“The Spaniard’s wearing a commodore’s broad pendant, Sir Thomas. Will you please be ready to salute it as soon as he salutes my flag?”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
The consultation took some little time, the second half of one sandglass and the beginning of the next. A monstrous creaking down below, and a clanking of the capstan, told that the springs were being tested. Clarinda swung a trifle to starboard, and then a trifle to port.
“Springs are tested and ready, My Lord.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas. Now will you be good enough to send the hands to quarters and clear for action?”
“Clear for action? Aye aye, My Lord.”
It was a detestable nuisance to take this precaution. It meant that his bedding and books and personal equipment down below would be swept away in a horrible muddle that might take days to straighten. But on the other hand, if those frigates came down determined to fight, his reputation would never survive being unready for them. It would be chaos to try to clear away the guns and bring up cartridges while actually under fire; the battle—if there were to be a battle—would be lost before it was begun. And there was something of the old thrill about these preparations; the pealing of the whistles, the hoarse cries of the petty officers, the orderly rush of the men to the guns, the tramp of the marines to the quarterdeck, and the sharp order of their officer as they dressed into a rigid line.
“Ship cleared for action, My Lord.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas. Stand by, if you please.”
There would have been just time even if the strangers had come instantly down and gone into action without parley. By a rapid use of his springs he would rake the first-comer thoroughly enough to have made her captain wish he had never been born. Now he must wait, and the ship’s company, standing by their guns, must wait with him, the matches smouldering in their tubs, the fire parties standing by with their buckets, the powder boys, cartridge carriers in hand, waiting to start their race from powder magazine to guns and back again.
“Here they come, My Lord!”
Those topsails were narrowing again; those masts were coming into line. Now the frigates’ bows were pointed straight at Clorinda as they came towards her. Hornblower held them steady in his telescope; no guns were run out, he could see, but it was impossible to tell if they were cleared for action. Nearer and nearer; now they were almost within extreme random cannon shot. At that moment there was a puff of smoke from the Spaniard’s starboard bow, and for the life of him Hornblower could not check a gulp of excitement. The breeze blew the puff away, and then the puff was replaced by another; as the second appeared, the heavy thud of the first discharge came to Hornblower’s ears. There was a momentary temptation to plunge into the luxury of mental arithmetic, involving the speed of sound conveyed over water, and the five seconds’ interval between saluting guns, and the distance between the ships, but it had to be foregone.
“You may return the salute to the broad pendant, Sir Thomas.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
Thirteen guns for a Rear Admiral’s flag; eleven for a Commodore; twenty-four guns, one hundred and twenty seconds, exactly two minutes; those ships, approaching at four miles in the hour would be a cable’s length closer at the end of the salutes, within distant gunshot.
“Sir Thomas, I would be glad if you would take several turns upon the starboard spring.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
The violent creaking made itself heard again, and Clorinda turned herself to present her broadside towards the newcomers. No harm whatever in letting them know that a hot reception was awaiting them if they intended mischief; it might save much trouble later.
“They’re taking in sail, my Lord!”
So he could see for himself, but there was nothing to be gained by saying so. The two ships obviously had heavy crews, judging by the rapidity with which sail was got in. Now round they went, up into the wind. Hornblower believed he could hear the roar of the cables as they anchored. It seemed like a decisive moment, and Hornblower was about to mark it by shutting up his telescope with a snap when he saw a boat lowering from the Spaniard.
“I fancy we’ll be having a visitor shortly,” said Hornblower.
The boat seemed to fly over the glittering water; the men at the oars were pulling like madmen—presumably the eternal desire of the men of one navy to show another navy what they could do.
“Boat ahoy!” hailed the officer of the watch.
The Spanish officer in the sternsheets, conspicuous by his epaulettes, hailed back; Hornblower could not be sure of what he said, but the letter that was waved at the same time told the story.
“Receive him on board, if you please, Sir Thomas.”
The Spanish lieutenant looked sharply round him as he came over the ship’s side; no harm in his seeing the men at quarters and the preparations made. He picked out Hornblower at once, and with a salute and a bow presented his letter.
Su excellencia el Almirante Sir Hornblower, said the superscription.
Hornblower broke the seal; he could read the Spanish of the letter easily enough.
The Brigadier, Don Luiz Argote, would be honoured if His Excellency Sir Hornblower would accord him the opportunity of an interview. The Brigadier would be delighted if he could visit His Excellency’s ship and would be equally delighted if His Excellency would visit His Most Catholic Majesty’s ship.
In Spanish naval usage, Hornblower knew, ‘Brigadier’ was equivalent to ‘Commodore’.
“I’ll write a reply,” said Hornblower. “Sir Thomas, please make this gentleman welcome. Come with me, Gerard.”
Down below, with the ship cleared for action, it was a nuisance to hunt up writing paper and ink; it was even more of a nuisance to have to compose a letter in Spanish, for in writing misspellings and bad grammar would be far more evident than in speech. Luckily the Brigadier’s letter itself supplied most of the spelling and the tricky conditional form.
Rear Admiral Lord Hornblower would be delighted to receive the Brigadier Don Luiz Argote in his flagship whenever the Brigadier wishes.
Sealing wax and seal and candle had to be discovered; it would never do to appear careless about these formalities.
“Very well,” said Hornblower, giving grudging approval of the second impression after the failure of the first attempt. “Take a boat to the Bride of Abydos as quick as lightning and see if there’s any of that sherry left which Ramsbottom served at his dinner party.”
The Brigadier, when he came up Clorinda’s side, to be received with the appropriate compliments, was followed by another figure in cocked hat and epaulettes. Hornblower bowed and saluted and introduced himself.
“I took the liberty of asking Captain Van der Maesen, of the Royal Netherlands Navy, to accompany me,” said the Brigadier.
“It is with much pleasure that I welcome Captain Van der Maesen on board,” said Hornblower. “Perhaps you gentlemen will accompany me below. I regret very much that we will not be very comfortable, but, as you see, I have been exercising my crew in their duties.”
A screen had been hurriedly run across the after part of the frigate, and the table and chairs replaced. The Brigadier sipped with increasing and astonished appreciation at the glass of wine offered him. Inevitably several minutes passed in desultory conversation—Spanish was the one language the three had in common—before the Brigadier began to discuss business.
“You have a beautiful ship here, milord,” he said. “I regret much to find you in company with a pirate.”