A shore boat came out to them before ever they dropped anchor, and there was an urgent conference on Clorinda’s quarterdeck between Ruiz and the officer it brought out.

“My General is in Carabobo,” said Ruiz to Hornblower. “A battle is going to be fought. Bolivar is marching on Puerto Cabello, and my General has taken the army to meet him.”

“Where is Ramsbottom and his ship?”

Ruiz looked to the arrival for the information.

“Near Puerto Cabello.”

That was, of course, the likeliest place, a hundred miles or less to the westward, a roadstead where supplies might possibly be landed, and an ideal situation for intercepting all communications between Curaçao and La Guaira.

“Then I shall head for Puerto Cabello,” said Hornblower. “You can accompany me if you wish, Don Manuel. The wind is fair and I’ll land you there quicker than a horse would carry you.”

Ruiz hesitated for a moment; he knew all about horses and he was suspicious about ships. But the advantage was so obvious that he accepted.

“Very well, then,” said Hornblower. “Sir Thomas, we’ll hoist that anchor again, if you would be so kind. Set a course for Puerto Cabello.”

Now Clorinda had the lusty trade wind on her quarter, her best point of sailing; she had her studding sails out and every possible stitch of canvas out, and she flew along. A horse at full gallop might go faster, but no horse could do as Clorinda was doing and maintain full speed for hour after hour, nor could any horse ever attain full speed on the mountain tracks of the Maritime Andes. Naturally, no amount of speed could satisfy Ruiz. With telescope to his eye he watched the distant coast go by until his weary eye was almost blind, and then he paced about the quarterdeck, trickles of sweat running down his forehead and cheeks as the sun, climbing to its noontide height, blazed vertically down on him. He turned a suspicious eye on Hornblower when the crew of Clorinda poured aloft to take in sail.

“We are going in to shore now, General,” explained Hornblower soothingly.

The leadsmen were in the chains as Clorinda headed in towards the roadstead. In the middle of their chant Ruiz suddenly turned to Hornblower and stood rigid, listening to another, more distant, sound.

“Cannons!” he said.

Hornblower strained his ears. The faintest, almost imperceptible noise, and then silence, save for the sound of the ship through the water and the bustle of preparing to come to an anchor.

“Order the ‘still’ for a moment, if you please, Sir Thomas.”

Now the leadsmen ceased their chant, and every man in Clorinda stood silent, even though the wind still played through the rigging and the sea chattered alongside. A very distant, flat detonation. Another. Two more.

“Thank you, Sir Thomas. You may carry on now.”

“Cannons!” repeated Ruiz, glaring at Hornblower. “They are fighting the battle.”

Somewhere on the outskirts of Puerto Cabello Royalists and Republicans were locked in combat. And those guns that they had heard? They might well be those that the Helmond had carried, now in the hands of the insurgents and firing upon their legal owners. The fact that artillery was being employed indicated a pitched battle, no petty skirmish. Over there the fate of Venezuela was being decided. Ruiz was pounding his fist into his open palm.

“Sir Thomas, kindly have a boat ready to land the General without delay.”

As the gig pulled away from Clorinda’s side Hornblower looked up at the sun, called up before his mind’s eye the chart of the Venezuelan coast, and reached a further decision. As always in the Service, a long, dull interval had heralded a period of activity. As the gig came skimming back again he was ready with his next order.

“Will you be so good as to make sail again, Sir Thomas? We can continue to search to the westward for Ramsbottom while daylight lasts.”

It was desirable to obtain the earliest possible news of the result of the battle, but it was also, or more, desirable to lay hands on Ramsbottom as quickly as might be. They had not sighted him between La Guaira and Puerto Cabello; he could not be much farther along the coast. The sun was descending now, dazzling the lookouts as they peered towards it while Clorinda continued her course along the shores of the province of Carabobo. Not so far ahead the land trended abruptly northward to San Juan Point—a lee shore. It was curious that Ramsbottom should have gone even this far to leeward; unless he had put up his helm and headed clear away, guessing that his period of grace was at an end.

“Deck, there!” The lookout at the fore-topgallant masthead was hailing. “There’s summat on the port bow, just in sight. Right in the eye of the sun. But it may be a ship, sir. A ship’s masts an’ yards, sir, with no sail set.”

It would be incredible that Ramsbottom had anchored here on this dangerous lee shore. But incredible things have to be done in war. Clorinda had long ago taken in her studding sails. Now after a sharp order from Fell, and five minutes’ activity on the part of her crew, she was gliding along under topsails and headsails alone. The sun sank into a bank of cloud, suffusing it with scarlet.

“Deck there! Two ships, sir. At anchor. One of ‘em’s a brig, sir.”

A brig! Ramsbottom almost for certain. Now with the sun behind the cloud it was possible to train a telescope in the direction indicated. There they were, sharp and clear against the sunset, silhouetted in black against the scarlet cloud, the masts and yards of a ship and a brig at anchor. Sir Thomas was looking to Hornblower for orders.

“Approach as close as you consider advisable, if you please, Sir Thomas. And a boarding party ready to take possession.”

“An armed boarding party, My Lord?”

“As you please. He’ll never dare to oppose us by force.”

The guns of the brig were not run out, there were no boarding nettings rigged. In any case the little brig stood no chance in an unsheltered anchorage against a frigate.

“I’ll anchor if I may, My Lord.”

“Certainly.”

That was the Bride of Abydos, without a doubt. No mistaking her at all. And the other one? Most likely the Helmond. With the revolt of Maracaibo this part of the coast had fallen into the power of the insurgents. The batteries of field artillery that she had carried could be rafted ashore here—there was a beach in that little cove where it would be possible—and delivered to the insurgent army gathering for its march on Puerto Cabello. Ramsbottom, his task completed, would presumably be prepared to brazen it out, pleading—as Hornblower had already guessed—some privateering commission from Bolivar.

“I’ll go with the boarding party, Sir Thomas.”

Fell shot a questioning glance. Admirals had no business boarding strange craft from small boats, not only when bullets might fly, but when one of the infinite variety of accidents possible in small boats might lead to an elderly and not so active senior officer being dropped overside and never coming up again, with endless trouble later for the captain. Hornblower could follow Fell’s train of thought, but he was not going to wait quiescent on Clorinda’s quarterdeck until a report came back from the Bride of Abydos—not when a word would give him the power of finding out several minutes earlier.

“I’ll get your sword and pistols, My Lord,” said Gerard.

“Nonsense!” said Hornblower. “Look there!”

He had kept his telescope trained on the anchored ships, and had detected a significant activity around them. Boats were pulling hastily away from both of them and heading for the shore. Ramsbottom seemed to be absconding.

“Come along!” said Hornblower.

He ran to the ship’s side and leaped for the boat’s falls; sliding down, clumsily, cost him some of the skin from his soft palms.