Cecil Forester: The Happy Return

“We’ll have the guns loaded and run out, if you please, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower.

That was only a sensible precaution to take, seeing that the ship was about to sail before the wind straight into Spanish territory. The guns’ crews cast off the trappings of the breeches, tugged desperately at the train tackles to draw the guns inboard, rammed home the powder and the shot, depressed the gun muzzles, strained madly at the gun tackles, and ran the guns out through the opened ports.

“Ship cleared for action. Ten minutes twenty one seconds, sir,” said Bush as the last rumble died away. For the life of him he still could not tell whether this was an exercise or in earnest, and it gratified Hornblower’s vanity to leave him in doubt.

“Very good, Mr. Bush. Send a good man with the lead into the main chains, and make ready to anchor.”

The breeze off the sea was strengthening every minute now, and the Lydia ’s speed was steadily increasing. With his glass from the quarterdeck Hornblower could see every detail of the entrance to the bay, and the broad westerly channel between Conchaquita Island and the westerly mainland which the chart assured him afforded twenty fathoms for five miles inland. But there was no trusting these Spanish charts.

“What have you in the chains, there?” called Hornblower.

“No ground with this line, sir.”

“How many fathom have you out? Pass along the deep sea line.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

A dead hush descended on the ship, save for the eternal harping of the rigging and the chatter of the water under the stern.

“No ground, sir, within a hundred fathom.”

The shore must be very steepto, then, because they were within two miles of land now. But there was no purpose in risking running aground under full sail.

“Get the courses in,” said Hornblower. “Keep that lead going in the chains, there.”

Under topsails alone the Lydia crept in towards land. Soon a cry from the chains announced that bottom had been reached in a hundred fathoms, and the depth diminished steadily at every cast. Hornblower would have been glad to know what was the state of the tide—if he was going aground at all it would be far better to do so on the flow than on the ebb—but there was no possible means of calculating that. He went halfway up the mizzen rigging to get a better view, everyone else in the ship save for the man in the chains was standing rigid in the blinding heat. They were almost in the entrance channel now. Hornblower sighted some driftwood afloat on the near side, and training his glass on it, he saw that it was floating in up the bay. The tide was making, then; better and better.

“By the deep nine,” chanted the leadsman.

So much for the Dago chart which indicated ten fathoms.

“And a half eight.”

The channel was shoaling fast. They would have to anchor soon in this case.

“And a half eight.”

Plenty of water still for the present. Hornblower called down to the helmsman, and the Lydia swung to starboard round the slight bend.

“And a half eight.”

Well enough still. The Lydia steadied on her new course.

“By the mark seven.”

Hornblower’s eyes searched the channel in an attempt to determine the line of deepest water.

“By the mark seven.”

An order from Hornblower edged the Lydia towards the further side. Bush quietly sent the men to the braces to trim the yards on the new course.

“And a half eight.”

That was better.

“By the deep nine.”

Better still. The Lydia was well up the bay now, and Hornblower could see that the tide was still making. They crept on over the glassy water, with the leadsman chanting monotonously, and the steep conical mountain in the middle of the bay drawing nearer.

“Quarter less eight,” called the leadsman.

“Are the anchors clear?” asked Hornblower.

“All clear, sir.”

“By the mark seven.”

No useful object could be served in going in farther.

“Let go the anchor.”

The cable roared through the hawsehole while the watch sprang to furl the topsails, and the Lydia swung round to wind and tide while Hornblower descended to the quarterdeck.

Bush blinked at him as at a miracle worker. Seven weeks after sighting the Horn, Hornblower had brought the Lydia straight in to her destination; he had arrived in the afternoon with the sea breeze and a flowing tide to bring him in, and if there were danger for them here nightfall would soon bring them the ebb tide and the land breeze to take them out again. How much was fluke and how much was calculation Bush could not guess, but as his opinion of Hornblower’s professional merit was far higher than Hornblower himself cherished he was inclined to give him more credit than was really his due.

“Keep the watch at quarters, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. “Dismiss the watch below.”

With the ship a mile from any possible danger and cleared for action there was no need to keep every man at his station. The ship broke into a cheerful buzz as the watch below lined the rails to stare out at this land of green jungle and grey rock, but Hornblower was puzzled for a moment, wondering what to do next. The excitement of bringing the ship into an unknown harbour had prohibited his usual careful planning of his next step. His mind was made up for him by a hail from the lookout.

“Deck there! Boat putting out from shore. Two points abaft the starboard beam.”

A double speck of white was creeping out towards them; Hornblower’s glass resolved it into an open boat under two tiny lateen sails, and as she drew nearer he could see that she was manned by half a dozen swarthy men wearing wide straw hats. She hoveto fifty yards away, and someone stood up in the stern sheets and shouted across the water with hands cupped round his mouth. It was Spanish that he spoke.

“Is that an English ship?” he asked.

“Yes. Come on board,” replied Hornblower. Two years as a prisoner of Spain had given him the opportunity of learning the language—he had long before decided that it was merely on account of this accomplishment that he had been selected for this special service.

The boat ran alongside and the man who had hailed scrambled lightly up the ladder to the deck. He stopped at the side and looked round him with a certain curiosity at the spotless decks and the rigid order which prevailed on every hand. He wore a sleeveless black waistcoat aflame with gold embroidery; beneath it a dirty white shirt, and on his legs dirty white trousers terminating raggedly just below the knees. His feet were bare, and in a red sash round his waist he carried two pistols and a short heavy sword. He spoke Spanish as his native tongue, but he did not look like a Spaniard; the black hair which hung over his ears was long, lustreless, and lank; there was a tinge of red in his brown complexion and a tinge of yellow in the whites of his eyes. A long thin moustache drooped from his upper lip. His eyes at once picked out the captain, gorgeous in his best coat and cocked hat, and he advanced towards him It was in anticipation of just such a meeting that Hornblower had donned his best, and he was pleased with his foresight now.

“You are the captain, sir?” asked the visitor.

“Yes. Captain Horatio Hornblower of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Lydia , at your service. And whom have I the pleasure of welcoming?”

“Manuel Hernandez, lieutenant general of el Supremo.”

“El Supremo?” asked Hornblower, puzzled. The name was a little difficult to render into English. Perhaps ‘The Almighty’ might be the nearest translation.

“Yes, of el Supremo. You were expected here four months, six months back.”