1Oh, the dames of France are fo-ond a-and free

2And Flemish li-ips a-are willing.

3That was young Spendlove singing lustily only two rooms away from Hornblower’s at Admiralty House and he might as well be in the same room, as all the windows were open to let in the Jamaican sea breeze.

4And sweet the maids of I-Ita-aly—

5That was Gerard joining in.

6“My compliments to Mr. Gerard and Mr. Spendlove,” growled Hornblower to Giles, who was helping him dress, “and that caterwauling is to stop. Repeat that to make sure you have the words right.”

7“His lordship’s compliments, gentlemen, and that caterwauling is to stop,” repeated Giles dutifully.

8“Very well, run and say it.”

9Giles ran, and Hornblower was gratified to hear the noise cease abruptly. The fact that those two young men were singing—and still more the fact that they had forgotten he was within earshot—was proof that they were feeling lighthearted, as might be expected, seeing they were dressing for a ball. Yet it was no excuse, for they knew well enough that their tone-deaf commander-in-chief detested music, and they should also have realized that he would be more testy than usual, on account of that very ball, because it meant that he would be forced to spend a long evening listening to those dreary sounds, cloying and irritating at the same moment. There would certainly be a table or two of whist—Mr. Hough would be aware of his principal guest’s tastes—but it was too much to hope for that all sound of music would be excluded from the card room. The prospect of a ball was by no means as exhilarating to Hornblower as to his flag lieutenant and to his secretary.

10Hornblower tied his white neckcloth and painfully adjusted it to geometrical symmetry, and Giles helped him into his black dress coat. Hornblower regarded the result in the mirror, by the light of the candles round its frame. At least tolerable, he said to himself. The growing peacetime convention whereby naval and military men appeared in civilian clothes had a good deal to recommend it; so had the other increasing fad for men to wear black dress coats. Barbara had helped him select this one, and had supervised its fitting by the tailor. The cut was excellent, Hornblower decided, turning back and forth before the mirror, and black and white suited him. “Only gentlemen can wear black and white,” Barbara had said, and that was very gratifying.

11Giles handed him his tall hat and he studied the additional effect. Then he took up his white gloves, remembered to remove his hat again, and stepped out through the door, which Giles opened for him, and entered the corridor, where Gerard and Spendlove, in their best uniforms, were waiting for him.

12“I must apologize on behalf of Spendlove and myself for the singing, my lord,” said Gerard.

13The softening effect of the black dress coat was evident when Hornblower refrained from a rasping reprimand.

14“What would Miss Lucy say, Spendlove, if she heard you singing about the dames of France?” he asked.

15Spendlove’s answering grin was very attractive.

16“I must ask your lordship’s further indulgence not to tell her about it,” he said.

17“I’ll make that conditional upon your further good behaviour,” said Hornblower.

18The open carriage was waiting outside the front door of Admiralty House; four seamen stood by with lanterns to add to the light thrown by the lamps on the porch. Hornblower climbed in and seated himself. Etiquette was different here on land; Hornblower missed the shrilling of the pipes that he felt should accompany this ceremonial, as it would if it were a boat he was entering, and in a carriage the senior officer entered first, so that after he was seated, Spendlove and Gerard had to run round and enter by the other door. Gerard sat beside him and Spendlove sat opposite, his back to the horses. As the door shut, the carriage moved forward, between the lanterns at the gate, and out to the pitch-dark Jamaican night. Hornblower breathed the warm tropical air and grudgingly admitted to himself that after all it was no great hardship to attend a ball.

19“Perhaps you have a rich marriage in mind, Spendlove?” he asked. “I understand Miss Lucy will inherit it all. But I advise you to make certain before committing yourself that there are no nephews on the father’s side.”

20“A rich marriage might be desirable, my lord,” replied Spendlove’s voice out of the darkness. “But I must remind you that in affairs of the heart I have been handicapped from birth—or at least from my baptism.”

21“From your baptism?” repeated Hornblower, puzzled.

22“Yes, my lord. You remember my name, perhaps?”

23“Erasmus,” said Hornblower.

24“Exactly, my lord. It is not adapted to endearments. Could any woman fall in love with an Erasmus? Could any woman bring herself to breathe the words ‘Razzy, darling’?”

25“I fancy it could happen,” said Hornblower.

26“May I live long enough to hear it,” said Spendlove.

27It was remarkably agreeable to be driving thus through the Jamaican night behind two good horses and with two pleasant young men; especially, as he told himself smugly, because he had done work satisfactory enough to justify relaxation. His command was in good order, the policing of the Caribbean was proceeding satisfactorily, and smuggling and piracy were being reduced to small proportions. Tonight he had no responsibilities. He was in no danger at all, not any. Danger was far away, over the horizons both of time and space. He could lean back, relaxed, against the leather cushions of the carriage, taking only moderate care not to crease his black dress coat or crumple the careful pleats of his shirt.

28Naturally his reception at the Houghs’ house was somewhat overpowering. There was a good deal of “my lord” and “his lordship.” Hough was a substantial planter, a man of considerable wealth, with enough of dislike for English winters not to be the usual West Indian absentee landlord. Yet for all his wealth he was greatly impressed by the fact that he was entertaining, in one and the same person, a peer and an admiral and a commander-in-chief—and someone whose influence might at any moment be of great importance to him. The warmth of his greeting, and of Mrs. Hough’s, was so great that it even overflowed round Gerard and Spendlove as well. Perhaps the Houghs felt that if they wished to be sure of standing well with the commander-in-chief it might be as well to cultivate good relations with his flag lieutenant and secretary too.

29Lucy Hough was a pretty enough girl of some seventeen or eighteen years of age whom Hornblower had already met on a few occasions. Hornblower told himself he could feel no interest in a child straight from the schoolroom—almost straight from the nursery—however pretty. He smiled at her and she dropped her eyes, looked up at him again, and once more looked away. It was interesting that she was not nearly so timid when she met the glances and acknowledged the bows of the young men who were far more likely to be of interest to her.

30“Your lordship does not dance, I understand?” said Hough.

31“It is painful to be reminded of what I am missing in the presence of so much beauty,” replied Hornblower with another smile at Mrs. Hough and at Lucy.

32“Perhaps a rubber of whist, then, my lord?” suggested Hough.

33“The Goddess of Chance instead of the Muse of Music,” said Hornblower—he always tried to talk about music as if it meant something to him—“I will woo the one instead of the other.”

34“From what I know about your lordship’s skill at whist,” said Hough, “I would say that as regards your lordship, the Goddess of Chance has but small need for wooing.”

35The ball had been in progress, apparently, for some time before Hornblower’s arrival. There were two score young people on the floor of the great room, a dozen dowagers on chairs round the wall, an orchestra in the corner. Hough led the way to another room; Hornblower dismissed his two young men with a nod, and settled down to whist with Hough and a couple of formidable old ladies. The closing of the heavy door shut out, luckily, nearly all the exasperating din of the orchestra; the old ladies played a sound game, and a pleasant enough hour went by. It was terminated by the entrance of Mrs. Hough.

36“It is time for the polonaise before supper,” she announced. “I really must beg you to leave your cards and come and witness it.”

37“Would your lordship—?” asked Hough apologetically.

38“Mrs. Hough’s wish is my command,” said Hornblower.

39The ballroom was of course stifling hot. Faces were flushed and shiny, but there was no lack of energy apparent as the double line formed up for the polonaise while the orchestra grated out its mysterious noises to encourage the young people. Spendlove was leading Lucy by the hand and they were exchanging happy glances. Hornblower, from the weary age of forty-six, could look with condescension at these young men and women in their immature teens and twenties, tolerant of their youth and enthusiasm. The noises the orchestra made became more jerky and confusing, but the young people could find some sense in them. They capered round the room, skirts swaying and coattails flapping, every one smiling and lighthearted; the double lines became rings, melted into lines again, turned and reformed, until in the end with a final hideous crash from the orchestra the women sank low in curtseys and the men bent themselves double before them—a pretty sight once the music had ceased. There was a burst of laughter and applause before the lines broke up. The women, with sidelong looks at each other, gathered into groups which edged out of the room. They were retiring to repair the damages sustained in the heat of action.

40Hornblower met Lucy’s eyes again, and once more she looked away and then back at him. Shy? Eager? It was hard to tell with these mere children; but it was not the sort of glance she had bestowed on Spendlove.

41“Ten minutes at least before the supper march, my lord,” said Hough. “Your lordship will be kind enough to take in Mrs. Hough?”

42“Delighted, of course,” replied Hornblower.

43Spendlove approached. He was mopping his face with his handkerchief.

44“I would enjoy a breath of cooler air, my lord,” he said. “Perhaps—”

45“I’ll come with you,” said Hornblower, not sorry to have an excuse to be rid of Hough’s ponderous company.

46They stepped out into the dark garden; so bright had been the candles in the ballroom that they had to tread cautiously at first.

47“I trust you are enjoying yourself,” said Hornblower.

48“Very much indeed, thank you, my lord.”

49“And your suit is making progress?”

50“Of that I am not so sure, my lord.”

51“You have my best wishes in any case.”

52“Thank you, my lord.”

53Hornblower’s eyes were more accustomed now to the darkness. He could see the stars now when he looked up. Sirius was visible, resuming once more his eternal chase of Orion across the night sky. The air was warm and still with the cessation of the sea breeze.

54Then it happened. Hornblower heard a movement behind him, a rustling of foliage, but before he could pay attention to it hands gripped his arms, a hand came over his mouth. He began to struggle. A sharp burning pain under his right shoulder made him jump.

55“Quiet,” said a voice, a thick heavy voice. “Or this.”

56He felt the pain again. It was a knife point in his back, and he held himself still. The unseen hands began to hustle him away; there were at least three men round him. His nose told him they were sweating—with excitement, perhaps.

57“Spendlove?” he said.

58“Quiet,” said the voice again.

59He was being hustled down the long garden. A momentary sharp cry, instantly stifled, presumably came from Spendlove behind him. Hornblower had difficulty in preserving his balance as he was hurried along, but the arms that held him sustained him; when he stumbled he could feel the pressure of the knife point against his back sharpen into pain as it pierced his clothes. At the far end of the garden they emerged into a narrow path where a darkness loomed up in the night. Hornblower bumped into something that snorted and moved—a mule, apparently.

60“Get on,” said the voice beside him.

61Hornblower hesitated, and felt the knife against his ribs.

62“Get on,” said the voice; someone else was wheeling the mule round again for him to mount.

63There were neither stirrups nor saddle. Hornblower put his hands on the withers and hauled himself up astride the mule. He could find no reins, although he heard the chink of a bit. He buried his fingers in the scanty mane. All round him he could hear a bustle as the other mules were mounted. His own mule started with something of a jerk that made him cling wildly to the mane. Someone had mounted the mule ahead and was riding forward with a leading rein attached to his mule. There seemed to be four mules altogether, and some eight men. The mules began to trot, and Hornblower felt himself tossed about precariously on the slippery back of the mule, but there was a man running on each side of him helping to keep him on his perch. A second or two later they slowed down again as the leading mule turned a difficult corner.

64“Who are you?” demanded Hornblower, with the first breath that the motion had not shaken out of his body.

65The man by his right knee waved something at him, something bright enough to shine in the starlight. It was a cutlass—the machete of the West Indies.

66“Quiet,” he said. “Or I cut off your leg.”

67The next moment the mule broke into a trot again, and Hornblower could have said no more even if he were inclined to do so. Mules and men hurried along a path between great fields of cane, with Hornblower bouncing about on the mule’s back. He tried to look up at the stars to see which way they were going, but it was difficult, and they altered course repeatedly, winding about over the countryside. They left the cane behind, and seemed to emerge into open savannah. Then there were trees; then they slowed down for a sharp ascent, broke into a trot again down the other side—the men on foot running tirelessly beside the mules—and climbed again, the mules slipping and plunging on what appeared to be an insecure surface. Twice Hornblower nearly fell off, to be heaved back again by the man beside him. Soon he was atrociously saddlesore—if the word could be considered appropriate when he was riding bareback—and the ridge of the mule’s spine caused him agony. He was drenched with sweat, his mouth was parched, and he was desperately weary. He grew stupefied with misery, despite the pain he suffered. More than once they splashed across small streams roaring down from the mountains; again they made their way through a belt of trees. Several times they seemed to be threading narrow passes.

68Hornblower had no idea how long they had been travelling when they found themselves beside a small river, seemingly placid as it reflected the stars. On the far side, faint in the darkness, towered a lofty cliff. Here the party halted, and the man beside him tugged at his knee in an obvious invitation to dismount. Hornblower slid down the mule’s side—he had to lean against the animal for a moment when his legs refused to hold him up. When he was able to stand upright and look about him, he saw a white face among the dark ones that surrounded him. He could just make out Spendlove, his knees sagging and his head lolling as he stood supported on either side.

69“Spendlove!” he said.

70There was an agonizing moment of waiting before the drooping figure said, “My lord?” The voice was thick and unnatural.

71“Spendlove! Are you wounded?”

72“I’m—well—my lord.”

73Someone pushed Hornblower in the back.

74“Come. Swim,” said a voice.

75“Spendlove!”

76Several hands turned Hornblower away and thrust him stumbling down to the water’s edge. It was hopeless to resist; Hornblower could only guess that Spendlove had been stunned by a blow and was only now recovering, his unconscious body having been carried so far by mule.

77“Swim,” said the voice, and a hand pressed him forward to the water.

78“No!” croaked Hornblower.

79The water seemed immeasurably wide and dark. Even while Hornblower struggled at the waters edge he had a horrible realization of the indignity he was undergoing, as a commander-in-chief, acting like a child in the hands of these people. Somebody led a mule slowly down into the water beside him.

80“Hold his tail,” said the voice, and there was the knife in his back again.

81He took hold of the mule’s tail and despairingly let himself flop into the water, spread-eagled. For a moment the mule floundered and then struck out; the water, as it closed round Hornblower, seemed hardly colder than the warm air. It was no more than a moment, it seemed, before the mule was plunging up the other bank, and Hornblower found the bottom under his feet and waded out after him, the water streaming from his clothes, the rest of the gang and the animals splashing after him. The hand was back on his shoulder, turning him to one side and urging him along. He heard an odd creaking in front of him and a swaying object struck him on the chest. His hands felt smooth bamboo and some sort of creeper, liana, knotted to it—it was a makeshift rope ladder dangling in front of him.

82“Up!” said the voice. “Up!”

83He could not—he would not—and there was the knife point at his back again. He stretched his arms up and grasped a rung, feeling desperately with his feet for another.

84“Up!”

85He began the climb, with the ladder writhing under his feet in the animal fashion rope ladders always display. It was horrible in the darkness, feeling with his feet for each elusive rung in turn, clutching desperately with his hands. His sodden shoes tended to slip on the smooth bamboo. Nor did his hands feel secure on the creeper. Someone else was climbing close after him, and the ladder twined about unpredictably. He knew himself to be swaying pendulum-fashion in the darkness. Up he went, one rung at a time, his hands gripping so convulsively that it was only by a conscious effort that he was able to make each one unclasp in turn and seek a fresh hold. Then the gyrations and swinging grew less. His upward-stretching hand touched earth, or rock. The next moment was not easy; he was unsure of his handhold and he hesitated. He knew himself to be a prodigious height up in the air. Just below him on the ladder he heard a sharp command issued by the man following him, and then a hand above him grasped his wrist and pulled. His feet found the next rung, and there he was, lying on his belly on solid earth, gasping. The hand dragged at him again and he crawled on all fours forward to make room for the man behind him. He was almost sobbing; there was no trace left now of the haughty and self-satisfied human who had admired himself in the mirror not so many hours ago.

86Other people trod past him.

87“My lord! My lord!”

88That was Spendlove asking for him.

89“Spendlove!” he answered, sitting up.

90“Are you all right, my lord?” asked Spendlove, stooping over him.

91Was it sense of humour or sense of the ridiculous, was it natural pride or force of habit which made him take a grip on himself?

92“As right as I might expect to be, thank you, after these rather remarkable experiences,” he said. “But you—what happened to you?”

93“They hit me on the head,” replied Spendlove simply.

94“Don’t stand there. Sit down,” said Hornblower, and Spendlove collapsed beside him.

95“Do you know where we are, my lord?” he asked.

96“Somewhere at the top of a cliff, as far as I can estimate,” said Hornblower.

97“But where, my lord?”

98“Somewhere in His Majesty’s loyal colony of Jamaica. More than that I can’t say.”

99“It will be dawn soon, I suppose,” said Spendlove weakly.

100“Soon enough.”

101Nobody about them was paying them any attention. There was a great deal of chatter going on, in marked contrast with the silence—the almost disciplined silence—which had been preserved during their dash across-country. The chatter mingled with the sound of a small waterfall, which he realized he had been hearing ever since his climb. The conversations were in a thick English which Hornblower could hardly understand, but he could be sure that their captors were expressing exultation. He could hear women’s voices, too, while figures paced about, too excited to sit down despite the fatigues of the night.

102“I doubt if we’re at the top of the cliff, my lord, if you’ll pardon me,” said Spendlove.

103He pointed upwards. The sky was growing pale, and the stars were fading; vertically over their heads they could see the cliff above them, overhanging them. Looking up, Hornblower could see foliage silhouetted against the sky.

104“Strange,” he said. “We must be on some sort of shelf.”

105On his right hand the sky was showing a hint of light, of the palest pink, even while on his left it was still dark.

106“Facing north—nor’west,” said Spendlove.

107The light increased perceptibly; when Hornblower looked to the east again the pink had turned to orange, and there was a hint of green. They seemed immeasurably high up; almost at their feet, it seemed, as they sat, the shelf ended abruptly, and far down below them the shadowy world was taking form, concealed at the moment by a light mist. Hornblower was suddenly conscious of his wet clothes, and shivered.

108“That might be the sea,” said Spendlove, pointing.

109The sea it was, blue and lovely in the far distance; a broad belt of land, some miles across, extended between the cliff on which they were perched and the edge of the sea; the mist still obscured it. Hornblower rose to his feet, took a step forward, leaning over a low crude parapet of piled rock; he shrank back before nerving himself to look again. Under his feet there was nothing. They were indeed on a shelf in the face of the cliff—about the height of a frigate’s main yard, sixty feet or so. Vertically below them he could see the small stream he had crossed holding the mule’s tail; the rope ladder still hung down from where he stood to the water’s edge; when, with an effort of will, he forced himself to lean out and look over he could see the mules standing dispiritedly below him in the narrow area between the river and the foot of the cliff; the overhang must be considerable. They were on a shelf in a cliff, undercut through the ages by the river below when in spate. Nothing could reach them from above, and nothing from below if the ladder were to be drawn up. The shelf was perhaps ten yards wide at its widest, and perhaps a hundred yards long. At one end the waterfall he had heard tumbled down the cliff face in a groove it had cut for itself; it splashed against a cluster of gleaming rocks and then leaped out again. The sight of it told him how thirsty he was, and he walked along to it. It was a giddy thing to do, to stand there with the cliff face at one elbow and a vertical drop under the other, with the spray bursting round him, but he could fill his cupped hands with water and drink, and drink again, before splashing his face and head refreshingly. He drew back to find Spendlove waiting for him to finish. Matted in Spendlove’s thick hair and behind his left ear and down his neck was a black clot of blood. Spendlove knelt to drink and to wash, and rose again touching his scalp cautiously.

110“They spared me nothing,” he said.

111His uniform was spattered with blood too. At his waist dangled an empty scabbard; his sword was missing, and as they turned back from the waterfall they could see it—it was in the hand of one of their captors, who was standing waiting for them. He was short and square and heavily built, not entirely Negro, possibly as much as half white. He wore a dirty white shirt and loose ragged blue trousers, with dilapidated buckled shoes on his splay feet.

112“Now, lord,” he said.

113He spoke with the Island intonation, with a thickening of the vowels and a slurring of the consonants.

114“What do you want?” demanded Hornblower, putting all the rasp into his voice that he could manage.

115“Write us a letter,” said the man with the sword.

116“A letter? To whom?”

117“To the governor.”

118“Asking him to come and hang you?” asked Hornblower.

119The man shook his big head.

120“No. I want a paper, a paper with a seal on it. A pardon. For us all. With a seal on it.”

121“Who are you?”

122“Ned Johnson.” The name meant nothing to Hornblower, nor, as a glance showed, did it mean anything to the omniscient Spendlove.

123“I sailed with Harkness,” said Johnson.

124“Ah!”

125That meant something to both the British officers. Harkness was one of the last of the petty pirates. Hardly more than a week ago his sloop Blossom had been cut off by the Clorinda off Savanna-la-Mar, and her escape to leeward intercepted. Under long-range fire from the frigate she had despairingly run herself aground at the mouth of the Sweet River, and her crew had escaped into the marshes and mangrove swamps of that section of coast, all except her captain, whose body had been found on her deck almost cut in two by a round shot from Clorinda. This was her crew, left leaderless—unless Johnson could be called their leader—and to hunt them down the governor had called out two battalions of troops as soon as Clorinda beat back to Kingston with the news. It was to cut off their escape by sea that the governor, at Hornblower’s suggestion, had posted guards at every fishing beach in the whole big island—otherwise the cycle they had already probably followed would be renewed, with the theft of a fishing boat, the capture of a large craft, and so on until they were a pest again.

126“There’s no pardon for pirates,” said Hornblower.

127“Yes,” said Johnson. “Write us a letter, and the governor will give us one.”

128He turned aside and from the foot of the cliff at the back of the shelf he picked up something. It was a leather-bound book—the second volume of Waverley, Hornblower saw when it was put in his hands—and Johnson produced a stub of pencil and gave him that as well.

129“Write to the governor,” he said; he opened the book at the beginning and indicated the flyleaf as the place to write on.

130“What do you think I would write?” asked Hornblower.

131“Ask him for a pardon for us. With his seal on it.”

132Apparently Johnson must have heard somewhere, in talk with fellow pirates, of “a pardon under the Great Seal,” and the memory had lingered.

133“The governor would never do that.”

134“Then I send him your ears. Then I send him your nose,” said Johnson.

135That was a horrible thing to hear. Hornblower glanced at Spendlove, who had turned white at the words.

136“You the admiral,” continued Johnson. “You the lord. The governor will do that.”

137“I doubt if he would,” said Hornblower.

138He conjured up in his mind the picture of fussy old General Sir Augustus Hooper, and tried to imagine the reaction produced by Johnson’s demand. His Excellency would come near to bursting a blood vessel at the thought of granting pardons to two dozen pirates. The home government, when it heard the news, would be intensely annoyed, and without doubt most of the annoyance would be directed at the man whose idiocy in allowing himself to be kidnapped had put everyone in this absurd position. That suggested a question.

139“How did you come to be in the garden?” he asked.

140“We was waiting for you to go home, but you came out first.”

141If they had been intending—

142“Stand back!” yelled Johnson.

143He leaped backwards with astonishing agility for his bulk, bracing himself, knees bent, body tense, on guard with the sword. Hornblower looked round in astonishment, in time to see Spendlove relax; he had been poising himself for a spring. With that sword in his hand and its point against Johnson’s throat, the position would have been reversed. Some of the others came running up at the cry; one of them had a staff in his hand—a headless pike stave apparently—and thrust it cruelly into Spendlove’s face. Spendlove staggered back, and the staff was whirled up to strike him down. Hornblower leaped in front of him.

144“No!” he yelled, and they all stood looking at each other, the drama of the situation ebbing away. Then one of the men came sidling towards Hornblower, cutlass in hand.

145“Cut off his ear?” he asked over his shoulder to Johnson.

146“No. Not yet. Sit down, you two.” When they hesitated Johnson’s voice rose to a roar. “Sit down!”

147Under the menace of the cutlass there was nothing to do but sit down, and they were helpless.

148“You write that letter?” asked Johnson.

149“Wait a little,” said Hornblower wearily; he could think of nothing else to say in that situation. He was playing for time, hopelessly, like a child at bedtime confronted by stern guardians.

150“Let’s have some breakfast,” said Spendlove.

151At the far end of the shelf a small fire had been lighted, its smoke clinging in the still dawn in a thin thread to the sloping overhang of the cliff. An iron pot hung from a chain attached to a tripod over the fire, and two women were crouching over it attending to it. Packed against the back wall of the shelf were chests and kegs and barrels. Muskets were ranged in a rack. It occurred to Hornblower that he was in the situation common in popular romances; he was in the pirates’ lair. Perhaps those chests contained untold treasures of pearls and gold. Pirates, like any other seafarers, needed a land base, and these pirates had established one here instead of on some lonely cay. His brig Clement had cleaned out one of those last year.

152“You write that letter, lord,” said Johnson. He poked at Hornblower’s breast with the sword, and the point pierced the thin shirt front to prick him over the breastbone.

153“What is it you want?” asked Hornblower.

154“A pardon. With a seal.”

155Hornblower studied the swarthy features in front of him. The jig was up for piracy in the Caribbean, he knew. American ships of war in the north, French ships of war working from the Lesser Antilles, and his own busy squadron based on Jamaica had made the business both unprofitable and dangerous. And this particular band of pirates, the remains of the Harkness gang, were in a more precarious position than any, with the loss of their ship, and with their escape to sea cut off by his precautions. It had been a bold plan, and well executed, to save their necks by kidnapping him. Presumably the plan had been made and executed by this rather stupid-seeming fellow, almost bewildered in appearance, before him. Appearances might be deceitful, or else the desperate need of the situation had stimulated that dull mind into unusual activity.

156“You hear me?” said Johnson, offering another prick with the sword, and breaking in upon Hornblower’s train of thought.

157“Say you will, my lord,” muttered Spendlove close to Hornblower’s ear. “Gain time.”

158Johnson turned on him, sword pointed at his face.

159“Shut that mouth,” he said. Another idea occurred to him, and he glanced round at Hornblower. “You write. Or I prick his eye.”

160“I’ll write,” said Hornblower.

161Now he sat with the volume of Waverley open at the flyleaf, and the stub of pencil in his hand, while Johnson withdrew for a couple of paces, presumably to allow free play for inspiration. What was he to write? “Dear Sir Augustus”? “Your Excellency”? That was better.

162“I am held to ransom here along with Spendlove by the survivors of the Harkness gang. Perhaps the bearer of this will explain the conditions. They demand a free pardon in exchange for—” Hornblower held the pencil poised over the paper debating the next words. “Our lives”? He shook his head to himself and wrote “our freedom.” He wanted no melodrama. “Your Excellency will of course be a better judge of the situation than I am. Your ob’d’t servant.” Hornblower hesitated again, and then he dashed off the “Hornblower” of his signature.

163“There you are,” he said, holding out the volume to Johnson, who took it and looked at it curiously, and turned back to the group of a dozen or so of his followers who had been squatting on the ground behind him silently watching the proceedings.

164They peered at the writing over Johnson’s shoulder; others came to look as well, and they fell into a chattering debate.

165“Not one of them can read, my lord,” commented Spendlove.

166“So it appears.”

167The pirates were looking from the writing over to their prisoners and back again; the argument grew more intense. Johnson seemed to be expostulating, or exhorting, and some of the men he addressed drew back shaking their heads.

168“It’s a question of who shall carry that note to Kingston,” said Hornblower. “Who shall beard the lion.”

169“That fellow has no command over his men,” commented Spendlove. “Harkness would have shot a couple of them by now.”

170Johnson returned to them, pointing a dark stubby finger at the writing.

171“What you say here?” he asked.

172Hornblower read the note aloud; it did not matter whether he spoke the truth or not, seeing they had no way of knowing. Johnson stared at him, studying his face; Johnson’s own face betrayed more of the bewilderment Hornblower had noticed before. The pirate was facing a situation too complex for him; he was trying to carry out a plan which he had not thought out in all its details beforehand. No one of the pirates was willing to venture into the grip of justice bearing a message of unknown content. Nor, for that matter, would the pirates trust one of their number to go off on such a mission; he might well desert, throwing away the precious message, to try to make his escape on his own. The poor, ragged, shiftless devils and their slatternly women were in a quandary, with no master mind to find a way out for them. Hornblower could have laughed at their predicament, and almost did, until he thought of what this unstable mob could do in a fit of passion to the prisoners in their power. The debate went on furiously, with a solution apparently no nearer.

173“Do you think we could get to the ladder, my lord?” asked Spendlove, and then answered his own question. “No. They’d catch us before we could get away. A pity.”

174“We can bear the possibility in mind,” said Hornblower.

175One of the women cooking over the fire called out at this moment in a loud raucous voice, interrupting the debate. Food was being ladled out into wooden bowls. A young mulatto woman, hardly more than a child, in a ragged gown that had once been magnificent, brought a bowl over to them—one bowl, no spoon or fork. They stared at each other, unable to keep from smiling. Then Spendlove produced a penknife from his breeches pocket, and tendered it to his superior after opening it.

176“Perhaps it may serve, my lord,” he said apologetically, adding, after a glance at the contents of the bowl, “Not such a good meal as the supper we missed at the Houghs’, my lord.”

177Boiled yams and a trifle of boiled salt pork, the former presumably stolen from some slave garden and the latter from one of the hogsheads stored here on the cliff. They ate with difficulty, Hornblower insisting on their using the penknife turn about, juggling with the hot food for which both of them discovered a raging appetite. The pirates and the women were mostly squatting on their heels as they ate. After their first mouthfuls they were beginning to argue again over the use to be made of their prisoners.

178Hornblower looked out again from the shelf at the view extended before them.

179“That must be the Cockpit Country,” he said.

180“No doubt of it, my lord.”

181The Cockpit Country was territory unknown to any white man, an independent republic in the northwest of Jamaica. At the conquest of the island from the Spaniards, a century and a half earlier, the British had found this area already populated by runaway slaves and the survivors of the Indian population. Several attempts to subdue the area had failed disastrously—yellow fever and the appalling difficulty of the country allying themselves with the desperate valour of the defenders—and a treaty had finally been concluded granting independence to the Cockpit Country on the sole condition that the inhabitants should not harbour runaway slaves in future. That treaty had already endured fifty years and seemed likely to endure far longer. The pirates’ lair was on the edge of this area, with the mountains at the back of it.

182“And that’s Montego Bay, my lord,” said Spendlove, pointing.

183Hornblower had visited the place in Clorinda last year—a lonely roadstead providing fair anchorage, and shelter for a few fishing boats. He gazed over to the distant blue water with longing. He tried to think of ways of escape, of some method of coming to honourable terms with the pirates, but a night entirely without sleep made his brain sluggish, and now that he had eaten, it was more sluggish still. He caught himself nodding and pulled himself up with a jerk. Now that he was in his middle forties the loss of a night’s sleep was a serious matter, especially when the night had been filled with violent and unaccustomed exertion.

184Spendlove had seen him nod.

185“I think you could sleep, my lord,” he said gently.

186“Perhaps I could.”

187He let his body sink to the hard ground. He was pillowless and uncomfortable.

188“Here, my lord,” said Spendlove.

189Two hands on his shoulders eased him round, and now he was pillowed on Spendlove’s thigh. The world whirled round him for a moment. There was the whisper of a breeze; the loud debate of the pirates and their women was monotonous in pitch; the waterfall was splashing and gurgling; then he was asleep.

190He awoke some time later, with Spendlove touching his shoulder.

191“My lord, my lord.”

192He lifted his head, a little surprised to find where it had been resting; it took him several seconds to recall where he was and how he had come there. Johnson and one or two other pirates were standing before him; in the background one of the women was looking on, in an attitude that conveyed the impression that she had contributed to the conclusion that had evidently been reached.

193“We send you to the governor, lord,” said Johnson.

194Hornblower blinked up at him; although the sun had moved round behind the cliff the sky above was dazzling.

195“You,” said Johnson. “You go. We keep him.”

196Johnson indicated Spendlove by a gesture.

197“What do you mean?” asked Hornblower.

198“You go to the governor and get our pardon,” said Johnson. “You can ask him, and he will give it. He stays here. We can cut off his nose, we can dig out his eyes.”

199“Good God Almighty,” said Hornblower.

200Johnson or his advisers—perhaps that woman over there—were people of considerable insight after all. They had some conception of honour, of gentlemanly obligations. They had perceived something of the relationship between Hornblower and Spendlove—they may have been guided by the sight of Hornblower sleeping with his head pillowed on Spendlove’s thigh. They knew that Hornblower could never abandon Spendlove to the mercy of his captors, that he would do everything possible to obtain his freedom. Even perhaps—Hornblower’s imagination surged in a great wave over the barrier of his sleepiness—even perhaps to the extent of coming back to share Spendlove’s captivity and fate in the event of not being able to obtain the necessary pardons.

201“We send you, lord,” said Johnson.

202The woman in the background said something in a loud voice.

203“We send you now,” said Johnson. “Get up.”

204Hornblower rose slowly; he would have taken his time in any case in an effort to preserve what dignity was left to him, but he could not have risen swiftly if he had wanted to. His joints were stiff—he could almost hear them crack as he moved. His body ached horribly.

205“These two men take you,” said Johnson.

206Spendlove had risen to his feet too.

207“Are you all right, my lord?” he asked anxiously.

208“Only stiff and rheumaticky,” replied Hornblower. “But what about you?”

209“Oh, I’m all right, my lord. Please don’t give another thought to me, my lord.”

210That was a very straight glance that Spendlove gave him, a glance that tried to convey a message.

211“Not another thought, my lord,” repeated Spendlove.

212He was trying to tell his chief that he should be abandoned, that nothing should be done to ransom him, that he was willing to suffer whatever tortures might be inflicted on him so long as his chief came well out of the business.