Chapter IX

It was not a ruse at all. In the morning when the Lydia came stealing before a three knot breeze into the roadstead of Panama the only guns fired were the salutes. Boatloads of rejoicing Spaniards came out to greet her, but the rejoicing was soon turned to wailing at the news that the Natividad now flew el Supremo’s flag, that San Salvador had fallen, and that all Nicaragua was in a flame of rebellion. With cocked hat and gold-hilted sword (’a sword of the value of fifty guineas’, the gift of the Patriotic Fund for Lieutenant Hornblower’s part in the capture of the Castilla six years ago) Hornblower had made himself ready to go ashore and call upon the Governor and the Viceroy, when the arrival of yet one more boat was announced to him.

“There is a lady on board, sir,” said Gray, one of the master’s mates, who brought the news.

“A lady?”

“Looks like an English lady, sir,” explained Gray. “She seems to want to come aboard.”

Hornblower went on deck; close alongside a large rowing boat tossed and rolled; at the six oars sat swarthy Spanish Americans, bare armed and straw hatted, while another in the bows, boat hook in hand, stood waiting, face upturned for permission to hook on to the chains. In the stem sat a negress with a flaming red handkerchief over her shoulders, and beside her sat the English lady Gray had spoken about. Even as Hornblower looked, the bowman hooked on, and the boat closed in alongside, two men fending off. Somebody caught the rope ladder, and the next moment the lady, timing the movement perfectly, swung on to it and two seconds later came on deck.

Clearly she was an Englishwoman. She wore a wide shady hat trimmed with roses, in place of the eternal mantilla, and her grey-blue silk dress was far finer than any Spanish black. Her skin was fair despite its golden tan, and her eyes were grey-blue, of just the same evasive shade as her silk dress. Her face was too long for beauty and her nose too high arched, to say nothing of her sunburn. Horn-blower saw her at that moment as one of the horsefaced mannish women whom he particularly disliked; he told himself that all his inclinations were towards clinging incompetence. Any woman who could transfer herself in that fashion from boat to ship in an open roadstead, and could ascend a rope ladder unassisted, must be too masculine for his taste. Besides, an Englishwoman must be unsexed to be in Panama without a male escort—the phrase ‘globe trotting’, with all its disparaging implications, had not yet been invented, but it expressed exactly Hornblower’s feeling about her.

Hornblower held himself aloof as the visitor looked about her. He was going to do nothing to help her. A wild squawk from overside told that the negress had not been as handy with the ladder, and directly afterwards this was confirmed by her appearance on deck wet from the waist down, water streaming from her black gown on to the deck. The lady paid no attention to the mishap to her maid; Gray was nearest to her and she turned to him.

“Please be so good, sir,” she said, “as to have my baggage brought up out of the boat.”

Gray hesitated, and looked round over his shoulder at Hornblower, stiff and unbending on the quarterdeck.

“The captain’s here, ma’am,” he said.

“Yes,” said the lady. “Please have my baggage brought up while I speak to him.”

Hornblower was conscious of an internal struggle. He disliked the aristocracy—it hurt him nowadays to remember that as the doctor’s son he had had to touch his cap to the squire. He felt unhappy and awkward in the presence of the self-confident arrogance of blue blood and wealth. It irritated him to think that if he offended this woman he might forfeit his career. Not even his gold lace nor his presentation sword gave him confidence as she approached him. He took refuge in an icy formality.

“Are you the captain of this ship, sir?” she asked, as she came up. Her eyes looked boldly and frankly into his with no trace of downcast modesty.

“Captain Hornblower, at your service, ma’am,” he replied, with a stiff jerk of his neck which might charitably be thought a bow.

“Lady Barbara Wellesley,” was the reply, accompanied by a curtsy only just deep enough to keep the interview formal. “I wrote you a note, Captain Hornblower, requesting a passage to England. I trust that you received it.”

“I did, ma’am. But I do not think it is wise for your ladyship to join this ship.”

The unhappy double mention of the word ‘ship’ in this sentence did nothing to make Hornblower feel less awkward.

“Please tell me why, sir.”

“Because, ma’am, we shall be clearing shortly to seek out an enemy and fight him. And after that, ma’am, we shall have to return to England round Cape Horn. Your ladyship would be well advised to make your way across the Isthmus. From Porto Bello you can easily reach Jamaica and engage a berth in the West India packet which is accustomed to female passengers.”

Lady Barbara’s eyebrows arched themselves higher.

“In my letter,” she said, “I informed you that there was yellow fever in Porto Bello. A thousand persons died there of it last week. It was on the outbreak of the disease that I removed from Porto Bello to Panama. At any day it may appear here as well.”

“May I ask why your ladyship was in Porto Bello, then?”

“Because, sir, the West India packet in which I was a female passenger was captured by a Spanish privateer and brought there. I regret, sir, that I cannot tell you the name of my grandmother’s cook, but I shall be glad to answer any further questions which a gentleman of breeding would ask.”

Hornblower winced and then to his annoyance found himself blushing furiously. His dislike for arrogant blue blood was if anything intensified. But there was no denying that the woman’s explanations were satisfactory enough—a visit to the West Indies could be made by any woman without unsexing herself, and she had clearly come to Porto Bello and Panama against her will. He was far more inclined now to grant her request—in fact he was about to do so, having strangely quite forgotten the approaching duel with the Natividad and the voyage round the Horn. He recalled them just as he was about to speak, so that he changed at a moment’s notice what he was going to say and stammered and stuttered in consequence.

“B-but we are going out in this ship to fight,” he said. “Natividad’s got twice our force. It will be d-dangerous.”

Lady Barbara laughed at that—Hornblower noted the pleasing colour contrast between her white teeth and her golden sunburn; his own teeth were stained and ugly.

“I would far rather,” she said, “be on board your ship, whomsoever you have got to fight, than be in Panama with the vomita negro.”

“But Cape Horn, ma’am?”

“I have no knowledge of this Cape Horn of yours. But I have twice rounded the Cape of Good Hope during my brother’s Governor-Generalship, and I assure you, captain, I have never yet been seasick.”

Still Hornblower stammered and hesitated. He resented the presence of a woman on board his ship. Lady Barbara exactly voiced his thoughts—and as she did so her arched eyebrows came close together in a fashion oddly reminiscent of el Supremo although her eyes still laughed straight into his.

“Soon, Captain,” she said, “I will come to think that I shall be unwelcome on board. I can hardly imagine that a gentleman holding the King’s commission would be discourteous to a woman, especially to a woman with my name.”

That was just the difficulty. No captain of small influence could afford to offend a Wellesley. Hornblower knew that if he did he might never command a ship again, and that he and Maria would rot on the beach on half pay for the rest of their lives. At thirty-seven he still was not more than one-eighth the way up the captain’s list—and the goodwill of the Wellesleys could easily keep him in employment until he attained flag rank. There was nothing for it but to swallow his resentment and to do all he could to earn that goodwill, diplomatically wringing advantage from his difficulties. He groped for a suitable speech.