“You are the captain, sir?” asked the visitor.
“Yes. Captain Horatio Hornblower of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Lydia, at your service. And whom have I the pleasure of welcoming?”
“Manuel Hernandez, lieutenant general of el Supremo.”
“El Supremo?” asked Hornblower, puzzled. The name was a little difficult to render into English. Perhaps ‘The Almighty’ might be the nearest translation.
“Yes, of el Supremo. You were expected here four months, six months back.”
Hornblower thought quickly. He dared not disclose the reason of his coming to any unauthorized person, but the fact that this man knew he was expected seemed to indicate that he was a member of Alvarado’s conspiracy.
“It is not to el Supremo that I am ordered to address myself,” he temporized. Hernandez made a gesture of impatience.
“Our lord el Supremo was known to men until lately as His Excellency Don Julian Maria de Jesus de Alvarado y Moctezuma,” he said.
“Ah!” said Hornblower. “It is Don Julian that I want to see.”
Hernandez was clearly annoyed by this casual mention of Don Julian.
“El Supremo,” he said, laying grave accent on the name, “has sent me to bring you into his presence.”
“And where is he?”
“He is in his house.”
“And which is his house?”
“Surely it is enough, Captain, that you should know that el Supremo requires your attendance.”
“Do you think so? I would have you know, señor, that a captain of one of His Britannic Majesty’s ships is not accustomed to being at anyone’s beck and call. You can go, if you like, and tell Don Julian so.”
Hornblower’s attitude indicated that the interview was at an end. Hernandez went through an internal struggle, but the prospect of returning to face el Supremo without bringing the captain with him was not alluring.
“The house is there,” he said sullenly, at last, pointing across the bay. “On the side of the mountain. We must go through the town which is hidden behind the point to get there.”
“Then I shall come. Pardon me for a moment, General.”
Hornblower turned to Bush, who was standing by with the half puzzled, half admiring expression on his face so frequently to be seen when a man is listening to a fellow countryman talking fluency in an unknown language.
“Mr. Bush,” he said, “I am going ashore, and I hope I shall return soon. If I do not, if I am not back nor have written to you by midnight, you must take steps to ensure the safety of the ship. Here is the key of my desk. You have my orders that at midnight you are to read the government’s secret orders to me, and to act on them as you think proper.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush. There was anxiety in his face, and Hornblower realised with a thrill of pleasure that Bush was actually worried about his captain’s well being. “Do you think—is it safe for you on shore alone, sir?”
“I don’t know,” said Hornblower, with honest indifference. “I must go, that is all.”
“We’ll bring you off, sir, safe and sound, if there is any hanky-panky.”
“You’ll see after the safety of the ship first,” snapped Hornblower, visualizing a mental picture of Bush with a valuable landing party blundering about in the feverhaunted jungles of Central America. Then he turned to Hernandez. “I am at your service, señor.”
Chapter IV
The boat ran softly aground on a beach of golden sand round the point, and her swarthy crew sprang out and hauled the boat up so that Hornblower and Hernandez could step ashore dry shod. Hornblower looked keenly about him. The town came down to the edge of the sand; it was a collection of a few hundred houses of palmetto leaves, only a few of them roofed with tiles. Hernandez led the way up towards it.
“Agua, agua,” croaked a voice as they approached. “Water, for the love of God, water.”
A man was bound upright to a six foot stake beside the path; his hands were free and his arms thrashed about frantically. His eyes were protruding from his head and it seemed as if his tongue were too big for his mouth, like an idiot’s. A circle of vultures crouched and fluttered round him.
“Who is that?” asked Hornblower, shocked.
“A man whom el Supremo has ordered to die for want of water,” said Hernandez. “He is one of the unenlightened.”
“He is being tortured to death?”
“This is his second day. He will die when the noontide sun shines on him tomorrow,” said Hernandez casually. “They always do.”
“But what is his crime?”
“He is one of the unenlightened, as I said, Captain.”
Hornblower resisted the temptation to ask what constituted enlightenment; from the fact that Alvarado had adopted the name of el Supremo he could fairly well guess. And he was weak enough to allow Hernandez to guide him past the unhappy wretch without a protest—he surmised that no expostulation on his part would override the orders given by el Supremo, and an unavailing protest would only be bad for his prestige. He would postpone action until he was face to face with the leader.
Little miry lanes, filthy and stinking, wound between the palmetto huts. Vultures perched on the roof ridges and squabbled with the mongrel dogs in the lanes. The Indian population were going about their usual avocations without regard for the man dying of thirst within fifty yards of them. They were all brown with a tinge of red, like Hernandez himself; the children ran naked, the women were dressed either in black or in dirty white; the few men to be seen wore only short white trousers to the knees and were naked from the waist up. Half the houses appeared to be shops—open on one side; where were displayed for sale a few handfuls of fruits, or three or four eggs. At one place a black robed woman was bargaining to make a purchase.
Tethered in the little square in the centre of the town some diminutive horses warred with the flies. Hernandez’ escort made haste to untether two of them and stood at their heads for them to mount. It was a difficult moment for Hornblower; he was not a good horseman, as he knew, and he was wearing his best silk stockings, and he felt he would not cut a dignified figure on horseback with his cocked hat and his sword. There was no help for it, however. He was so clearly expected to mount and ride that he could not draw back. He got his foot into his stirrup and swung up into the saddle, and was relieved to find that the tiny horse was submissive and quiet. He trotted alongside Hernandez, bumping awkwardly. The sweat ran down his face, and every few seconds he had to reach up hurriedly and adjust his cocked hat. A path wound steeply up the hillside out of the town, only wide enough for one horseman at a time, so that Hernandez, with a courteous gesture, preceded him. The escort clattered along fifty yards behind them.
The narrow path was stifling hot, hemmed by trees and bush on either hand. Insects buzzed round them, biting viciously. Half a mile up the path some lounging sentries came awkwardly to attention, and beyond this point there were other men to be seen—men like the first one Hornblower had encountered, bound to stakes and dying of thirst. There were dead men, too—mere stinking masses of corruption with a cloud of flies which buzzed more wildly as the horses brushed by them. The stench was horrible; gorged vultures, hideous with their naked necks, flopped along the path ahead of the horses, unable to fly, seeking escape into the forest.