“Now you can go on,” said one of them, pointing along the path winding towards the distant cane.

It was a second or two before Hornblower’s stupefied brain could grasp the fact that they were turning him loose.

“That way?” he asked, unnecessarily.

“Yes,” said his escort.

The two men turned their mules; Hornblower had to struggle with his, who disliked the separation. One of the escorts struck the brute on the rump, sending him down the path in a jerky trot acutely painful to Hornblower as he sought to retain his seat. Soon the mule eased to a leg-weary walk, and Hornblower was content to sit idly as it crawled along down the path; the sun was now clouded over and it was not long before, heralded by a brisk wind, a blinding rain began to fall, blotting out the landscape and slowing the mule even more on the slippery surface. Hornblower sat exhausted on the sharp spine of the animal; so heavy was the rain that he found it difficult to breathe as it poured upon his face.

Gradually the roaring rain ceased; the sky, while it remained overcast above him, opened to the west and admitted a gleam of the setting sun, so that the landscape on his left was made glorious with a rainbow which Hornblower hardly noted. Here was the first cane-field; the track he was following became here a rough and narrow roadway through the cane, deeply rutted by cartwheels. The mule plodded on, eternally, through the cane. Now the road crossed another, and the mule pulled up at the crossroads. Before Hornblower could rouse himself to urge the mule onwards he heard a shout to his right. Far down the road he saw a group of horsemen illuminated against the sunset. With an urgent drumming of hoofs they came galloping towards him, and reined up at his side—a white man followed by two coloured men.

“It’s Lord Hornblower, isn’t it?” asked the white man—a young fellow; Hornblower noticed dully that, although mounted, he was still in full-dress clothes with his ruffled neckcloth all awry and bedraggled.

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“Thank God you’re safe, sir,” said the young man. “Are you hurt? Are you wounded, My Lord?”

“No,” said Hornblower, swaying with fatigue on the back of the mule.

The young man turned to one of his coloured companions and issued rapid orders, and the coloured man wheeled his horse round and went galloping full pelt down the road.

“The whole island has been turned out to seek for you, My Lord,” said the young man. “What happened to you? We have searched for you all day.”

It would never do for an Admiral, a Commander-in-Chief, to betray unmanly weakness. Hornblower made himself stiffen his spine.

“I was kidnapped by pirates,” he said. He tried to speak nonchalantly, as if that was something that could happen to anyone any day, but it was difficult. His voice was only a hoarse croak. “I must go at once to the Governor. Where is His Excellency?”

“He must be at Government House, I fancy,” said the young man. “No more than thirty miles away.”

Thirty miles! Hornblower felt as if he could not ride another thirty yards.

“Very well,” he said, stiffly. “I must go there.”

“The Hough house is only two miles down the road here, My Lord,” said the young man. “Your carriage is still there, I believe. I have already sent a messenger.”

“We’ll go there first, then,” said Hornblower, as indifferently as he could manage.

A word from the white man brought the other coloured man from his horse, and Hornblower slid ungracefully from the mule. It was an enormous effort to get his foot up into the stirrup; the coloured man had to help him heave his right leg over. He had hardly gathered the reins in his hands—he had not yet discovered which was which—when the white man put his horse into a trot and Hornblower’s mount followed him. It was torture to bump about in the saddle.

“My name is Colston,” said the white man, checking his horse so that Hornblower came up alongside him. “I had the honour of being presented to Your Lordship at the ball last night.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower. “Tell me what happened there.”

“You were missed, My Lord, after the supper march had been kept waiting for you to head it with Mrs Hough. You and your secretary, Mr—Mr—”

“Spendlove,” said Hornblower.

“Yes, My Lord. At first it was thought that some urgent business was demanding your attention. It was not for an hour or two, I suppose, that your flag-lieutenant and Mr. Hough could agree that you had been spirited away. There was great distress among the company, My Lord.”

“Yes?”

“Then the alarm was given. All the gentlemen present rode out in search for you. The militia was called out at dawn. The whole countryside is being patrolled. I expect the Highland regiment is in full march for here at this moment.”

“Indeed?” said Hornblower. A thousand infantrymen were making a forced march of thirty miles on his account; a thousand horsemen were scouring the island.

Hoofbeats sounded in front of them. Two horsemen approached in the gathering darkness; Hornblower could just recognise Hough and the messenger.

“Thank God, My Lord,” said Hough. “What happened?”

Hornblower was tempted to answer, ‘Mr Colston will tell you’, but he made himself make a more sensible reply. Hough uttered the expected platitudes.

“I must go on to the Governor at once,” said Hornblower. “There is Spendlove to think of.”

“Spendlove, My Lord? Oh, yes, of course, your secretary.”

“He is still in the hands of the pirates,” said Hornblower.

“Indeed, My Lord?” replied Hough.

No one seemed to have a care about Spendlove, except Lucy Hough, presumably.

Here was the house and the courtyard; lights were gleaming in every window.

“Please come in, My Lord,” said Hough. “Your Lordship must be in need of refreshment.”

He had eaten yams and salt pork some time that morning; he felt no hunger now.

“I must go on to Government House,” he said. “I can waste no time.”

“If Your Lordship insists—”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“I will go and have the horses put to, then, My Lord.”

Hornblower found himself alone in the brightly-lit sitting-room. He felt that if he threw himself into one of the vast chairs there he would never get up again.

“My Lord! My Lord!”

It was Lucy Hough fluttering into the room, her skirts flying with her haste. He would have to tell her about Spendlove.

“Oh, you’re safe! You’re safe!”

What was this? The girl had flung herself on her knees before him. She had one of his hands in both hers, and was kissing it frantically. He drew back, he tried to snatch his hand away, but she clung on to it, and followed him on her knees, still kissing it.

“Miss Lucy!”

“I care for nothing as long as you’re safe!” she said, looking up at him and still clasping his hand; tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I’ve been through torment today. You’re not hurt? Tell me! Speak to me!”

This was horrible. She was pressing her lips, her cheek, against his hand again.

“Miss Lucy! Please! Compose yourself!”

How could a girl of seventeen act like this towards a man of forty-five? Was she not enamoured of Spendlove? But perhaps that was the person she was thinking about.

“I will see that Mr. Spendlove is safe,” he said.

“Mr. Spendlove? I hope he’s safe. But it’s you—you—you—”

“Miss Lucy! You must not say these things! Stand up, please, I beg you!”

Somehow he got her to her feet.

“I couldn’t bear it!” she said. “I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you!”

“There, there!” said Hornblower, as soothingly as he knew how.

“The carriage will be ready in two minutes, My Lord,” said Hough’s voice from the door. “A glass of wine and a bite before you start?”

Hough came in with a smile.

“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, struggling with embarrassment.