So that it was very late before he went to bed, and he used no light for fear of disturbing Barbara. He crept about the room as silently as he could. In the darkness the glances that he directed at the other bed (naval establishments made small allowance for wives, and that allowance did not include double beds) under its mosquito net revealed nothing to him, and he was glad. If Barbara had been awake they could hardly have avoided discussing the Hudnutt case.
Nor was there any time next morning, for the moment Hornblower was called he had to hurry into the dressing room and array himself in his best uniform with his ribbon and star and hasten away to the ceremony of the change of command. As the officer to be relieved he was first upon the quarterdeck of the Clorinda, and stationed himself on the starboard side, his staff behind him. Captain Sir Thomas Fell had received him, and next busied himself with receiving the other captains as they came on board. The marine band — without Hudnutt — played selections on the poop; the pipes of the bosun’s mates twittered unceasingly to welcome the continuous arrivals; the sun blazed down as if this were just some ordinary day. Then came a pause, intense in its drama. Then the band burst into a march again, there were ruffles of drums and flourishes of bugles as Ransome came up the side with his staff behind him, to take up his station on the port side. Fell came forward to Hornblower with his hand at his hat brim.
“Ship’s company fallen in, My Lord.”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas.” Spendlove pressed a paper into Hornblower’s hand; Hornblower stepped forward. “Orders from the Lords Commissioners for the execution of the office of Lord High Admiral, to me, Horatio Lord Hornblower, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the Red Squadron —”
He really had trouble in preventing his voice from trembling, forcing himself to read in a harsh and matter-of-fact tone. He folded the paper and gave his last order.
“Sir Thomas, please have the goodness to haul down my flag.”
“Aye aye, My Lord.”
The first of the thirteen saluting guns went off as the red ensign came slowly down from the mizzen peak. A long, long, descent; sixty seconds for thirteen guns, and when the flag completed its descent Hornblower was the poorer by forty-nine pounds three shillings and seven pence a month command pay. A moment later Ransome came forward, paper in hand, to read the orders of the Lords Commissioners to him, Henry Ransome, Companion of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the Blue Squadron.
“Hoist my flag, Sir Thomas.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Up to the mizzen peak rose the Blue Ensign; until it broke at the peak the ship was silent, but then it unfolded itself in the breeze and the salute roared out and the band played. When the last gun fired Ransome was legally Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels in West Indian waters. More blaring from the band, and in the midst of it Hornblower stepped forward raising his hand in salute to the new Commander-in-Chief.
“Permission to leave the ship, sir?”
“Permission granted.”
Ruffles of drums, bugle calls, pipes, and he went down the ship’s side. He might have been sentimental; he might have felt agony of regret, but there was instant distraction awaiting him.
“My Lord,” said Spendlove beside him in the stern-sheets.
“Well?”
“That prisoner — Hudnutt, the marine bandsman —”
“He’s escaped, My Lord. He broke prison during the night.”
That settled Hudnutt’s fate beyond all doubt. Nothing could save him. He was as good as dead; or soon perhaps he would be worse than dead. No deserter, no escaped prisoner, ever succeeded in evading recapture in Jamaica. It was an island, and not too large an island. And there was a standing reward of ten pounds sterling for information resulting in the apprehension of a deserter, and in Jamaica, far more than in England, ten pounds was a fortune. A journeyman’s wages for a year or more; more money than any slave could hope to see in a lifetime. No deserter stood a chance; his white face, to say nothing of his uniform, would call attention to him wherever he might be in the island, and the standing reward made it certain that he would be betrayed. Hudnutt was doomed to recapture. And he was doomed beyond that. There would be additional charges at his court martial. Prison breaking. Desertion. Damage to government property. Damage to his uniform. He would probably be hanged. The only other chance was that he would be flogged round the fleet to die for certain under the lash. Hudnutt was a dead man, and this was the end of his talent for music.
It was a sombre enough thought to occupy his mind all the way to the pier, and it kept him silent as he climbed into the Governor’s carriage to be driven to Government House — he had no Commander-in-Chief’s carriage now. He was still silent as they drove away.
But they had hardly gone a mile when they met a lively cavalcade clattering down on horseback towards them. First Hornblower saw Barbara — he would have picked her out in any crowd even if she had not been conspicuous on a white horse. His Excellency rode on one side of her and Lady Hooper on the other, chattering eagerly. Behind them came a mixed party, of aides-de-camp and civilians; at the rear rode the Assistant Provost-Marshal and two troopers of his guard.
“Ha, Hornblower!” called the Governor, reining up. “Your ceremonial seems to have finished earlier than I expected.”
“Good morning, sir,” said Hornblower. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Then he smiled at Barbara — he could always smile at the sight of her despite any depression. In her hunting veil the smile she gave him in return was hardly apparent.
“You can join us in our hunt. One of my aides-de-camp will give you his horse,” said Hooper, and then, peering into the carriage, “No, perhaps not, in those silk stockings. You can follow us in the carriage, like a lady with certain expectations. Like the Queen of France, by Gad! Turn that carriage, coachman.”
“What are you hunting, sir?” asked Hornblower, a little bewildered.
“That deserter of yours. He might show us some sport,” answered Hooper.
They were hunting man, the biggest game of all — but Hudnutt, dreamy, scatter-brained Hudnutt, would be poor game. Two coloured servants rode in the party, each holding a leash of bloodhounds, tawny and black; grim, horrible creatures. He wanted to have nothing to do with this hunt, nothing whatever. He wanted to order the carriage to turn back again. This was a nightmare, and it was beyond his power to awaken himself from it. It was horrible to see Barbara taking part in it. At the dockyard gate, at the high palisade, the cortege halted.
“That’s the prison,” said the Assistant Provost-Marshal, pointing. “You can see the hole in the roof, sir.”
An area of thatch had been torn away. Probably that prison was not very strongly built; to escape from it meant that the fifteen-foot palisade had to be scaled next — and even then certain recapture somewhere in the island awaited the man to achieve that feat.
“Come on,” said the Assistant Provost-Marshal, and he and his guard and the men with the bloodhounds trotted into the dockyard to the prison and dismounted. They took the bloodhounds into the prison, where presumably the hounds smelt at the prisoner’s bedding. Then they reappeared at the door, smelling at the ground below the hole in the roof. Instantly they caught the scent, throwing themselves against their leashes so that the coloured servants had a difficult task to remount, and then they came pelting across the dockyard again. They threw themselves against the palisade, leaping up at it, slavering with excitement.
“Bring ‘em round to this side!” shouted the Governor, and then, turning to Hornblower, “Your man’s a marine, isn’t he? Even a sailor would find it hard to scale that palisade.”