower considered.  “Perhaps not that exactly.  You remember what you said, Archie, about Miranda seeing himself as a god in the machine.  That’s dangerous.  Dangerous to him.  He looks down on what he sees as lesser mortals.  He doesn’t really think about them, doesn’t consider what they may do.”

 

Kennedy looked at him in surprise.  “I think you’re right.”  It was an unusually acute piece of insight for Horatio.

 

“I think so too,” Escudero sighed, and there was a worn look upon his face.  “He is a great man, but I fear for him.”

 

“But you stay,” said Kennedy.

 

“If he cannot guard himself, others must try.  But I fear, one day, it will not be enough.”

 

“You must thank him for me, when you return,” Hornblower said, trying to lighten the conversation a little.  “We would most certainly have been lost without him.”

 

Escudero smiled, “I will thank him.” 

 

He might have been about to say more, but at that moment Torrellos made a sound like “Hisst!” and the whole party stiffened.  Hornblower realised with a jolt that the real reason for their presence here had nearly faded from his mind in his absorption.  He must not allow himself to be so careless again.

 

Seventeen

 

“Stay here!”  Kennedy whispered.  Hornblower was about to refuse, but the act of movement as he half-rose sent pain spurting through him and common sense won out.  This must be left to the able-bodied, much though he loathed to do so.

 

One of the oldest tricks in the book.  The cord stretched over the road, then pulled tight as the horses came abreast.  Kennedy had fastened one end round a tree, the other had been looped carefully about a trunk, knotted in such a way that once pulled tight it should be able to take the strain of two riders galloping.  After that, they would be easy prey.

 

He was ashamed of himself for being glad that he was out of this part.  It had been his idea, he should bear his share of the guilt.  Guilt?  Yes, it did feel that way.  They were enemies of war, yet this felt uncommonly like cold-blooded murder.

 

D’Atigny’s body lay before him, with blood spurting from the throat wound.  He had never had a chance.  And Hornblower had not had a choice.  But he would dream of it, he knew he would dream of it.  A better end than execution as a spy, which British law would have demanded.  But he was not the law.

 

And it was different, killing a man that you knew, someone that you had talked and eaten and shared jests with, even when that person had been lying with every second word he spoke.  Far different from killing the stranger who sought your life in impersonal battle.

 

Not that he had ever found the act of killing easy to bear.  He’d been physically sick, after the first time he had run a man through.  There were times when a reputation for seasickness covered a multitude of sins.  He’d never understood how Archie could take killing men so blithely.

 

Except that Kennedy was what he was not.  A born fighting man.  He’d often envied that.

 

Silence.  The hoofbeats he had heard moments earlier had stopped.  Two Frenchmen he might have respected, even liked, if he had met them face to face were either dead or would be very shortly.  For England.  But – what do you think of when you think of England?

 

They were back.  Kennedy and Escudero had been the ones who slipped down into the road.  The secretary seemed quite unperturbed, and Hornblower wondered if he had killed before.  Had Escudero seen action, in the course of his long pursuit of Miranda’s dream?  He would likely never know now.

 

A limp body with a knife wound was dumped carelessly beside him, the two men vanished again and returned with a second.  By the time they were back Hornblower had fought down his nausea.

 

“What do we do with them?  If they are found.…”

 

“There a bit of a gully, just over that way,” Kennedy told him.  “With luck it should delay discovery a few days at least.”

 

“And we will dispose of the uniforms,” Escudero said.  “That way, even if found, they may not be identified.”

 

Kennedy gave an exclamation of satisfaction as he produced a sealed packet.  “The dispatches!”  He looked at Hornblower.  “Should we take these back?”

 

“No.  Too risky.”  He looked at Escudero.  “Get rid of them.”  The Spaniard nodded.  For all his unorthodox views, he’d make a good officer. 

 

“We’ll need the hats,” Kennedy said.  “I think that’s everything – best not lose time.”

 

Hornblower drew a deep breath.  “I can’t come with you.  It’s too risky.  I’ll stay and take my chance.

 

“Oh no, you will not,” Kennedy said roundly.  “I’m not leaving you here.”

 

“As a matter of duty to the mission –”

 

“There are other kinds of responsibility, Horatio.  What about your wife and child?” 

 

Hornblower felt as though in a calm sea he had just felt the ship beneath him strike a rock.  In all the hours that had passed he had not given a single thought to Maria and the small Horatio.  Faced with his own death, he had forgotten his wife and son completely.  The knowledge was horrifying.

 

“You owe it to them to preserve your own life,” Kennedy was saying, but Hornblower was too shaken to properly hear the words.  How could he have forgotten.  How could he?  Had he not wanted to remember?  Yet he had remembered those others who mattered to him.

 

A hand gripped his shoulder firmly.  “I’m not going to stand here arguing,” Kennedy told him flatly.  “Now, are you coming, or do I have to knock you out and haul you along as extra baggage?”

 

“That would be mutiny,” Hornblower said mechanically, his mind still reeling from the words just spoken. 

 

“Charge me when we get back.  Now, can you ride alone?”

 

Hornblower confronted the question with as much detachment as he could muster, and was bound to admit that he did not think he could. 

 

“Then we’ll have to share.  Lucky you’re so thin.  You came down ill, on the road and I don’t trust Spanish inns enough to leave you there.  That should serve.  Now...”  With a bit of help from Escudero and Torrellos he managed to get Hornblower in front of him on the sturdier looking of the two horses and took the bridle of the other. 

 

“Good luck,” Escudero told them seriously.

 

“You too.”  Kennedy kicked his heels into the horse’s sides, and they were away.

 

Eighteen

 

At first Hornblower was only conscious that he was in pain.  Dull pain, that must be an old hurt, not a recent one. 

 

“Horatio.”  He knew the voice, and for a few moments he knew very well that he was in the sick-berth on Justinian, and that he did not want to have to wake up fully and face what had been done to him.

 

“Horatio.”  Urgent but low, there was a hand gripping his shoulder, “I’m sorry, but you have to wake up.”  Reluctantly he opened his eyes.

 

And the world adjusted with a jolt.  This wasn’t a ship, and the man in front of him wasn’t seventeen.  As remembrance came he had to close his eyes, fighting against his body’s dread of the day that lay ahead.

 

“Horatio!”  Sharp concern in his friend’s voice now.  “Are you with me at all?”

 

“Yes!”  Truth was it was taking slightly longer than he wanted for Captain Hornblower to replace Midshipman Hornblower.  “I can manage.”  He actually felt worse than he had yesterday, and that too was something he remembered, the stiffening of the limbs.  What he couldn’t remember was how long it had lasted before.  But he recalled, more vividly than he had for years, why he had been prepared to throw away his life, rather than risk another such beating.  Because he dreaded pain.  Because Simpson would have broken him, and he could not bear the prospect…. And de Vergesse.…  He forced away the fear of what he might have done.

 

He managed to sit up unaided, despite the protests of his body.  He had some dim remembrance now of arriving at an inn and being helped upstairs.  He must have fallen unconscious directly.  Observation informed him that only coat, boots and neckcloth had been discarded, and he couldn’t remember removing those. 

 

“Do we need to be on the road straight away?”  He hoped, but hardly believed, that the dread of future journeying had been expelled from his voice.  He hated to show physical weakness, even in front of Kennedy.  Perhaps especially in front of Archie, who could hide such weakness better than anyone he’d ever known.  (Practice, murmured a voice in his head.  It didn’t help.)

 

“There’s time for breakfast.  What can you manage?”  He hated to say it, but there was only one sensible reply,

 

“Nothing.  Coffee, perhaps, if they have it.  But if I try food it’ll just… come back.  On the road.”

 

“Horatio, you haven’t eaten since we were taken.”

 

“I’ll last!” he snapped.  Then, realising that had not sounded very controlled, “I’ll eat tonight.”  Thanks to his seasickness, it would not be the first time he had gone without food for days.

 

          ~~#~~

 

To his own annoyance, Hornblower was not capable even of protesting the discovery that Kennedy had hired a chaise rather than horses for this day’s journey.  He was sure it would be slower, but he also knew he could not making a convincing job of arguing for horseback travel.

 

“Settle down.”  He’d forgotten that Kennedy’s ability to read his thoughts could occasionally be quite annoying.  “I’ve been assured we’ll be at Ferrol by nightfall.  That’s as much as we could aim for.”  To his further infuriation the prospect of the mission’s successful completion loomed less large for him than the prospect of a day’s extreme discomfort.  There seemed to be something fundamentally wrong about his inability to detach himself from his body’s complaints.  He felt that he ought to possess more willpower.

 

“Talk to me,” he said abruptly, a few minutes after departure.  Anything to distract his mind, and give him a chance of concealing the weakness of his body.

 

“What about?”

 

“Anything,”  Hornblower grated.

 

Kennedy cast around for a few moments.  “I wonder what old Massaredo’s doing these days?”

 

“Just as long as he’s not still at Ferrol!”  said Hornblower, struck by a worry that hadn’t even occurred to him until now.

 

“Unlikely, I should say.  Wonder what he thinks of Bonaparte?”  Getting no reply Kennedy answered his own question.  “Probably that the man’s a vulgar upstart.  Come to think, he didn’t seem the type of man to be pleased by Spain having allied itself with Republicans in the first place.  Although that’s just a guess, I never knew him.”

 

“Neither did I.”

 

“The two of you seemed to hit it off well enough.”

 

“Well, there was no point in being rude to the man was there?  But I wouldn’t have wanted him for my commanding officer.”

 

“Neither would I,” Kennedy agreed.  “Be rather like serving under old Keene, I’d imagine.  He’s probably sidelined back to his estates by now, depending on how much influence Bonaparte and his cohorts have in Spain.  Whatever one may say against Bonaparte, he’s efficient, I doubt he’d want to leave a key position in Massaredo’s hands.”

 

Hornblower leaned his head back against the squabs, and briefly closed his eyes, concentrating rigidly on the present line of thought.  “Makes me wonder,” he said, “how many of the Spaniards do like being allied with Bonaparte?  I would think there’d be quite a lot of Don Massaredo’s in a country like Spain.”

 

“That’s an interesting question,” Kennedy said.  “But not really our concern.”

 

 Hornblower, however, was not about to let the distraction go so easily.  “It might be one day.  Any division among our opponents might lead to something useful.”

 

“We’d need more than the two simply rubbing each other the wrong way,” Kennedy was prepared to keep the discussion going for as long as Hornblower wanted.  “Do you think there’s any chance of that?”

 

The topic of whether the alliance between French and Spanish would hold soon grew repetitive, but nonetheless lasted them quite nicely, until pain and exhaustion finally forced Hornblower into silence.  Deprived of distraction, there was nothing to be done then, but grit his teeth, and feel ashamed of his own weakness in hoping he could faint soon.

 

Kennedy slipped an arm beneath his friend to support him, slightly worried that Horatio made no kind of protest.  He still felt the same boiling, pointless fury, coupled with a painful sense of just how Horatio must be feeling.  At least there had been no lasting damage.

 

The sooner they were through with this business the better pleased he’d be.  He’d never expected to enjoy this mission but it was getting worse with every passing day.  Success, not to mention survival, now rested on the chance of whether he could convincingly impersonate a French officer, and he was by no means confident of that.

 

He wasn’t sorry he’d come though.  How could he have let Horatio face this alone?  He’d needed someone to stop him making a sacrifice of himself, just as Kennedy had anticipated.  And if he was any judge of his old friend, Hornblower would shortly be tormenting himself – if he wasn’t already – for having failed to spot d’Atigny’s treachery, and thereby holding himself responsible for Levallier’s death.  Being Horatio he might even be feeling guilty about d’Atigny.  No, he was not sorry he had come.

 

The coach jolted with particular violence, and he steadied his friend as best he could, but Hornblower seemed quite unconscious now.  Kennedy sighed a little, and wished for both their sakes that Horatio had been able to keep up the conversation.  The company of his own thoughts was not something he wanted just at the moment. El Ferrol was not exactly high on the list of places he would have chosen to revisit.  He wasn’t proud of having tried to starve himself to death.  And if he failed to pull this off he might yet die in Ferrol after all, which was an ironic thought but not a comforting one.

 

He’d hold together.  He had to.  Falling apart now was simply not acceptable.

 

Nineteen

 

El Ferrol in evening sun.  It should have looked familiar, but he’d not been used to see it from this angle.  Not even in the last weeks of captivity, when Massaredo had been pleased enough by their return to allow all the men limited parole on the basis of Lt Hornblower’s word.  His mental picture of the place was still extremely limited.  Confined might be a better word.

 

Horatio, summoning reserves of stubbornness, had managed to make it to a bedchamber on his own feet, although not without assistance.  The landlord appeared to have swallowed their cover story quite satisfactorily, which was one good thing.  The next couple of hours were going to be stand or fall time with a vengeance.

 

“I wish I could go with you,” Hornblower said in tones of considerable annoyance.  Kennedy knew him well enough not to take that as a reflection on his own competence, it was simply a dislike of being left out of things.

 

“If it’s any consolation to you, Horatio, if I get arrested you won’t be far behind.”

 

“You are not going to get arrested,” Hornblower said firmly.  “You can do this, Archie.  Think of it as Drury Lane.”

 

He recognised the deliberate attempt at reassurance, but felt a little lifted, less by the words than by the thought behind them.  “Better waste no time then.”  He attempted a smile, but it came out crooked.  In battle he had long since learned the trick of riding his sense of danger as a well-handled ship could ride a troubled sea, to use it as a source of strength and energy, not of crippling terror.  But this was not a battle, and there was too much riding on the outcome for him to feel any trace of the familiar thrill.  He would have to rely on control.  “Wish me luck.”

 

“I do – but you won’t need it.”  Kennedy could not forbear from a slight shake of the head.  Neither of them believed that.

 

          ~~#~~

 

Some might have thought the town of Ferrol picturesque, but Kennedy preferred more familiar views.  The dirty-green waters of the southern English ports, the cool, stark hillsides of his childhood country, or any of the varied streets of London… he dared not let his thoughts dwell upon those places.  The steep streets he strode through were far too hot, but it was not just the heat that was soaking the roots of his hair and making his shirt stick to him beneath his uniform coat.  The place was uncomfortably busy, also.  Mostly Spanish citizens, a few French seamen, no officers in sight at least.  El Ferrol was crowded, and not very good tempered about it, although Kennedy was too preoccupied to give much thought to that, or to pay attention to the fact that the locals and the outsiders were not mixing much.

 

A small bothy did catch his eye.  The trader was selling odds and ends of clothing, most prominently displayed amongst them a number of French red caps of liberty. A hopeful ploy to attract the custom of French sailors, perhaps.  Although no expert, he was aware that Spanish sentiment was far from Republican, still, there would most likely be a few who desired to pay court to the stronger party.  At almost any other time, he might have been amused, but not at this moment.  The trader caught his eye, and made an odd motion, halfway between a bow and a salute.  He strode on hastily, wishing he did not feel so visible.  No matter how much he told himself others would see only a French officer, he felt as though somehow the fact of his imposture would be plain to any who looked closely.

 

So much riding on this – and he had never been an actor by temperament.  The most he could do was clamp down on emotion, lock it away.  He could not fake things that he did not feel.  Yet perhaps rigid formality would be enough, there must be stiffly correct officers in the French armies.  He twitched his jacket, trying to pull it straighter, and was glad it had not been stripped from the dead man’s corpse.  The knowledge of having cut a man’s throat in cold blood, however good the cause, was chilling.  In battle it was kill or be killed and he had had no trouble with it from the first, but that killing had been a lot harder to justify in his own mind. 

 

Well, it was done and he was prepared to live with it, but he did not intend to simply push the doubt aside.  That would be too easy and dangerous a course.  Yet for the moment he had to concentrate on the present and that was not easy, for uncertainty over his next move was threatening to rouse something close to panic. 

 

Where would Villeneuve be?  In all the preparations he had never given thought to that.  Where?  He could not just run around the town like an errand-boy, lost and uncertain. Hands clenching, he mastered his thoughts with something of an effort.  Where would a British Admiral in Villeneuve’s place be found?  Either on ship-board or at the shore headquarters, and one thing he did know about Ferrol was where those were.  And if he picked wrong at first guess, well a French courier might do that also, particularly a courier who was a man of the army, not the sea.

 

The fortress, then.  An army man would likely go there to the fortress first.  If Villeneuve was not there, then they would know where he was. 

 

But Villeneuve was there.

 

The man looked ill, was Kennedy’s first reaction.  Or perhaps not ill so much as worn down to the point of physical collapse.  Villeneuve was a big man, who should have exuded solid reassurance; instead he was haggard, the flesh on his body seeming to sag inwards from his powerful frame.  That was understandable, if Kennedy had had Nelson on his tail for months then he’d be feeling ill as well.  More to the point: that was useful.

 

Not all his time on shipboard during the voyage here had been devoted to simple conversation.  Both he and Hornblower had had long sessions with the two French officers, trying to work up their language skills in case it should be needed.  Tone-deaf Horatio had made no real improvement in accent, but Kennedy believed he had, at least Levallier had been wincing less by the voyage’s end.  It had occurred to him since that, whatever his other faults, Levallier must have been quite a good teacher.  Appropriate, then, that his lessons might posthumously frustrate his murderer.

 

On the other hand, after two minutes in Villeneuve’s company he concluded that a Chinaman might conceivably have delivered the message without the exhausted French admiral noticing the slightest thing amiss.  All Villeneuve cared for was the contents, which seemed to rouse him to an indiscreet despair.

 

“Sail out to Cadiz!” he protested in French.  “He has no idea, no idea at all.  Does he think it so easy to slip a blockade?”  Kennedy maintained a stolid demeanour whilst Villeneuve distractedly pushed a hand into his own hair.  “And what should I do there?   Why should he want me in Cadiz?  He has no idea at all of the Navy, of commanding a sea-fleet.  No idea.”

 

Now that was interesting.  Villeneuve must be in a bad way indeed to so openly criticise the Emperor.  The man was not far off breaking point.  Kennedy wondered what morale was like among the fleet, and how far down the commanding admiral’s despair had penetrated.

 

In some respects it would have been interesting to pursue that, but in fact he was relieved to find the interview was not to be prolonged.  Villeneuve, seeming almost to recall his presence, uttered a hasty, “Very well, Captain, that will be all.  You may go now.”

 

“Sir,” he saluted formally, lost no time at all in quitting the room, and once outside, actually found himself sagging for a second against the wall, whilst breathing came hard from sheer relief.

 

So easy.  All that worry and – so easy.  It was almost frightening, for after everything that had happened he could not believe the actual hand-over had really been as easy as that.  He had been somehow expecting the climax of the mission to have the impact of a battle, but instead it had been no more than a few exchanged words with a man too exhausted to even look at him properly.  What a business this spying was!  Could it really all be over as easily as that?

 

His instincts distrusted easy solutions, he refused to let himself relax.  That proved as well, for he had been right to doubt.  As he left the anteroom to Villeneuve’s chambers a discreetly dressed man moved smoothly forward to greet him.

 

“Captain Vignon?” he remembered the alias taken from the dead courier’s papers in time to produce a suitable reaction.  “I am Don Garcia Espinoza y Perez, secretary to his Excellency Don Carlos Zacosta y Vasconcellos, Governor of El Ferrol.  His Excellency wishes to invite you to dine with him tonight.”

 

Not what he needed.  “That is most generous of his Excellency, but I am tired from my journey and would, I fear, prove a most dismal guest.”

 

“His Excellency,” the secretary insisted, “will make allowances for your weariness.  It is the usual custom for the couriers to dine with him as a gesture of goodwill between our peoples.”  Despite the soft tone there was a definite warning in the latter words.  Refusal would cause offence.  Well, there was no reason for him to care if he disrupted relations between Frogs and Dons – but Captain Vignon would care, wouldn’t he?  No good arousing suspicion with a refusal.

 

“In that case,” he said carefully, “I will be honoured.  Do I have time to return to my lodgings and clean myself up?”  Evening must be well advanced by now, but it seemed a reasonable request from a man as dishevelled and road-stained as he knew himself to be.

 

The secretary was regretful, but definite.  The dinner would commence very shortly. 

 

“In that case, would it be possible to have someone deliver a note to my fellow officer, who was too ill to accompany me here, which will explain my continued absence?”

 

That, fortunately, was quite possible.  He only hoped Hornblower wouldn’t fret too much.  And that there were no French at the dinner.  He felt reasonably confident that he could sustain the deception before Spaniards, but too much time spent with genuine Frenchmen might well be disastrous.

 

He was not expecting to encounter other nationalities at the dining table, which, as he realised later, was undoubtedly a blind spot.

 

Twenty

 

Hornblower folded the note over and over, until it formed the smallest of wedges within his hand, then rolled it back and forth between his fingers.  The bruises were still too painful for him to rise easily and attempt to work out his frustration by pacing.  He could only lie on his back, and stare at the dirty ceiling of their plain inn room.  For all the years that had passed, the memory of the Governor’s dining room in El Ferrol was still sharp and clear.  How young he’d been then.… He couldn’t understand why anybody envied youth.  He would not choose to be that young again.

 

Part of the disorientation of this mission was that it stripped away years of experience and authority, leaving him uncertain and vulnerable in situations he had never been trained to cope with. He had heard people describe certain situations as making them feel young once more.  He felt young now, and he was not enjoying it at all.  The sooner this was over the better.

 

He wished he could be at the dinner – probably the first time in his life he had ever felt like attending a formal occasion.  Any kind of activity would be better than lying here and doing nothing.  Reflecting on D’Atigny’s young, surprised face as he sprawled on the ground, on the stiff, loyal Levallier, on the dead bodies of the two French couriers.  All for England. 

 

Worse still were the reflections on the wife and child he had forgotten in his hour of darkness.  He had known he was not a good family man, but had not realised he failed as far as that. 

 

He sighed, shifted, and then wished he had not.  He wished that Archie would return.

 

          ~~#~~

 

Afterwards Kennedy reflected that he must have been more homesick than he had realised to find the sight of a British naval lieutenant’s uniform welcome.  It ought to have rung alarm bells.

 

It had been short-sighted of him also not to realise this might happen.  Massaredo had invited prisoners to dine with him occasionally, why should not the present governor of El Ferrol do the same?

 

The present governor had proved to be a much younger man than Massaredo, with a sharp, dissatisfied face.  After receiving polite but uninterested greeting from the man Kennedy decided that for him formal dinners were an unwelcome necessity rather than a pleasure, which was probably just as well.

 

The British lieutenant gave him much more to worry about. He was a lean, pallid man, with receding blond hair, not handsome, but not ugly either.  Kennedy was not quite sure at first sight if the man was familiar, a very unwelcome prospect, or just a familiar type.

 

“This is Lt Swenson, recently taken prisoner aboard the British ship, Ruby,” the secretary introduced, “He does not speak our language.”

 

“I regret that I have no command of English.”  Kennedy was not about to risk appearing suspiciously fluent.  Swenson?  Did he remember a Swenson?  There was no time to cudgel his memory, for Swenson was responding to the introduction in halting, very British, French.

 

What he said was little more than formality, but Kennedy continued to be troubled by an elusive sense that he knew the man.  If so, it was to be hoped that Swenson’s memory was no better than his own.

 

He took his seat, and, when it came, made a pretence of being very thoroughly absorbed in his dinner.  Captain Vignon would be hungry, wouldn’t he?  Swenson seemed to be wolfing down his food as well, and Kennedy speculated that prison rations probably hadn’t improved of late.  The Governor ate in an absent minded way, looking as if he was itching to get back to his paperwork, and did not attempt to talk.  It was left to a perky looking little man, who bore the marks of a local civilian, to try and make conversation, which he mostly did by questioning Swenson in what Kennedy rather thought was very Spanish French about exactly how he had been captured.  They seemed to understand each other surprisingly well. 

 

The tale, however, was not amusing, the tale of the taking of a ship and the death of a captain.  He kept his eyes firmly on the plate, and, somewhat to his own dismay, felt a sudden rush of feeling for the man.  Lieutenant on what sounded like a smallish, unregarded ship, an ageing man – Swenson must be about ten years his elder – with little hope of promotion, and now only long years of captivity to look forward to.  He knew, oh yes, he knew.  He wished the memory felt more distant.

 

Swenson.  Remembrance came from nowhere.

 

Swenson.  One of the midshipmen on Justinian.  Not strong enough physically to be one of Simpson’s bully-boys, not a man who could be trusted not to carry tales to make his own life easier.  Swenson.  Kept himself to himself, and attracted as little attention as possible and how wise of him that had been.

 

It was the same man all right.  Thinner of hair, his face more lined, but otherwise not very much changed.  Swenson... must have been one of those transferred to Arethusa.  Well, well, well.  Half-Danish he’d been – and no doubt still was.  Simpson, of course, had managed to make that seem like a shame of the first order.  Yes, surprising how much he remembered, now that he did remember.

 

The real question – was there any chance of Swenson knowing him? 

 

He thought not.  Perhaps that was mere hopefulness, but he’d been such a boy then.  The two had only just known each other, and Swenson would hardly be expecting to meet an old shipmate in a French courier.

 

And if he did (surely he wouldn’t) what would he do?  He realised that, even apart from the passage of time, he’d never known Swenson well enough to have any idea what he would do in such a situation as this.  Had he the brains to keep quiet?  But surely he wouldn’t realise? 

 

Justinian.  Shouldn’t meeting someone from Justinian have been a shock?  He’d pushed the memories of that ship away for a very long time.  Ever since, yes, ever since his last visit to El Ferrol, when in the long hours of confinement there had been no way to keep the memories at bay. But it wasn’t a shock.  It was not a shock at all.  It might have been quite entertaining, if he hadn’t had the one great fear.

 

With an inward start he realised he was being questioned.  The irritating civilian was asking questions again.  “I- I apologise, Monsieur, I fear I was not paying attention.”  Get a grip.  No good falling at the final hurdle.  No good at all. 

 

“I had been saying, you might be pleased of your countrymen’s successful capture,” the Spaniard said.

 

“I- indeed, Monsieur.”  Think.  What would he say if he were a French army officer?  Ah.  “If the French Navy is finally approaching the same standard as the French Army the war will not be prolonged much longer.”  He tilted back his wine glass, pleased with the remark.  “And with a great fleet in this very harbour at this moment, the day of triumph may not be long delayed.”

 

“Let us drink to that indeed!”  the civilian said eagerly, rising from his seat, and earning a glower from the Governor, who plainly had not followed the conversation, and did not wish to.  However he could not refuse the toast.

 

Nor, unfortunately, could Kennedy.  Well, that ought to teach him not to get too clever.  Except that it wouldn’t.  Touched by a whisper of superstition, he put the glass to his lips without tasting.  Swenson, he noted had refrained.  Good for Swenson. 

 

“And to the triumph of the Emperor’s armies!” the civilian declared, inspired.

 

It seemed this might last for some time.

 

          ~~#~~

 

It was late when he got back.

 

“Well, Mr Kennedy?”  This was not the question of a friend but the voice of a superior demanding a report.

 

“Well indeed.  Villeneuve took it like a lamb.  No doubts at all.  The meal was a bit of an ordeal, but then it would have been that even if I’d been exactly what I claimed.  The only consolation was that almost everyone else seemed to be enjoying it no more than I was.  If Massaredo’s dinners were anything like that, than I plainly never appreciated what you were enduring in the line of duty.”

 

“Are you drunk?”  Hornblower demanded suspiciously, a certain light-headed insouciance being unmistakable in the last sentences.

 

“Not at all,” Kennedy replied with truth, the light-headedness was in fact pure relief.  “Although it required resource to keep from being drunk.  I didn’t think there could be so many ways of toasting the French cause.  There was this little man who would not stop.  You should have seen the Governor’s face.  As well for him there were no real French around, he was hardly attempting to disguise how bored he was.”

 

Hornblower was exhausted, strained and irritated by what seemed to him completely trivial chatter.  “I don’t think you should be drinking to our enemies,” he snapped.

 

“What would you advise?  A toast to King George?”

 

Hornblower opened his mouth to utter a sharply worded rebuke, but it actually came out as, “Oh, be quiet and go to sleep!”

 

Kennedy smirked.  “Aye, aye, sir!”

 

Hornblower gave up.

 

Twenty-One

 

He felt easier the next morning.  Easy enough to eat again at least.  And to listen with interest to Kennedy’s account of the dinner.

 

“Swenson?  I remember the name.  I don’t think I’d know him if I saw him.”

 

“No reason why you should.  You weren’t on Justinian for long.”

 

“Are there any other prisoners here?”

 

“I think only the men from the Ruby, that was Swenson’s ship.  El Ferrol doesn’t have quarters for a large number of prisoners – as you’ll remember.  It felt strange,” he went on, “talking to someone in the same position we were.  Especially someone I’d known, and who didn’t know me.”  He smiled a little and shook his head.  “Poor blighter.  Heaven knows if he’ll ever get exchanged.  Swenson can’t have any pull in the service or he’d have been promoted by now.”

 

Hornblower made no answer, but after a little longer he said, “I suppose the fleet may be going out very soon.  Villeneuve won’t wait to act on an Imperial order.  At the least he’ll be making ready.”

 

“No doubt.  He’s probably had the fleet in readiness for a quick move out.  What did you have in mind?”

 

“I’d like to see it.”

 

          ~~#~~

 

He got his way of course.  Still being stiff and sore all over was not going to prevent him from a sight he had set his heart on.  And what a scene it was.

 

In all their years at sea, neither of the pair had seen an entire fleet preparing to get underway.  The bustle of the men, the noisy urgency as stores were brought aboard and preparations made, the small boats speeding dextrously between the great ships, the flapping of ropes and creaking of timbers, the forest of swaying masts.…  It was an almost dizzying sight.

 

It was a frightening sight, Hornblower thought, looking down from the high harbour wall.  He had never been in a major sea-battle, but now he imagined the awesome sound of a fleet of cannons thundering, the smashing of timbers, the crack of falling masts and the screams of the dying.…

 

“Marvellous, isn’t it?”  Kennedy said, speaking in French in case there should be anyone in earshot.  “Don’t you wish that you could be there, when they get to grips?”  His eyes were alight as he spoke.

 

“If it comes to that,” Hornblower reminded him.  “We ordered a withdrawal, not a fight.”  He was glad to think, as he watched the preparations, that the ships and men before him would not be bound for a voyage in which many lives would be brutally torn away, not immediately at least.…  Yet that was not how an officer should think.  An officer ought to be wishing for the destruction of the French fleet and the lifting at least for this time, of the invasion threat which had hung over his country since the renewal of war.

 

The high command must want a general action, a chance to destroy the fleet he was seeing in open battle – but not yet.  Not until the British fleet was unified and ready.  No, not yet.    It was foolish to be glad of that.

 

He began assessing the ships that lay before him, classifying their type, considering their strengths and uses.  The bulk of those being made ready were great ships-of-the-line, the body of any sea-battle, although there were also a number of frigates, ships strong enough to add some fire-power to the fleet.  A few smaller vessels looked as though they were being made ready to go out also; these would be of little value in a large action but might be useful for running errands. 

 

However not all the small ships were included in the general bustle.  Some lay silent and apparently deserted.  Not enough men perhaps to man them all, or not enough need for so many lesser ships which might get in the way of greater.  Some may have been in harbour before Villeneuve arrived; others must be recently captured prizes, French colours flying above British at the mast. 

 

“You see that craft there?” he said, pointing to one of these. “Is that the Ruby?”  Kennedy had always had particularly good distance vision.

 

Kennedy squinted.  “Yes.”

 

“I thought it might be.”  Hornblower looked around, trying not to appear too furtive.  There was no-one in ear-shot.  “I’ve been thinking, about Swenson and the others.…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“We ought to help them.” 

 

“Help – them?”  Kennedy only remembered to lower his voice after the first word.  “How can we?  We’ll give ourselves away.”

 

“Not if we wait until Villeneuve is safely on his way.  And there might be means of doing it safely.”

 

“I don’t see how.”

 

“They are our countrymen, Archie,” Hornblower said softly.  “Held in imprisonment, confined for who knows how long, cut off from lending what strength they can to the service.  We should not leave them.”

 

Kennedy shifted, uncomfortably.  “But what can we do?   Even if we could get them out, Horatio, what then?  March off in a body to Portugal or Gibralter?  We’d never make it.  I should know.  With the small group you had ten years ago you might have stolen a boat, but for a whole crew you’d have to steal… a ship….” 

 

The thought took root in both of at once, dark eyes meeting blue as excitement kindled.  The departing fleet would leave a legacy of confusion surely.  There was a chance. 

 

“Plenty to choose from!”  Kennedy breathed, turning back to the harbour.  Then practicality took hold.  “But we cannot risk ruining everything.”

 

“Do you remember those extra papers that Barrow gave us?  The blank ones, with the signature?”

 

“Of course I remember.”

 

“Do we still have them?”

 

          ~~#~~

 

The papers had been meant for a failsafe, an extra safeguard in case of unforeseen events.  Official looking documents, signed and sealed but with the main body of the text left blank.  One bore Bonaparte’s signature, the other that of Admiral Villeneuve.  The two men took them out and surveyed them for several minutes.

 

“The question is,” Kennedy said, “can we imitate French forms well enough to be convincing?  It’s a risk.”

 

“Not so much of a risk,” Hornblower argued, “We are dealing with Spaniards, who won’t often have seen official French Naval orders either.  And if the French fleet is anything like our own, there will be some variation in the forms in any case.  Get me a blank sheet, and we’ll see.”

 

Half an hour later he had a model that he was satisfied with.  “It could work, Archie.  I believe it would work.  But I’m going to need you with me on this.”

 

Kennedy looked at him with a slight quirk of the mouth.  “You could make it an order.”

 

“I’m not going to.”  It would, after all, be little more than a display.  They both knew he wouldn’t report any defiance that happened here and now.

 

The quirk became a full-blown smile, slightly lopsided.  “Of course I’m with you, Horatio.”  He stood up.  “Suppose you keep working on this, while I’ll go scout out the harbour.” 

 

Twenty-Two

 

Of course it was a mad idea.

 

Of course it was, but when had that ever stopped Horatio succeeding? Kennedy thought as they made their way smartly up the hill towards the fortress.  Although aware there was a first time for everything, he was not truly worried, feeling rather a thrill of familiar excitement.  With one of Horatio’s schemes the best thing was simply to enjoy the ride.

 

The main gate loomed formidably before them, uniformed guards keeping watch either side of the impressive portal.  The effect was only slightly marred by the fact that they looked bored and lackadaisical.   Kennedy noted with interest that there was little effort to smarten up for the two French officers.  Evidently these men were not disposed to put on a show for their allies, no matter how their superiors might feel.  Judging from what he had seen at the dinner, the Governor might not care too much anyway.

 

Getting inside was easy enough, although he had to suppress a jolt as the gate clanged to behind them.  Prison doors.  Not his prison now, not if fortune held – he shook off the thought rapidly.  It was still a risk, most certainly.  They had had time to plan, and for Horatio to grow stronger, whilst the French fleet made its final preparations, for so large a fleet could not sail at a few hours notice.  Now with Villeneuve gone from the harbour for more than a day the moment was as safe as it could ever be, but he could not quite feel confident they were not endangering all they had worked for.

 

And yet, what did they fight for, if loyalty to comrades could not count for something?  That which they served should be a thing worth serving, and not place individual lives at no account.  What was more, it had to be the responsibility of every man in the service to make it so.

 

Through the sun-heated courtyards, towards that part of the fortress used as a prison, the prickles in his neck were sharpening: this was the moment when things became truly dangerous.

 

The two Spanish told off to accompany them marched untidily ahead.  The impostors walked in silence, no need to take the unnecessary risk of speech. 

 

Into the prisoners’ courtyard now, so little changed that its familiarity gave him a brief moment of pure shock.  Even the smell of it seemed to strike home, almost like a blow.  Then, swiftly, they were inside the dingy corridor which housed the officers’ cells.  That of the most senior would be unlocked first, strict hierarchy observed even in imprisonment.

 

Three men, turning towards the door with surprise and wariness.  Swenson and two others, who he guessed to be surgeon and sailing master, plainly wondering what men in French uniform wanted with them.  He had his careful speech of explanation prepared already, spoken slowly in French that Swenson should be capable of following.

 

He delivered the words steadily enough, yet he saw with a certain unease that Swenson was not looking at him, but at Hornblower and that there was a look on his face that might have been puzzlement.  Of course, leave it to Horatio to get himself recognised!

 

The speech itself was both plain and vague, a mere declaration that the British prisoners were to be transferred under French authority.  He noticed that the two men with Swenson looked apprehensive at that.  Better the devil you knew, he supposed.

 

He added a warning, an instruction to the officers that their men should be warned against any foolish actions, for guards would be covering their every move.  The last thing they would need right now was some hot-head attempting a break-out.  Whatever Swenson may have suspected, it seemed he would have the sense at least to keep his mouth shut, as the three prisoners filled in sullen silence from their cell.

 

Other doors, other captives.  Ruby had been a small craft, and there had been losses in the engagement, but the number of men assembled in the courtyard still looked quite a crowd compared to what he remembered.  Here was another moment of danger, it was all too easy to think of himself as one of them, to forget that for these moments he was a French officer in the eyes of all except Horatio. But he must not forget until they were safe away.  The looks of unconcealed resentment being given him by some of the sailors should help. They were most certainly seeing him as an enemy.

 

Out of the fortress again, and the mood of oppression that he had barely noticed lifted as they left the enclosed walls behind.  Down through the narrow streets, with the citizenry turning to watch, and in some cases to jeer, as the enemy prisoners were led past.  Again the difficulty in remembering that those jeers were not directed at him – although if the Spaniards knew the truth it would be worse than jeers he would receive.

 

The harbour looked much larger without Villeneuve’s fleet.  Larger, and strangely more alien.  All large harbours have certain things in common, but he felt now that if he were shown a painting of this place he would know at once that it was nowhere in Britain.

 

He had made his choice carefully.  Not the Ruby herself, the recently taken prizes would be too much of a source of interest in harbour.  A small Spanish craft of indeterminate make had seemed the best choice, a battered old ship with the name illegible but to all appearance seaworthy.  She looked fine in the water, the rigging a bit of a mess but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.  The crew must have been taken off to swell the ranks of Villeneuve’s fleet, for bluff had already bought them a quick inspection showing the ship bore all the signs of recent use.

 

He felt a lift at the sight.  Here was their way out of here.  Out of this world of shadows and back to familiar things.  Once they were on board.

 

His spirits were high now, with only that tingle of danger which served to heighten the thrill of it.  He’d forgotten how exciting it felt to be embarked on one of Horatio’s crazier schemes.  On his own, even if he could dream up such a thing, he would never dare attempt it, for he had not enough trust in either his luck or his resource.  But with Horatio, that was another matter.  He never felt so alive as when riding on Horatio’s daring.  He’d missed this….

 

Going over the little ship they had found her in a disordered state, with signs of having had her crew withdrawn in a hurry.  There were supplies, that was the main thing, supplies enough to get them, if not to England, at least to Portugal.  That was one element in their favour.  The other was the stall that he had noticed before, the man who sold French caps of liberty.  The French Navy, like the British, used uniforms only for officers, but the distinctive caps should settle any question of nationality handily enough. 

 

The major job now was to pull off the transformation of British prisoners into French sailors without arousing the suspicions of the Spanish who had been acting as guards.

Hornblower tackled the problem head-on, ushering Swenson and the two other officers briskly into the captain’s cabin. 

 

“We got you here on subterfuge,” he said, in English, pale with strain but otherwise hiding his lingering weakness well.  “We are not French officers, but Eng– British men who have been engaged on a mission.  We took advantage of an opportunity to release some of our comrades.”  All uttered with the slight air of pomposity that was in truth a mask for diffidence.   

 

Swenson was staring at him again.  “Hornblower,” he said.  “I am right, aren’t I?”

 

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” Hornblower said, “We were only mess-mates for a few weeks.”

 

“Oh, I remember all right,” Swenson said slowly, and perhaps not very happily.  “And I’ve heard about you since.  It’s not as if there could be more than one Horatio Hornblower in the service.  It’s Captain Hornblower now, isn’t it?  Sir?”

 

“Yes, it is,” Hornblower said, with a stiffness that probably struck Swenson as conceit.

 

“My congratulations,” the man said, with a tinge of acid.  “Is it permitted to ask what you are doing here?”

 

“That,” Kennedy said, judging it best to break in on this, “is rather too long a story to tell at the present moment.  Let’s just say that it’s time for us to leave Spain, and this seemed like a good method.  With the rest of your men we should be able to sail out of here.”

 

“That’s the plan,” Hornblower agreed, with the expression that meant he was torn between apprehension, responsibility and the thrill of danger that he was not immune to.  “And the sooner that we get on with it, the sooner we can show the Dons a clean pair of heels.  Commander Kennedy, will you see to getting the rest of our countrymen safely on board?”

 

“Aye, aye, sir” Kennedy said with an assumption of formality.  He was sure that Horatio had stressed the rank deliberately for Swenson’s benefit, and could not resist looking at the man to see if the name had registered.  He thought it had, Swenson was looking at him hard.  Kennedy flashed him a grin, and said, in the same formal tones, “I believe the task would be easier if one of these gentlemen would accompany me on deck to reassure then men?”

 

          ~~#~~

 

In the end the task of getting the men on board was accomplished quite easily, with the assistance of all three of the Ruby’s remaining officers.  Convincing the men that they were no longer prisoners was also easier than might have been expected, perhaps because they wanted to believe it.  It was the officers who seemed more doubtful, but not enough so to challenge the plans.  Kennedy was more amused than anything else to catch a snatch of conversation between Swenson and the man who had indeed proved to be the Ruby’s doctor, and who was evidently still somewhat dubious of the credentials of the two strangers.

 

“Hornblower?  Oh, yes.  Entirely.”

 

“You knew him well, then?”

 

“I hardly knew him at all.  But he’s far too pig-headed to have turned Frenchman, that I can assure you of.”

 

Well, that was one way of putting it.

 

He needed to speak with Swenson, not about the ship, but simply because he needed some answers from him, but the chance had to wait until they were clear of the harbour, with the feel of the open sea beneath and the last sounds of the coast fading behind.

 

“It’s a long time since Justinian, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes.”  Swenson looked at him dourly.  “Some of us have had more luck than others.”

 

“That’s true.” He would not deny his promotion to command rank was due to what most men would call luck, although it had not seemed that way at the time.

 

“I didn’t recognise you,” Swenson said.  The words did not sound friendly.

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”  The words were serious.  “I recognised you.” Perhaps that should have been left unsaid.  He bore no grudges against Swenson, but there was satisfaction in outranking him.

 

“I suppose I haven’t changed that much.” The tone was bitter.  “You though, I might have known you’d get there, if only by pure stubbornness.”

 

Stubbornness?  That was a quality he associated with Horatio not himself, and certainly not aboard Justinian.

 

“You never would give into him would you?  Never let him own you.  I called you a fool, but I didn’t believe it.  Stubborn as a mule.”

 

Kennedy stared back at Swenson without really seeing him, reviewing the history of those days on Justinian for the first time in many years.  True, he’d never borne tales to Simpson, never flattered or toadied to him, and, for all that it had cost, he had never really given much thought to his own refusal to do so.  He supposed he had known, in some dim way, that to give in would have made his life easier, but somehow that had never seemed to be a choice.  Keeping a small part of his own soul free had been an act like sleeping or breathing, something he could not deny.  There had been no pride there, only shame that he could manage no more.

 

It had never occurred to him to wonder what others would think of that refusal.  And most certainly he had never thought that the price that those who surrendered, like Swenson, had paid might be as high in its way as the cost of his denial.  Of course he had spent the years since trying not to think about those days at all, blocking them from his mind had proved the best way to survive.  Now he tested the memories cautiously, and found them far less sharp than he remembered.

 

He shrugged.  “We’re both still here.  And he is not.  You did know that?”

 

“Yes, I’d heard that he was dead.  Too good for him.”

 

The eyes of the two men met for a second in perfect comprehension.  The memory of the power wielding by one outwardly insignificant man was briefly very close.  But it was past and a long time past and Kennedy broke the spell by saying, “And we both have work to do.” 

 

That was not, however, quite the end of things, for he spent a number of odd moments dwelling on the unexpected perspective that Swenson had handed to him.  The result surprised him by being a lightening of the spirit, as a man might feel on testing some limb that had once been injured, and proving for the first time it was fully sound.  All that was past.  And he did not regret the stubbornness of long ago, blind and unthinking and ultimately deeply painful though it had been.  He might even have gone freer than Swenson had done, in the end. 

 

Somewhat later he found a brief moment of leisure in which to look back at the Spanish shore as it slipped past then, the harbour already vanished from sight.  El Ferrol: another dark memory consigned to the past.  Forever, he thought.  The old memories had not disturbed as he had expected them to, just as the memories of Justinian aroused by meeting Swenson had had none of their old power.  Somewhere in the past years the ghosts had been laid, but it was only now that he had learned it to be so.

 

Twenty-Three

 

“Damnation!”  Of course it had been overoptimistic to hope all would go right.

 

Well, they were committed, nothing to do but make the best of things.  El Ferrol had fallen behind, and there could be no turning back.  Until now matters had been running smoothly, although having a post-captain, a commander and a man used to acting as first lieutenant aboard a mere brig was already proving to be a not altogether comfortable position, especially with the various past histories that existed between these officers.  So far no toes had actually been trodden on, but they had all been stepping with decided care.  Now the chain of command demanded that he report this problem to the senior officer, although he could perfectly well have dealt with it alone. 

 

“No sails.” Hornblower repeated flatly.

 

“Well, it’s not quite that bad, there are some, but not enough, and I think they may only have been left because they are not in good repair.”  He shrugged, “Of all the things not to remember to check.”

 

“Very well!”  Hornblower snapped, causing Kennedy to regret another moment of carelessness, being himself Horatio was certainly taking that as a reproach.

 

“Not that we could have done much if we had checked.  Well, it should be quite a test of seamanship.” He knew that Horatio would inevitably rise to a challenge.  “Naturally the wind is blowing in exactly the wrong direction.”  Tacking south was going to be difficult.

 

“Yes, I can see that!”  Hornblower retorted.  Kennedy eyed him in some concern. Although Hornblower was stubbornly refusing to complain he did not look well, the bruises beneath the borrowed uniform must be very painful still.

 

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting?”

 

“When I feel I should rest Li-Commander I will rest.”

 

Kennedy looked straight at him.  “Don’t try that on me, Horatio.”  There was a brief pause, then Hornblower gave way.

 

“I couldn’t rest anyway.  Not the way things are.”  Kennedy eyed him with a touch of humour.

 

 “You don’t get any easier on yourself, do you?  All right, let’s get on with this.”

 

          ~~#~~

 

It was not easy, tacking south for Portugal.  The combination of wind and the tricky tides around El Ferrol would have been difficult at any time, but between an under-strength crew and a tattered and depleted assortment of sails the work was hard indeed.

 

Still, Kennedy was enjoying himself.  This was familiar ground, and the sheer hard work he had put into mastering the life of the sea made the skills all the more enjoyable to exercise.  It was good also to be away from the Spanish mainland, where the heat baked like an oven.  However hard the sun baked down at sea the wind, where there was any wind at all, was fresher and the sea did not beat back the heat as soil or stone did.

 

It was good to be back at sea, with the wind and the salt air, and the challenge to get the best from this being of wood and ropes and canvas.  This ship was about the size of Greyhound, and for the first time since the mission began he allowed himself to think of the ship that he’d been promised with longing.  Not a great prize.  Small and old, but he knew how to handle her and he knew how he’d like to handle her, if the chance ever came.  The only fly in the present ointment was that this was not his ship.  And, although Greyhound hadn’t been his ship either, he’d got used to taking most of the decisions.  This ship, however, was another matter altogether.

 

“If we take that course,” he found himself arguing in the small captain’s quarters later that day, “then the currents will carry us back inshore, and the ship is not in the shape to resist them.  And we don’t want to risk attention from the shore. We’re still off the Spanish coast and there could be trouble.”

 

“Are you questioning my decisions?”

 

“Yes!” He might not have Hornblower’s tactical brilliance, but he knew as much about the mechanics of sailing.  He didn’t say ‘sir.’

 

“Mr– Commander, we have too few able-bodied men and too few supplies.  We cannot afford to go too far out of our way.  We need to reach Oporto.”

 

“A safe course would not delay us so very long.”

 

“I know these waters.”

 

“So do I.”

 

There was an exasperated pause.  “Do you want me to pull rank on you?”

 

“No,” Kennedy said, “but I can’t stop you. Very well, have it your way.”  He did not attempt to sound gracious about it, and Hornblower gave him a glare of exasperation in response.

 

As it turned out the argument had been singularly pointless, because even as Hornblower resumed plotting their course a master’s mate hurried into the captain’s quarters.  A sail had been sighted ahead of them.

 

          ~~#~~

 

“She’s French,” Hornblower said, lowering the spy-glass.  “A ship-of-the-line.  Must be one of Villeneuve’s, fallen behind.”

 

“Perhaps all she’ll care about is to catch the rest of the fleet.  Sir.”  That was Swenson, looking anxious.

 

“We can but hope,” Kennedy said.

 

“Taking on a ship-of-the-line with a brig might be a trifle over ambitious,” Hornblower said dead-pan, causing Kennedy to snort.

 

Fortune was not on their side, however, for even as they watched it became clear the larger ship was not simply tacking before the wind, but executing a full turn.  Hornblower’s fingers were white on his spy-glass as he watched.  Kennedy bit into his lip. 

 

“What do you suppose she wants with us?” he could not forbear from asking.

 

“We don’t know she wants anything,” said Swenson stubbornly.

 

“Why else would she turn?”  Hornblower snapped, continuing to stare as if sheer will-power might change the French craft’s course again.

 

“Then why aren’t we running?”  Swenson demanded.

 

“Because that would be stupid.  We can’t out run her, and it would show we have something to hide.  Our only chance is bluff.”

 

Grimly he lowered the glass.  No doubt about it, the French ship was headed directly for them.

 

Twenty-Four

 

“We need to think about what he wants before we can decide what to do,” Hornblower said.  “He’s part of a fleet, not a predator looking for prey.”

 

“Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t take it,” Kennedy argued.

 

“I think it’s more likely information he wants.  Taking a prize would delay him at this point.  And remember, Villeneuve will expect the British fleet to be looking for him.”

 

“That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t help.  I couldn’t pass myself off as French, under those sort of circumstances.”  Kennedy turned to Swenson, who had been listening, tight-lipped.  “How good is your French?”

 

The man looked puzzled.  “My French?  What does that have to do with it? Sir.”

 

“If we can’t convince him we are French, we’re finished,” Hornblower snapped.  Swenson flushed, but the two younger officers were neither of them in a mood to pander to his feelings.

 

“Your father was Danish, wasn’t he?”  Kennedy urged.  “Don’t you speak any continental lingo?”

 

“Only my father’s tongue,” Swenson said stiffly.

 

“Then we must be Danish,” Hornblower told him flatly.  “Archie, everything resembling a uniform must be got out of sight now.  Order the men to stop all salutes, anyone seen acting like a naval sailor will be deprived of rations.”

 

“It can’t work!” Swenson exclaimed.

 

“It can if you don’t let us down!  Now listen, it’s information he must want, so we must let him have it.”

 

About to start down the deck, Kennedy checked sharply.  “Horatio, look.”

 

“Not now!”

 

“Yes, now.  Look!”

 

Beyond the distant but approaching sail a second sail was visible and – Kennedy shaded his eyes with his hand – a third, just breasting the horizon.

 

“Hell’s teeth!” Hornblower said in quiet shock, “the fleet’s turned north!”

 

“Villeneuve,” said Kennedy, seeing again the French admiral’s exhausted face.  “He must have changed his mind.  I knew he was on the edge!  Just in the state to disobey an imperial order.  He must have decided he’d be more use sailing north, whatever Bonaparte might think.”

 

“Then it’s all over,” said Swenson.

 

“No!” Hornblower told him.  “No, it’s not.”

 

          ~~#~~

 

It was hardly even a gamble, for what other choice did they have than to attempt to bluff their way through this crisis?  Uniforms were banished, but tension could not be.  Still, what other reaction would a neutral have on being hailed by a man-of-war?

 

“Do try and slouch a bit more, Archie, you are looking too Royal Naval!”  Kennedy suspected that was deliberate teasing and wondered, yet again, why Horatio’s sense of humour always seemed to be so much sharper in moments of crisis.

 

“And you could try and look a little less like death warmed over!” he shot back, not to be out-done.

 

“You could both try to look less like conspirators!” Swenson whispered with a boldness that seemed to have more to do with nerves than humour.

 

“Remember you are the captain,” Kennedy reminded him, “though that doesn’t mean you can put us on a charge afterwards!”  Swenson did not look as though he appreciated the joke.

 

It was simple and obvious.  The French wanted news, so they should be given news.  News of a British Fleet bearing down upon them.  It could have been true.  It could have been Nelson’s fleet, in hot pursuit of Villeneuve these many months.  It could send Villeneuve scurrying back to Cadiz with all speed.  Was there a French Admiral alive who would dare to face Nelson in battle if he had a choice?

 

Such a thin chance, such a terrifyingly slender chance on which the outcome of all might hang.  It would be far too long a time before they knew if the desperate plan had been successful.  The French captain would have to report to Villeneuve, then Villeneuve must make his choice.  Hours of tension must pass somehow.

 

          ~~#~~

 

Dark drew on, and the fleet came with it.  Huge sail-of-the-line covered the darkening waters until it was impossible to look beyond the decks without feeling hemmed in by these giants of the sea.   Silence lay thick upon the little ship, but from beyond her the quiet night air carried the sounds of great timbers creaking.  The men, who knew little of what was happening and why, nonetheless shared the tension of the wait.  There was little speech, and those off-duty crammed the small deck space, gazing around them with some awe and more fear at the pride of the enemy.

 

It was well into dusk when Swenson, who had been summoned aboard the first ship to reach them, at last returned.  He had been taken to Villeneuve’s own flagship to tell his tale.

 

“They let me go, so they must have bought some of it.  Sir.  I can’t say more than that.”

 

The three men waited on the quarter-deck, knowing that to wait was all that they could do.  The outcome was beyond their hands now, it rested on the choice of worn-down admiral who was their enemy.

 

Hornblower was not about to admit how ill he had been feeling for some time, his battered body pushed right up to its limit, his head swimming with the strain of it.  Sense told him he should retire to the captain’s cabin and lie down, but stubbornness kept him on the deck.

 

The sea looked black, night was very near.  So much of his life he had given to the sea, and at so great a cost.  But no, not the sea.  The sea asked nothing and gave nothing.  It was the service, the service that took all that he could give and gave back – what?

 

“Horatio?” 

 

“I’m fine,” he rasped, automatically. 

 

“Are you sure?” Vaguely he realised that was Swenson’s voice, and that it held a note of concern.  Concern for a fellow officer, for all that they shared little else, except a long ago few weeks that he never cared to remember, even though he could never quite forget the first burden of blood upon his soul.

 

So long since the Justinian, and so many deaths since Clayton’s and why did he feel the ghosts around him now?

 

“Do you see what I see?”  He could not even be sure who had spoken.

 

The fleet was turning, with ponderous grace the great ships were turning, ready to head south again.  South for Cadiz.

 

They had won.

 

No elation, he felt no elation.  Only relief that it was over, tempered by a wary reluctance to believe it even now.

 

They were leaving.  Ghost ships on a smooth sea now faintly illuminated by the rising half-full moon.  No, not ghosts, this was the fleet of his enemies.  But the notion danced unbanished around his exhausted mind.  It was a fleet of ghosts that he was seeing, carrying the dead of the long wars.  And this time that did not seem troubling, for they were his kindred and this harsh world was all the home he knew.

 

Someone was steadying him, a grip on his arm hard enough to hurt, hard enough to pull him back to some sense of reality.

 

“Are you going to lie down before you pass out in front of the men?” Kennedy demanded.

 

Hornblower had to admit that collapsing in an undignified heap on deck was not a welcome prospect.  On trying to straighten, he further had to admit that he was going to need some help to make it to the captain’s cabin.  Strong hands were steadying him, and he knew that he was being guided as bright spots danced before his eyes, and an insistent ringing drowned all other sound from his ears.  Someone was speaking, something about rest, but it was only as he felt something bump against his legs that he knew the goal had been reached and he was safely away from watching eyes.

 

 He collapsed on the bunk and tried to get his thoughts to stay still long enough to grasp what he now knew.

 

“The wooden walls,” he heard himself say, a fragment of his classical education coming back to him.

 

“You need to sleep, Horatio.”

 

But he did not need to sleep, not until he had fully understood.  The wooden walls, the fleet, the men who fought and killed and died.  That was where his soul was, no matter how little happiness it brought him.

 

That was his England.  That was what he fought for, not the countryside of his childhood home, not the streets of Portsmouth, not even, he had to admit, his wife and child.  For the men he served with, both living and dead.  For the comradeship which brought the only happiness he ever knew.  For the fierce, tough loyalties of the service, the only thing which made the suffering bearable.  As the exhaustion of his body finally pulled him under he felt a moment of peace.  He knew where his loyalties were.

 

Twenty-Five

 

“Did you have to wake me?”   Hornblower grumbled

 

“No,” Kennedy said frankly, “but I thought you’d be annoyed if I didn’t.  We’re nearly at Oporto.”

 

“Oh.”  Kennedy was right, he would have been annoyed.  Hornblower ran a hand over his face, and winced at the feel of stubble on his chin.  “I need a few minutes to freshen up.”

 

His face in the small shaving mirror gave him a jolt, it was haggard and bruised looking even though there were no actual bruises.  What on earth did the men think of taking orders from an officer who looked like that?  He almost cringed from the thought of going on deck.  However there was nothing to be done but make himself as presentable as he could and face them.

 

He made it to the deck before they entered the harbour, and hoped the men would not look too closely.  He regretted not having a proper uniform, since wearing his French officer’s coat felt inappropriate he had had to go without a coat at all.  He hardly felt like a proper officer without it.  The men would not be seeing a captain, he felt sure, only an ungainly, ill-looking man who was still basically a stranger to them.

 

Kennedy and Swenson were both on the quarter-deck, not together but standing some distance apart and separately surveying the men as though deliberately avoiding an acknowledgement of rank.  Swenson might have the lowest rank of the three commissioned officers, but he was the only one with a commission over the men who were working the ship, which meant the protocol was awkward.  Well, they were almost in harbour now.

 

He went over to Kennedy.  “You should come ashore with me.”

 

“And Swenson?”

 

“Swenson?”  Hornblower said.

 

“Don’t you think he deserves it?  We needed him, at the end.”

 

“All right, Swenson too.”   He paused.  There was something that needed saying, but it was not going to be easy for him to say.

 

“Archie – you were right.”

 

“Right, Horatio?”

 

“About not wanting to be my first officer.  You were right.  I’ve missed you, Archie.  But it would have been very difficult.”

 

What it was that had brought about that realisation he found it hard to say.  It had been good to work alongside Archie once again.  But it had also become increasingly clear to him, both on the journey and after they had boarded the ship, that the kind of friendship that they shared could not be reconciled with the formal relationship of captain and lieutenant.  It was different with William Bush, who had slipped readily into the formal role.  They had been comradely enough towards the end of their time on Renown, but there had never been a close friendship between them. 

 

It was a painful discovery, for the last years had brought him to the knowledge that Kennedy’s company had been more than a relief to long dull hours, more even than the certainty of a friend he could rely on.  Archie had a peculiar knack of counter-balancing the more painful side of his own character.  No-one else had ever done that for him, and the lack of it had made the last years all the harder.  Yet he had long since ceased expecting the naval life to be kind.  They must make the best of what there was, not hanker for the impossible.

 

“Of course it would be difficult,” Kennedy said, straight-faced, “how could you ever have put up with a lieutenant who argued with you all the time?”  Hornblower debated whether that had been a joke, and decided only half.  Archie would argue, and that would anger him.  It was all a moot point now anyway, he would never have expected Kennedy to give up his own chance of command. 

 

“Well, try to restrain your argumentative tendencies when dealing with the British representative in Oporto,” he said, also as only half a joke.  “We are going to need his help, if we are to get the ship back to England.”  Of course there would be other means of returning, but sailing back in a captured prize was not an experience he wanted to miss. 

 

He was calculating the amount of supplies likely to be needed, when Kennedy suddenly made a choking sound that turned out to be laughter.  “Horatio.  Have you realised?  We’ve finally escaped from El Ferrol!”

 

Hornblower stared for a moment, then the corners of his mouth curved upwards in a smile.  “I believe you are right again, Mr– Commander Kennedy.  It took a mere ten years.”

 

“Quite impressive,” Kennedy said solemnly.  “Possibly some kind of record.”

 

“Very possibly.”  The light breeze brushed his face and he drew a full breath of it, feeling the cares of the spying mission begin to be replaced by the more familiar, and concrete, shipboard worries.  “Archie, I-” dammit, why did words have to be so difficult to find?  “Thank you.”

 

“No need for thanks, Horatio.  I made a choice, just as you did.”

 

“I didn’t just mean that.  I was never good at saying things, but – .”  By dint of staring hard out to sea he managed to say, “You’ve been such a good friend to me, always.”

 

“No more than you to me.”  Hornblower shook his head faintly, wanting to say that wasn’t true, that he’d brought little that was good to Archie, but he didn’t say it.  “I’ve missed you too,” Archie added and the sincerity of the words gave Horatio a sudden moment of real warmth.

 

          ~~#~~

 

Oporto being a frequent place of call for the British Navy had a consul permanently in residence.  This particular specimen had a lean face, hooded eyes and a short way with officers who were down on their luck.

 

“I regret to have to inform you, gentlemen, that the resources of His Majesty’s government are far from infinite.” 

 

“I know that as well as anyone,” Hornblower retorted coldly, having felt the pinch from outfitting a command from his own pocket in the past.

 

“We are not a charity service for improvident captains.”

 

Guessing that Kennedy was on the verge of a sharp retort Hornblower cut in hastily, “These are hardly usual circumstances, Mr Wentwood.  No, I do not refer to the capture and escape of the men of the Ruby.  Perhaps it has not been made sufficiently clear to you that Commander Kennedy and myself are on a most important commission, one that has the personal interest of Lord Barham, I daresay even of the Prime Minister himself.”

 

“I knew nothing of the mission,” Wentwood drawled out with a passable assumption of nonchalance. 

 

“Naturally,” Hornblower snapped, “it was a highly secret affair.  I hope you are not doubting my word, Mr Wentwood.”

 

“It would be pleasant to have some confirmation,” Wentwood said tartly.

 

“If you wish to take upon yourself the responsibility of sending to England for confirmation then I cannot prevent you from so doing.  However the task of explaining the delay will be entirely in your hands.”

 

That did it, Wentwood swiftly crumbled.  The supplies they needed would be provided on a government guarantee.

 

“Out-flanking diplomats,” Kennedy commented as they left, “a whole new branch of tactics.”  Hornblower, who had still been inclined to fume, felt his annoyance dissipate.  There was considerable satisfaction in having got the upper-hand, and knowing himself capable of doing so if he should have to confront a Wentwood again.

 

“Well-enough for some,” sourly commented Swenson, whose presence Hornblower had almost forgotten.  He felt a spurt of irritation, though at who or what he did not know.  This aging and soured lieutenant was too chilling a reminder of what might have been.  There was so much luck in the gaining or missing of promotion.  He might easily have been in Swenson’s shoes, instead of being a man with status enough to threaten a man like Wentwood and get away with it, even if only just.  Swenson was a reminder of Justinian too, and no matter how much more blood stained his hands he would never quite cease to blame himself for Clayton’s death.  He was still a little surprised that Archie had forgiven him for that disastrous challenge.

 

It hit him suddenly that the reason he’d behaved so unreasonably when he discovered Kennedy did not want to sail under his command was that he had felt sure Archie must have turned against him because he had seen some flaw or failing that was hidden from others like Pellew or Bush or Matthews, something in his handling of affairs upon Renown.  Lord knew he had bungled enough things there.  And it had hurt bitterly, because of all the people who had regard for him Archie was the only one he had ceased to be afraid of disappointing. 

 

It had really been himself he was angry with, but he had taken it out on Kennedy and, he now realised, made a fool of himself in the process.  Yes, he’d been a fool, but for once that knowledge carried no sting.  He did not understand Archie Kennedy and he never would, but he still knew him better than he knew anyone else and he knew that things were well between them now. 

 

With that reassurance he allowed his thoughts to turn ahead, and knew that he wanted to be back in England.  He wanted to bring good news, for once, to Maria.  He wanted to hold his son and feel more sure of the future he could offer than he had been since the birth.  He wanted to know what ship he would get and if Bush and other old shipmates would be free to sail with him.

 

He wanted the future that lay ahead.  He wanted to know what he could make of it.  He wanted his new command.  He wanted to be back.

 

 

Epilogue

 

It was a bright and breezy day when two officers stood talking with a slim, dark man upon the harbour wall at Portsmouth.  Escudero was as neat and imperturbable as he had ever been, but in his quiet way he seemed pleased at the chance to meet his two erstwhile comrades and discuss the end of the venture they had shared.  According to him the departure of the South Americans from Spain, also via Portugal, had been accomplished without any difficulty at all.   For his part Hornblower was able to pass on the news that Villeneuve was now firmly blockaded in Cadiz.  As for Bonaparte, Secretary Wellesley-Pole had unbent enough to report that he was believed to be turning his armies eastwards and to have abandoned the prospect of invading Britain for the foreseeable future.  The mission had been a success, and it galled Hornblower only slightly that that success would go forever unrecognised.

 

He had been spared the task of telling some consoling lie to d’Atigny’s family, the ministry had assumed responsibility for that.  An awkward question about Levallier, which he had felt obliged to ask, had disclosed that no relatives of his were known.  He had passed that on to Escudero also, although it was hard to tell whether the man was really interested.  Escudero gave the impression that to him d’Atigny and Levallier had already faded into the distance, but if there was one thing Hornblower had learned about the South Americans it was that nothing was simple where they were concerned.

 

Talk had turned in time from the past to the future, and to the reasons for Escudero’s presence in Portsmouth.  “I must confess,” he was saying now, in familiarly precise tones, “I am not looking forward to a long sea voyage.  Such journeyings invariably play havoc with my stomach.”

 

“Do you really need to go,” Hornblower asked, feeling a surprising moment of affection for the cool man who had shown so much resource on the journey.

 

“The General has made his mind up,” Escudero replied.  Evidently that settled the point, at least to him.

 

“He has given up hope of support in this country then?” said Kennedy.

 

“For the time being.  Your government, he has come to believe, has no intention of acting on the hints he has been given.  He hopes for more success in the United States, as they call themselves now.  I do not know.”

 

“But must you go?” Hornblower said again.

 

“I must,” Escudero replied.  “I thought that you might understand that, Captain.”

 

“Perhaps I do,” Hornblower acknowledged.  Escudero was a loyal man, although how far his loyalty was to Miranda and how far to his cause was another unanswered question.  He shook hands with Escudero, and watched as Kennedy did the same.  “Good Fortune, then.”

 

“You also.  We may all need it.”  Escudero gave one of his brief, slight smiles.  The two officers stood watching as he walked away.

 

“Do you think there’s any hope for Miranda’s revolution?”  Hornblower asked at length.

 

“I don’t know, Horatio.  I’m no politician.”

 

“Nor I.”  And he was glad of it.  The rights and wrongs of affairs in South America were something he had no desire to try to disentangle.

 

For now he was back where he belonged.  The sun sparked off the choppy sea, and gulls screamed the sound that spoke of harbour to any sailor.  Below them was the familiar bustle of a fleet at war, a fleet he would be part of once again in a day or two, when he took command of Atropos.  He had only recently learned the identity of his new command, and the remains of his youthful education whispered that the name was ominous, but he pushed the thought aside as superstition unworthy of an officer.  The ship would be what he made of her.

 

“I should be getting along also,” Kennedy said, but made no move to go. 

 

“I was hoping you would dine with us tonight.”  Hornblower did not want to mark the end of this last adventure yet.

 

“No, Horatio, I think your wife will want you to herself.”  Hornblower refrained from saying that that was unlikely to happen, and he would have welcomed some diluting of his mother-in-law. 

 

“I expect we’ll see each other before either Greyhound or Atropos is ready to sail,” Kennedy said, as though reading his thoughts again.

 

“I hope so, Archie, truly.”  It was the nearest he could come to speaking the affection that had always remained unsaid between them.

 

Still they lingered on the wall a little longer, watching the sea beneath them and a ship just moving into port, hearing the gulls and the occasional hoarse shouts of workers on the docks.  They were saying goodbye to something, they both knew.  This had been the last adventure of their shared youth, it was most unlikely they would face danger together again, and there was a loss there.

 

Yet there was gain for them both also.  The gain of achievement, and of challenge ahead.  If fate was kind then they would met again to tell their stories, and renew the bond that was too strong to be lessened by months or years apart.

 

Even now the thoughts of both were turning ahead: Kennedy’s mind was running on the Greyhound, on concern over how good a job would prove to have been done on the repairs and on the question of how many of the old crew he could, or would wish to, put together.  Hornblower was thinking of Atropos, of what kind of ship she would prove to be and how much fresh fitting out would be needed and how many of the former crew remained.  He still did not know if he would be able to have Bush with him. Cares, and worries, and opportunities ahead.  The challenge of command which no-one could share, but another might understand.

 

The wind was freshening, and the tide on the turn.  Soon they would take up the future which beckoned.  Yet for now, they lingered, side by side, for a few minutes more.

 

                                                          ~finis~

 

                      *          *          *

 

 

Author’s Notes

 

For those who are interested: in real life Villeneuve was ordered to sail north from El Ferrol, but lost his nerve after receiving a report that a large British fleet was approaching, and headed south to Cadiz, much to Napoleon’s fury.  Further orders eventually sent him out to fight at Trafalgar – but not until after Napoleon had abandoned the idea of a cross channel invasion for the time being and turned his armies to the invasion of Austria instead.  Obviously it was necessary to edit that a bit here.  Forester’s intention seems to have been to have Hornblower deliver ‘orders’ to fight; I altered that in the interests of sticking as close as possible to history whilst still taking the story to El Ferrol – the D&D echo was irresistible.

 

My other major liberty was in making William Wellesley-Pole Admiralty Secretary two years too early.  This was entirely for my own amusement, but as it’s no worse than the liberties taken by A&E with Pellew’s career I don’t feel too guilty about it.  Wellesley-Pole, born plain Wellesley, was an older brother of the future Duke of Wellington and therefore also of Forester’s fictional Lady Barbara.

 

I’ve assumed that the Count de Miranda, mentioned briefly in Forester’s completed text, was identical with the historical Francisco de Miranda, who was indeed a campaigner for South American independence.  Miranda returned to South America to lead a rebellion in 1811, but after an initial period of success was forced to surrender and was taken prisoner by the Spanish.  He died in prison in Spain in 1816.

 

The escape from Spain is my own idea, and similarities to ‘Flying Colours’ honestly are coincidental. I had the section planned out well before I read that particular instalment of Forester, and decided not to change it. After all A&E didn’t hesitate to anticipate Marie in Mariette, so I just take it that Hornblower saw no reason to use a good idea once only.

 

 Second Secretary Barrow existed in both history and Forester’s text.  Any other characters you don’t recognise are my creations.

 

This story was great fun to write and research.  It took a long time but it was worth it.

 

 

Return to Part One                                         Return to Main Page