“That schooner sails like a witch,” said Fell. “Look at her now, My Lord.”
Estrella’s lovely lines and magnificent sail plan were obvious even at this distance.
“She’s a beautiful vessel,” agreed Hornblower.
“She’s headreaching on us for sure,” announced Gerard from the binnacle. “And I think she’s weathering on us, too.”
“And there goes five hundred pounds,” said Fell, bitterly. Assuredly he was in need of money. “Quartermaster! Bear up a point. Hands to the braces!”
He brought Clorinda a little closer to the wind and studied her behaviour before turning back to Hornblower.
“I’ll not give up the chase until I’m compelled, My Lord,” he said.
“Quite right,” agreed Hornblower.
There was something of resignation, something of despair, in Fell’s expression. It was not only the thought of the lost money that troubled him, Hornblower realised. The report that Fell had tried to capture the Estrella, and had failed, almost ludicrously, would reach their Lordships of the Admiralty, of course. Even if Hornblower’s own report minimised the failure it would still be a failure. That meant that Fell would never be employed again after his present two years’ appointment had expired. For every captain with a command in the Royal Navy now there were twenty at least hungry for commands. The slightest lapse would be seized upon as reason for ending a man’s career; it could not be otherwise. Fell was now looking forward apprehensively to spending the rest of his life on half pay. And Lady Fell was an expensive and ambitious woman. No wonder that Fell’s usually red cheeks had a grey tinge.
The slight alteration of course Fell had ordered was really a final admission of defeat. Clorinda was retaining her windward position only at the cost of seeing Estrella draw more rapidly ahead.
“But I fear she’ll beat us easily into San Juan,” went on Fell with admirable stoicism. Right ahead the purple smear on the horizon that marked the hills of Puerto Rico was growing loftier and more defined. “What orders have you for me in that case, My Lord?”
“What water have you left on board?” asked Hornblower in return.
“Five tons, My Lord. Say six days at short allowance.”
“Six days,” repeated Hornblower, mostly to himself. It was a tiresome complication. The nearest British territory was a hundred miles to windward.
“I had to try the effect of lightening the ship, My Lord,” said Fell, self-exculpatory.
“I know, I know.” Hornblower always felt testy when someone tried to excuse himself. “Well, we’ll follow Estrella in if we don’t catch her first.”
“It will be an official visit, My Lord?” asked Gerard quickly.
“It can hardly be anything else with my flag flying,” said Hornblower. He took no pleasure in official visits. “We may as well kill two birds with one stone. It’s time I called on the Spanish authorities, and we can fill up with water at the same time.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
A visit of ceremony in a foreign port meant many calls on the activity of his staff—but not as many as on him, he told himself with irritation.
“I’ll have my breakfast before anything else comes to postpone it,” he said. The perfect good humour of the morning had quite evaporated now. He would be in a bad temper now if he allowed himself to indulge in the weaknesses of humanity.
When he came on deck again the failure to intercept Estrella was painfully obvious. The schooner was a full three miles ahead, and had weathered upon Clorinda until the latter lay almost in her wake. The coast of Puerto Rico was very well defined now. Estrella was entering into territorial waters and was perfectly safe. All hands were hard at work in every part of the ship bringing everything into that condition of perfection—really no more perfect than invariably prevailed—which a British ship must display when entering a foreign port and submitting herself to the jealous inspection of strangers. The deck had been brought to a whiteness quite dazzling in the tropical sun; the metalwork was equally dazzling—painful when the eye received a direct reflection; gleaming cutlasses and pikes were ranged in decorative patterns on the bulkhead aft; white cotton lines were being rove everywhere, with elaborate Turk’s heads.
“Very good, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower approvingly.
“Authority in San Juan is represented by a Captain-General, My Lord,” said Spendlove.
“Yes. I shall have to call upon him,” agreed Hornblower. “Sir Thomas, I shall be obliged if you will accompany me.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
“Ribbons and stars, I fear, Sir Thomas.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
Fell had received his knighthood of the Bath after a desperate frigate action back in 1813. It had been a tribute to his courage if not to his professional abilities.
“Schooner’s taking a pilot on board!” hailed the masthead lookout.
“Very well!”
“Our turn shortly,” said Hornblower. “Time to array ourselves for our hosts. They will be grateful, I hope, that our arrival will take place after the hour of the siesta.”
It was also the hour when the sea breeze was beginning to blow. The pilot they took on—a big, handsome quadroon—took the ship in without a moment’s difficulty, although, naturally, Fell stood beside him consumed with anxiety. Hornblower, free from any such responsibility, was able to go forward to the gangway and examine the approaches to the city; it was a time of peace, but Spain had been an enemy before and might perhaps be an enemy again, and at least nothing would be lost if he knew as much as possible about the defences first-hand. It did not take very long to perceive why San Juan had never been attacked, not to speak of captured, by the numerous enemies of Spain during the long life of the city. It was ringed by a lofty wall, of stout masonry, with ditches and bastions, moats and drawbridges. On the lofty bluff overlooking the entrance Morro Castle covered the approaches with artillery; there was another fortress—which must be San Cristobal—and battery succeeded battery along the waterfront, with heavy guns visible in the embrasures. Nothing less than a formal siege, with powerful army and a battering train, could make any impression on San Juan as long as it was defended by an adequate garrison.
The sea breeze brought them up the entrance passage; there was the usual momentary anxiety about whether the Spaniards were prepared to salute his flag, but the anxiety was speedily allayed as the guns in the Morro began to bang out their reply. Hornblower held himself stiffly to attention as the ship glided in, the forecastle saluting carronade firing at admirably regular intervals. The hands took in the canvas with a rapidity that did them credit—Hornblower was watching unobtrusively from under the brim of his cocked hat—and then Clorinda rounded-to and the anchor cable rumbled through the hawse-hole. A deeply sunburned officer in a fine uniform came up the side and announced himself, in passable English, as the port medical officer, and received Fell’s declaration that Clorinda had experienced no infectious disease during the past twenty-one days.
Now that they were in the harbour, where the sea breeze circulated with difficulty, and the ship was stationary, they were aware of the crushing heat; Hornblower felt instantly the sweat trickling down inside his shirt under his heavy uniform coat, and he turned his head uncomfortably from side to side, feeling the constriction of his starched neckcloth. A brief gesture from Gerard beside him pointed out what he had already observed—the Estrella del Sur in her gleaming white paint lying at the pier close beside them. It seemed as if the reek of her still reached his nostrils from her open hatchways. A file of soldiers, in blue coats with white cross-belts, was drawn up on the pier, standing somewhat negligently under command of a sergeant. From within the hold of the schooner came a most lamentable noise—prolonged and doleful wailings. As they watched they saw a string of naked Negroes come climbing with difficulty up through the hatchway. They could hardly walk—in fact some of them could not walk at all, but fell to their hands and knees and crawled in that fashion over the deck and on to the pier.