“Cast off! Pull!” he ordered as Gerard tumbled in beside him. “Pull!”

The boat swung away from the ship’s side, soared giddily up a swell and down again, the men throwing their weight on the oars. But the boat that was leaving the Bride of Abydos was not being handled in the man-o’-war fashion one would have expected of Ramsbottom. The oars were being plied without any co-ordination; the boat swung round on the swell, and then as somebody caught a crab swung round again. In next to no time Hornblower found himself alongside the struggling craft. The men at the oars were not the spruce seamen he had seen on board the Bride of Abydos. They were swarthy men clothed in rags. Nor was that Ramsbottom in the stern-sheets. Instead, it was someone with a heavy black moustache wearing some vestiges of a blue and silver uniform. The reddening sunset glared down upon him.

“Who are you?” demanded Hornblower, and then repeated the question in Spanish.

The boat had ceased its struggles and was lying on its oars, rising and falling on the swell.

“Lieutenant Perez of the First Regiment of Infantry of the Army of Greater Colombia.”

Greater Colombia. That was what Bolivar called the republic he was trying to establish by his rebellion against Spain.

“Where is Mr. Ramsbottom?”

“The Admiral has been on shore for the last week.”

“The Admiral?”

“Don Carlos Ramsbottom y Santona, Admiral of the Navy of Greater Colombia.” An Admiral; no less.

“What were you doing on board that ship?”

“I was taking care of her until Your Excellency came.”

“Is there nobody on board, then?”

“Nobody.”

The boats soared up a swell and sank down again. It was a sickly thing to do, not conducive to logical thought. He had been prepared to arrest Ramsbottom, but it would be another matter to arrest a lieutenant of infantry, in territorial waters.

“Where is the crew of the ship?”

“On shore with the Admiral. With the army.”

Fighting for Bolivar, presumably. And presumably as artillerymen serving the stolen guns.

“Very well. You may go.”

It was sufficient to make sure of the Bride of Abydos; there was no purpose in laying hands on men of Bolivar’s army who had only been obeying the orders of their superiors.

“Lay me alongside the brig.”

In the fading light the deck of the Bride of Abydos was not in too great disorder. The departing crew had apparently left everything shipshape, and the caretaking party of South American soldiers had not disturbed anything—although below deck it would probably be a different story. But what would have happened if a gale had blown up in this perilous anchorage on a lee shore would not bear thinking about. Presumably Ramsbottom had not cared what happened to his little ship once he had brought off his coup.

“Ahoy! Ahoy!”

Someone was hailing through a speaking trumpet from the other ship. Hornblower took the speaking trumpet from its becket by the wheel and hailed back.

“I am Admiral Lord Hornblower of His Britannic Majesty’s Service. I am coming aboard.”

It was almost dark when he mounted to the deck of the Helmond, to be welcomed by the light of a couple of lanterns. The captain who greeted him was a thick-set man speaking excellent English with a marked accent, Dutch, presumably.

“You have not arrived too soon, sir,” was his uncompromising beginning, not the way to address any officer of the Royal Navy, certainly not an Admiral and a Peer.

“I’ll thank you to be civil,” snapped Hornblower, his temper frayed.

Two angry men faced each other in the wavering light, and then the Dutchman realised that it would be better to restrain his ill-temper in dealing with someone who, after all, had the power on this lonely coast to enforce any orders he might issue.

“Please come below, sir,” he said. “Perhaps a glass of Schnapps—?”

It was a comfortable, well-furnished cabin in which Hornblower was offered a seat and a glass.

“I was glad when I saw your topsails, sir,” said the Dutch captain. “For ten days I have been through misery. My ship—my cargo—this shore—”

The disjointed words conveyed the anxieties of finding himself in the hands of the insurgents, and of being compelled to anchor off a lee shore with an armed guard on board.

“What happened?” asked Hornblower.

“That damned little brig fired a shot across my bows with Bonaire still in sight. They boarded me when I hove-to. Put an armed party on board. I thought she was one of yours, a ship-of-war. They brought me here and anchored, and the army came out to us. That was when I knew she was not a ship-of-war, not British.

“Then they took your cargo?”

“They did. Twelve nine-pounder field guns, with limbers and caissons and horse harness. One ammunition waggon. One repair cart with tools. Two thousand rounds of ammunition. One ton of gunpowder in kegs. Everything.” The Dutchman was obviously quoting verbatim from his bill of lading.

“How did they get it ashore?”

“On rafts. Those Britishers worked like madmen. And there were seamen among them.”

It was a handsome admission, hardly grudging. Presumably keg-pontoons had been employed; Hornblower told himself that he would have tackled the problem of getting the cargo on to the beach in that way, at least. Presumably a good deal of unskilled labour had been provided on shore by the insurgent forces, but that hardly detracted from the achievement.

“And then every single man went off with the guns?” asked Hornblower.

“Every man. Not too many for twelve guns.”

Not too many. The Bride of Abydos carried a crew of some seventy-five men—hardly sufficient, in fact, to man two batteries in action.

“And they left a Venezuelan guard on board?”

“Yes. You saw them go when you came. They kept me here, at anchor on a lee shore.”

That, of course, was to prevent the Dutchman spreading the news of the fraud that had been practised.

“Those—those brigands knew nothing about ships.” The Dutchman was continuing his tale of tribulation. “The Desperate started dragging her anchor once. I had to send my own men—”

“You were lucky they didn’t burn your ship,” said Hornblower. “Luckier still they didn’t plunder it. You’re lucky not to be in some prison on shore.”

“That may be so, but—”

“As it is, sir,” said Hornblower, rising, “you are free. You can use the land breeze to make an offing. Tomorrow night you can anchor in Willemstadt.”

“But my cargo, sir? I have been detained. I have been in danger. My country’s flag—?”

“Your owners can take action as they please. I understand that Ramsbottom is a wealthy man. He can be sued for damages.”

“But—but—” The Dutchman could find no words that would express adequately his feelings regarding both his recent treatment and Hornblower’s scant sympathy.

“Your Government can address protests, of course. To the Government of Greater Colombia, or to King Ferdinand.” Hornblower kept his face expressionless as he made the ridiculous suggestion. “I must congratulate you, sir, on your escape from very serious dangers. I trust you will have a prosperous voyage home.”

He had freed the Helmond, and he had laid hands on the Bride of Abydos. That much he had accomplished so far, said Hornblower to himself as the boat took him back to Clorinda. The Governments at home could squabble over the legal details, if they cared to go to the trouble. What the Cabinet and the Admiralty would think about his actions he could not imagine; he was conscious of a slight chill of apprehension when his mind dwelt upon that side of the situation. But an Admiral could not show apprehension to anyone, certainly not to a captain as stupid as Sir Thomas Fell.

“I’ll be obliged, Sir Thomas,” he said, when he regained Clorinda’s deck, “if you will send a prize crew on board the brig. Would you please be good enough to instruct the officer whom you put in command to keep company with us? We shall sail for Puerto Cabello again as soon as it is convenient to you.”