“I’m sure you over-estimate my influence,” said Hornblower, choosing his words as carefully as Spendlove had done, but, he hoped, not as obviously. “But of course I will do all I can.”

“There is no need for me to reiterate my gratitude, My Lord,” said Spendlove.

This pleading creature, this poor love-lorn fellow, was the Spendlove whose cool daring had risked a leap in the darkness down a sixty-foot precipice. Hornblower remembered Lucy’s lips on his hands, remembered how she had followed him on her knees across the floor. The less he had to do with any of this the better, he decided. But the passion of a child hardly out of the schoolroom for a man of mature years was likely to be fleeting, transient, and the memory of her lost dignity would later be as painful to her as it was to him. She would find need to assert herself, to show him that he was not the only man in the world—and how could she demonstrate that more plainly than by marrying someone else? To use a vulgar phrase, there was quite a chance that Spendlove might catch her on the rebound.

“If good wishes can help,” he said, “you have all mine, Spendlove.”

Even an Admiral had to choose his words with care. Two days later he was announcing his immediate departure to the Governor.

“I’m taking my squadron to sea in the morning, Your Excellency,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to stay for the hangings?” asked Hooper in surprise.

“I fear not,” answered Hornblower, and added an unnecessary explanation. “Hangings don’t agree with me, Your Excellency.”

It was not merely an unnecessary explanation; it was a foolish one, as he knew as soon as he saw the open astonishment in Hooper’s face. Hooper could hardly have been more surprised at hearing that hangings did not agree with Hornblower than he would have been if he had heard that Hornblower did not agree with hangings—and that was very nearly as correct.

The Guns Of Carabobo

She was exactly like a British ship of war; naturally, perhaps, since she had been one most of her life until she was sold out of the service. Now, as she came up into the harbour, she could pass without question for a man-o’-war brig except that she flew the Royal Yacht Squadron burgee instead of a commission pendant. Hornblower put down the telescope through which he had been watching, curiously, her progress into Kingston harbour, and referred again to Barbara’s letter, two months old now, which had arrived a fortnight ago.

My dearest husband (wrote Barbara. She sometimes misused her superlatives; that ‘dearest’, strictly, implied that she had at least three husbands, even though it also implied that Hornblower rated highest of the three).

Hornblower had to read the letter through to the end, although it contained no further reference to Mr. Charles Ramsbottom, but he returned again to the opening paragraph. It was the first time he had ever seen this new word ‘millionaire’, which occurred twice. He disliked it on sight. It was inconceivable that a man should have a million pounds, and presumably not in broad estates but in factories and in stocks and shares, probably with a huge holding in Consols and an immense balance at the bank as well. The existence of millionaires, whether in Society or not, was something as distasteful as the word itself now called into existence. And this one had been charming to Barbara—he was not too sure if that really constituted a recommendation. He picked up the telescope again and watched the brig come to an anchor. The rapidity with which she took in sail showed that she carried a large crew. Hornblower, as a Commander-in-Chief of a squadron and accountable to the niggardly Lords of the Admiralty for every penny expended, knew perfectly well what this sort of thing cost. This Mr. Ramsbottom, to indulge himself in his naval toy, was expending enough money to maintain a thousand families in bread and beer and bacon.

The brig rounded-to and anchored very neatly indeed; if she had been a vessel included in his command he would have grunted with grudging satisfaction. As it was he grunted with a mixture of envy and derision and turned away to await the inevitable call in the seclusion of Admiralty House.

When it came he fingered the visiting card with its plain ‘Mr Charles Ramsbottom’ and found some small satisfaction in deciding that he had at last come across a name more unlovely than his own. But the owner of the name, when he was ushered in, made a better impression. In his very early twenties, he was small and slight and—for what it was worth—strikingly handsome, with black hair and eyes and what could only be described as ‘chiselled features’ deeply tanned after weeks at sea; not at all what might be expected of a Bradford wool manufacturer, while his dark-green coat and formal white breeches were in quiet good taste.

“My wife wrote to me about you, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said Hornblower.

“That was very kind of Lady Hornblower. But of course she is kindness personified. May I present my letters of introduction from Lord Liverpool and Bishop Wilberforce, My Lord?”

Barbara was perfectly right, then, in predicting that Ramsbottom would win favour with both political parties—here were letters from the Prime Minister himself and a prominent member of the Opposition. Hornblower glanced through them, and was conscious of an undernote of cordiality despite their formal wording.

“Excellent, Mr. Ramsbottom,” said Hornblower. He tried to adopt the tone which he presumed would be adopted by a man who had just read a letter of introduction from the Prime Minister. “Is there any way in which I can be of service to you?”

“None that I am aware of at present, My Lord. I must complete with water and stores, naturally, but my purser is a capable man. I intend to continue my voyage through these charming islands.”

“Of course,” said Hornblower, soothingly. He could not imagine why anyone should voluntarily spend any time in these waters where piracy was still smouldering, nor why anyone should wish to visit countries where malaria and yellow fever were endemic, and where civil war, revolution, and massacre claimed even heavier toll.

“You find the Bride of Abydos a comfortable ship?” asked Hornblower.

Those eighteen-gun brigs of the Royal Navy were notoriously unpleasant craft, crowded and crank.

“Comfortable enough, My Lord, thank you,” answered Ramsbottom. “I lightened her by changing the armament; she mounts only twelve guns now—two long sixes and ten carronades, twenty-four-pounders instead of thirty-two-pounders.”