“The dispatch is forged,” said Hornblower, taking the final plunge. “A small party is landed secretly with it at a quiet spot on the Spanish Biscay coast, posing as French officials, or Spanish officials, and they travel slowly towards the frontier along the highroad. A succession of couriers is coming in the opposite direction, bearing orders for Villeneuve. Seize one of them — kill him, perhaps — or perhaps with the best of luck substitute the forged order for the one he is carrying. Otherwise one of the party turns back, posing as a French officer, and delivers the false letter to Villeneuve.”
There was the whole plan, fantastic and yet — and yet — at least faintly possible. At least not demonstrably impossible.
“You say you’ve seen these Spanish roads, Captain?” asked Barrow.
“I saw something of them, sir.”
Hornblower turned back from addressing Barrow to find Marsden’s gaze still unwavering, fixed on his face.
“Haven’t you any more to say, Captain? Surely you have.”
This might be irony; it might be intended to lure him into making a greater and greater fool of himself. But there was so much that was plainly obvious and which he had forborne to mention. His weary mind could still deal with such points, with a moment to put them in order.
“This is an opportunity, gentlemen. A victory at sea is what England needs more than anything else at this moment. Could we measure its value? Could we? It would put an end to Boney’s schemes. It would ease the strain of blockade beyond all measure. What would we give for the chance?”
“Millions,” said Barrow.
“And what do we risk? Two or three agents. If they fail, that is all we have lost. A penny ticket in a lottery. An infinite gain against an inconsiderable loss.”
“You are positively eloquent, Captain,” said Marsden, still without any inflexion in his voice.
“I had no intention of being eloquent, sir,” said Hornblower, and was a little taken aback at realizing how much truth there was in such a simple statement.
He was suddenly annoyed both with himself and with the others. He had allowed himself to be drawn into indiscretions, to appear as one of the feather-brained crackpots for whom Marsden must have so much contempt. He rose in irritation from his chair, and then restrained himself on the verge of being still more indiscreet by displaying irritation. A stiffly formal attitude would be better; something that would prove that his recent speeches had been mere polite and meaningless conversation. Moreover he must forestall the imminent and inevitable dismissal if he were going to preserve any of his self-respect.
“I have consumed a great deal of your very valuable time, gentlemen,” he said.
There was a sudden sharp pleasure, despite his weariness, in thus being the first to make a move, to volunteer to quit the company of the Secretary to the Board, and of the Second Secretary, while dozens of junior officers were prepared to wait hours and days for an interview. But Marsden was addressing Barrow.
“What’s the name of that South American fellow who’s haunting every ante-room at present, Mr Barrow? You meet him everywhere — he was even dining at White’s last week with Camberwell.”
“The fellow who wants to start a revolution, sir? I’ve met him a couple of times myself. It’s — it’s Miranda, or Mirandola, something like that, sir.”
“Miranda! That’s the name. I suppose we can lay hands on him if we want him.”
“Easily enough, sir.”
“Yes. Now there’s Claudius in Newgate Gaol. I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr Barrow.”
“Claudius, sir? I met him, as everyone else did.”
“He’ll be coming up for trial within the week, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. He’ll swing next Monday. But why are you asking about him, Mr Marsden?”
There was some faint pleasure in seeing one of those two, even though it was only the Second Secretary, so bewildered, and at the moment he was given no satisfaction.
“So there is no time to waste.” Marsden turned to Hornblower, who was standing uncomfortably aware that most of the drama of his exit had fallen a little flat with this delay. “The doorkeeper has your address, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall send for you very shortly.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Hornblower had shut the door before he experienced any qualm regarding using this purely naval expression towards a civilian, nor did it linger, with so much else for his weary brain to think about. He wanted food; he was desperately in need of sleep. He hardly cared about the unknown Miranda, this mysterious Claudius in Newgate Gaol. What he must do was to eat himself into a torpor, and then sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But also he must write to Maria.
CHAPTER NINE
Hornblower awoke in an overheated condition. The sunshine was blazing through the window, and his little attic was like an oven. Sleep had overcome him in the end while he lay under a blanket, and he was sweating profusely. Throwing off the blanket brought some relief, and he cautiously began to straighten himself out; apparently he had slept without a change of position, literally like a log. There was still an ache or two to be felt, which served to recall to mind where he was and how he came to be there. His formula for inducing sleep had worked after a long delay. But it must be well after sunrise; he must have slept for ten or perhaps twelve hours.
What day of the week was it? To answer that question called for a plunge into the past. It had been a Sunday that he had spent in the post-chaise — he could remember the church bells sounding across the countryside and the church-goers gathering round the post-chaise in Salisbury. So that he had arrived in London on Monday morning — yesterday, hard to believe though that was — and today was Tuesday. He had left Plymouth — he had last seen Maria — on Saturday afternoon. Hornblower felt his pleasant relaxation replaced by tension; he actually felt his muscles tightening ready for action as he went back from there — it was during the small hours of Friday morning that the Princess had headed away from the disabled Guèpe. It was on Thursday evening that he had climbed on to the deck of the Guèpe to conquer or die, with death more probable than conquest. Last Thursday evening, and this was only Tuesday morning.
He tried to put the uncomfortable thoughts away from him; there was a momentary return of tension as an odd thought occurred to him. He had left behind in the Admiralty — he had completely forgotten until now — the French captain’s blanket in which he had bundled the ship’s papers. Presumably some indigent clerk in the Admiralty had gladly taken it home last night, and there was nothing to be tense about — nothing, provided he did not allow himself to think about the French captain’s head shattered like a cracked walnut.
He made himself listen to the street cries outside, and to the rumbling of cart wheels; the diversion allowed him to sink back again into quiescence, into semi-consciousness. It was not until some time later that he drowsily noted the sound of a horse’s hoofs outside in the street, a trotting horse, with no accompanying sound of wheels. He raised himself when the clatter stopped under his window. He could guess what it was. But he had progressed no further than to be standing in his shirt when steps on the stairs and a thumping on his door checked him.
“Who is it?”
“Admiralty messenger.”
Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.
“Captain Hornblower?”
“Yes.”
The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.
The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven o’clock AM today, Tuesday.