The Thing still had her by the tail, then; her struggles would be as unavailing as those of a deer in the claws of a lion.

“Steer small, you—” said Fell, using a horrible word to the helmsman.

Everyone was excited, everyone seemed to be obsessed with the fear that Estrella would clear away the wreck and make her escape after all.

“With her rudder gone she’ll never be able to hold a course,” said Hornblower. “And she’s lost her fore-topmast, too.”

Another wait, but of a very different nature now. Clorinda, thrashing along, seemed to have caught the excitement and to have put on a spurt as she hurled herself at her quarry, racing forward to triumph.

“There she is!” said Gerard, telescope trained forward. “All aback still.”

As the next wave lifted Clorinda they all caught sight of her; they were approaching her fast. A sorry, pitiful sight she looked, her fore-topmast broken off clean at the cap, her sails shivering in the wind.

“Clear away the bow chaser,” ordered Fell. “Fire a shot across her bow.”

The shot was fired. Something rose to the schooner’s main peak, and broke out into the red and gold of Spain. It hung there for a moment and then came slowly down again.

“Congratulations on the success of your plans, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower.

“Thank you, My Lord,” answered Fell. He was beaming with pleasure. “I could have done nothing without Your Lordship’s acceptance of my suggestions.”

“That is very good of you, Sir Thomas,” said Hornblower, turning back to look at the prize.

The Estrella was a pitiful sight, the more pitiful as they approached her, and could see more clearly the raffle of wreckage dangling forward, and the rudder torn loose aft. The sudden tug of the drogue when it took effect, using enormous force and leverage, had broken or pulled straight the stout bronze pintles on which the rudder had hung suspended. The drogue itself, weighted by its chain, still hung out of sight below the dangling rudder. Gomez, brought triumphantly aboard, had still no idea of the cause of the disaster, and had not guessed at the reason for the loss of his rudder. He had been young and handsome and dignified in the face of undeserved misfortune when he arrived on Clorinda’s deck. There was no pleasure in observing the change in him when he was told the truth. No pleasure at all. The sight even took away the feeling of pleasure over a professional triumph, to see him wilting under the eyes of his captors. But still, more than three hundred slaves had been set free.

Hornblower was dictating his despatch to Their Lordships, and Spendlove, who numbered this newfangled shorthand among his surprising accomplishments, was slashing down the letter at a speed that made light of Hornblower’s stumbling sentences—Hornblower had not yet acquired the art of dictation.

“In conclusion,” said Hornblower, “it gives me particular pleasure to call Their Lordships’ attention to the ingenuity and activity of Captain Sir Thomas Fell, which made this exemplary capture possible.”

Spendlove looked up from his pad and stared at him. Spendlove knew the truth; but the unblinking stare which answered him defied him to utter a word.

“Add the usual official ending,” said Hornblower.

It was not for him to explain his motives to his secretary. Nor could he have explained them if he had tried. He liked Fell no better now than before.

“Now a letter to my agent,” said Hornblower.

“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Spendlove, turning a page.

Hornblower began to assemble in his mind the sentences composing this next letter. He wanted to say that because the capture was due to Sir Thomas’s suggestions he did not wish to apply for his share of head money for himself. It was his desire that the share of the Flag should be allocated to Sir Thomas.

“No,” said Hornblower. “Belay that. I won’t write after all.”

“Aye aye, My Lord,” said Spendlove.

It was possible to pass on to another man distinction and honour, but one could not pass on money. There was something obvious, something suspicious, about that. Sir Thomas might guess, and Sir Thomas’s feelings might be hurt, and he would not risk it. But he wished he liked Sir Thomas better, all the same.

That 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.

That was Gerard joining in.

“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.”

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

“Very well, run and say it.”

Giles 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 realised 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.

Hornblower tied his white neckcloth and painfully adjusted it to geometrical symmetry, and Giles helped him into his black dresscoat. 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 dresscoats. 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.

Giles 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.

“I must apologise on behalf of Spendlove and myself for the singing, My Lord,” said Gerard.

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

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

Spendlove’s answering grin was very attractive.

“I must ask Your Lordship’s further indulgence not to tell her about it,” he said.

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