“What do you wish to say, milord?”
“Bad news.”
“Well?”
“It is with the deepest regret, Count, that I have to inform you of the death of your Emperor.”
“No!”
“The Emperor Napoleon died at St Helena last month. I offer you my sympathy, Count.”
Hornblower told the lie with every effort to appear like a man speaking the truth.
“It cannot be true!”
“I assure you that it is, Count.”
A muscle in the Count’s cheek twitched restlessly beside the purple scar. His hard, slightly protruding eyes bored into Hornblower’s like gimlets.
“I received the news two days back in Port of Spain,” said Hornblower. “In consequence I cancelled the arrangements I had made for the arrest of this ship.”
Cambronne could not guess that Crab had not made as quick a passage as he indicated.
“I do not believe you,” said Cambronne, nevertheless. It was just the sort of tale that might be told to halt Daring in her passage.
“Sir!” said Hornblower, haughtily. He drew himself up even stiffer, acting as well as he could the part of the man of honour whose word was being impugned. The pose was almost successful.
“You must understand the importance of what you are saying, milord,” said Cambronne, with the faintest hint of apology in his voice. But then he said the fatal dreaded words that Hornblower had been expecting. “Milord, do you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that what you say is true?”
“My word of honour as a gentleman,” said Hornblower.
He had anticipated this moment in misery for days and days. He was ready for it. He compelled himself to make his answer in the manner of a man of honour. He made himself say it steadily and sincerely, as if it did not break his heart to say it. He had been sure that Cambronne would ask him for his word of honour.
It was the last sacrifice he could make. In twenty years of war he had freely risked his life for his country. He had endured danger, anxiety, hardship. He had never until now been asked to give his honour. This was the further price he had to pay. It was through his own fault that the peace of the world was in peril. It was fitting that he should pay the price. And the honour of one man was a small price to pay for the peace of the world, to save his country from the renewal of the deadly perils she had so narrowly survived for twenty years. In those happy years of the past, returning to his country after an arduous campaign, he had looked about him and he had breathed English air and he had told himself with fatuous patriotism that England was worth fighting for, was worth dying for. England was worth a man’s honour, too. Oh, it was true. But it was heartrending, it was far, far worse than death that it should be his honour that had to be sacrificed.
A little group of officers had appeared on deck and were standing grouped on either side of Cambronne listening to every word; to one side stood the American captain and his mate. Facing them, alone, his gaudy uniform flashing in the sun, stood Hornblower, waiting. The officer on Cambronne’s right spoke next. He was some kind of adjutant or staff officer, clearly, of the breed that Hornblower hated. Of course, he had to repeat the question, to turn the iron in the wound.
“Your word of honour, milord?”
“My word of honour,” repeated Hornblower, still steadily, still like a man of honour.
No one could disbelieve the word of honour of a British Admiral, of a man who had held His Majesty’s commission for more than twenty years. He went on now with the arguments he had rehearsed.
“This exploit of yours can be forgotten now, Count,” he said. “With the Emperor’s death all hope of reconstituting the Empire is at an end. No one need know of what you had intended. You, and these gentlemen, and the Imperial Guard below decks, can remain uncompromised with the regime that rules France. You can carry them all home as you had said you would do, and on the way you can drop your warlike stores quietly overboard. It is for this reason that I have visited you like this, alone. My country, your country, do not desire any new incident to imperil the amity of the world. No one need know; this incident can remain a secret between us.”
Cambronne heard what he said, and listened to it, but the first news he had heard was of such moving importance that he could speak of nothing else.
“The Emperor is dead!” he said.
“I have already assured you of my sympathy, Count,” said Hornblower. “I offer it to these gentlemen as well. My very deepest sympathy.”
The American captain broke into the murmurs of Cambronne’s staff.
“There’s a cat’s-paw of wind coming towards us,” he said. “We’ll be under way again in five minutes. Are you coming with us, mister, or are you going over the side?”
“Wait,” said Cambronne; he seemingly had some English. He turned to his staff, and they plunged into debate. When they all spoke at once Hornblower’s French was inadequate to follow the conversation in detail. But he could see they were all convinced. He might have been pleased, if there had been any pleasure left in the world for him. Someone walked across the deck and shouted down the hatchway, and next moment the Imperial Guard began to pour up on deck. The Old Guard, Bonaparte’s Old Guard; they were all in full uniform, apparently in readiness for battle if Crab had been foolish enough to risk one. There were five hundred of them in their plumes and bearskins, muskets in hand. A shouted order formed them up on deck, line behind line, gaunt, whiskered men who had marched into every capital in Europe save London alone. They carried their muskets and stood at rigid attention; only a few of them did not look straight to their front, but darted curious glances at the British Admiral. The tears were running down Cambronne’s scarred cheeks as he turned and spoke to them. He told them the news in broken sentences, for he could hardly speak for sorrow. They growled like beasts as he spoke. They were thinking of their Emperor dying in his island prison under the harsh treatment of his English jailers; the looks that were turned upon Hornblower now showed hatred instead of curiosity, but Cambronne caught their attention again as he went on to speak of the future. He spoke of France and peace.
“The Emperor is dead!” he said again, as if he were saying that the world had come to an end.
The ranks were ragged now; emotion had broken down even the iron discipline of the Old Guard. Cambronne drew his sword, raising the hilt to his lips in the beautiful gesture of the salute; the steel flashed in the light of the sinking sun.
“I drew this sword for the Emperor,” said Cambronne. “I shall never draw it again.”
He took the blade in both hands close to the hilt, and put it across his lifted knee. With a convulsive effort of his lean, powerful body he snapped the blade across, and, turning, he flung the fragments into the sea. The sound that came from the Old Guard was like a long drawn moan. One man took his musket by the muzzle, swung the butt over his head, and brought it crashing down on the deck, breaking the weapon at the small of the butt. Others followed his example. The muskets rained overside.
The American captain was regarding the scene apparently unmoved, as if nothing more would ever surprise him, but the unlit cigar in his mouth was now much shorter, and he must have chewed off the end. He approached Hornblower obviously to ask the explanation of the scene, but the French adjutant interposed.
“France,” said the adjutant. “We go to France.”
“France?” repeated the captain. “Not — ?”
He did not say the words ‘St Helena’, but they were implicit in his expression.
“France,” repeated the adjutant, heavily.
Cambronne came towards them, stiffer and straighter than ever as he mastered his emotion.