“Very good, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower. Then he became conscious that his white breeches were stained by the dirty saddle, and that his best silk stockings were in threads about his calves. He felt discontented with his appearance; he was ashamed of the fact that he had come back to his ship in this undignified fashion, and without, as far as be knew, having settled anything for the future. He was angry with himself; he feared lest Bush should have a worse opinion of him should he come to know the facts. He felt his cheeks go hot with self-consciousness, and he took refuge, as ever, in uncommunicativeness.

“Hah’m,” he rasped. “Call me if there is anything unusual to justify it.”

With that, and no other word, he turned and went below to his cabin, where canvas screens replaced the torn down bulkheads.

Bush stared at his disappearing form. The volcanoes flicked and glowed round the bay. The crew, excited at their arrival in this strange land and anxious to hear about the future, saw themselves doomed to disappointment, just like the officers, who watched with dropped jaws their captain descending the companion ladder.

For one brief instant Hornblower felt that his dramatic appearance and exit compensated him for his consciousness of failure, but it was only for an instant. Seated on his cot, having sent away Polwheal, he felt his spirits fall again. His weary mind set itself vaguely again to debate the question of whether he would be able to obtain stores on the morrow. He fretted about whether he would be able to raise a rebellion successful enough to satisfy the Admiralty. He fretted about the approaching duel with the Natividad.

And throughout these considerations he continually found himself blushing again at the recollection of his abrupt dismissal by el Supremo. He felt that there were few captains in His Britannic Majesties service who would have submitted so meekly to such cavalier treatment.

“But what the devil could I have done?” he asked himself pathetically.

Without turning out his lantern he lay on his cot sweating in the still tropical night while his mind raced back and forth through past and future.

And then the canvas screen flapped. A little breath of wind came stealing along the decks. His sailor’s instincts kept him informed of how the Lydia was swinging to her anchor. He felt the tiny tremor which ran through the ship as she brought up short to her anchor cable in a new direction. The land breeze had begun at last. The ship was cooler at once. Hornblower wriggled over on to his side, and slept.

Chapter V

Those doubts and fears which encompassed Hornblower while he was trying to go to sleep the night before vanished with the day. Hornblower felt a new strength running through his veins when he awoke. His mind was teeming with plans as he drank the coffee which Polwheal brought him at dawn, and for the first time for weeks he dispensed with his morning walk on the quarterdeck. He had decided as he stepped on the deck that at least he could fill the watercasks and restock with fuel, and his first orders sent parties of men hurriedly to the tackles to hoist out the launch and lower the quarter boats. Soon they were off for the shore, charged with the empty casks and manned by crews of excited chattering men; in the bows of each boat sat two marines in their red coats with their muskets loaded and bayonets fixed, and in their ears echoing their final orders from their sergeant, to the effect that if a single sailor succeeded in deserting while on shore every man among them would have his back well scratched with the cat.

An hour later the launch came back under sail, deep laden with her watercasks full, and while the casks were being swayed out of her and lowered into the hold Mr. Midshipman Hooker came running up to Hornblower and touched his hat.

“The beef cattle are coming down to the shore, sir,” he said.

Hornblower had to struggle hard to keep his face immobile and to receive the news as if he expected it.

“How many?” he snapped; it seemed a useful question to ask in order to waste time, but the answer was more surprising still.

“Hundreds, sir. There’s a Dago in charge with a lot to say, but there’s no one ashore who can speak his lingo.”

“Send him out to me when you go ashore again,” said Hornblower.

Hornblower spent the interval granted him in making up his mind. He hailed the lookout at the main royal masthead to ensure that a careful watch was kept to seaward. On the one hand there was the chance that the Natividad might come sailing in from the Pacific, in which case the Lydia, caught with half her crew ashore, would have no time to clear from the bay and would have to fight in confined waters and with the odds necessarily against her. On the other hand there was the opportunity of filling up completely with stores and regaining entire independence of the shore. From what Hornblower had seen of conditions prevailing there he judged that to postpone regaining that independence would be dangerous in the extreme; at any moment Don Julian Alvarado’s rebellion might come to a hurried and bloody ending.

It was Hernandez who came out to him, in the same boat with the two tiny lateen sails in which Hornblower had been ferried across last night. They exchanged salutes on the quarterdeck.

“There are four hundred cattle awaiting your orders, Captain,” said Hernandez. “My men are driving them down to the beach.”

“Good,” said Hornblower, his mind still not made up.

“I am afraid it will take longer to assemble the pigs,” went on Hernandez. “My men are sweeping the country for them, but pigs are slow animals to drive.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“With regard to the salt, it will not be easy to collect the hundred quintals you asked for. Until our lord declared his divinity salt was a royal monopoly and scarce in consequence, but I have sent a party to the salt pans at Jiquilisio and hope to find sufficient there.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower. He remembered demanding salt, but he had no distinct recollection of the quantity he had asked for.

“The women are out collecting the lemons, oranges, and limes which you ordered,” continued Hernandez, “but I am afraid it will be two days before we shall have them all ready.”

“Hah’m,” said Hornblower.

“The sugar is ready at el Supremo’s mill, however. And with regard to the tobacco, señor, there is a good deal in store. What special kind do you prefer? For some time we have only been rolling cigars for our own consumption, but I can set the women to work again after the fruit has been collected.”

“Hah’m,” said Hornblower again, suppressing just in time the cry of delight which nearly escaped him involuntarily after the mention of cigars—it was three months since he had last smoked one. Virginia pigtail twist was what his men used, but that, of course, would be unobtainable on this coast. However, he had often seen British sailors chewing and enjoying the half-cured native leaf.

“Send as many cigars as will be convenient to you,” he said, lightly. “For the rest, it is of no importance what you send.”

Hernandez bowed.

“Thank you, señor. The coffee, the vegetables, and the eggs will of course be easy to supply. But with regard to the bread—”

“Well?”

Hernandez was obviously nervous about what he was going to say nest.

“Your excellency will forgive me, but in this country we have only maize. There is a little wheat grown in the tierra templeda, but it rests still in the hands of the unenlightened. Would maize flour suffice?”

Hernandez’ face was working with anxiety as he gazed at Hornblower. It was only then that Hornblower realised than Hernandez was in terror of his life, and that el Supremo’s lighthearted endorsement of the requisitions he had made was far more potent than any stamped and sealed order addressed to a Spanish official.