If Leighton were to die, Barbara would be free again. But what had that to do with him, a married mana married man whose wife was pregnant? She would be no nearer to him, not while Maria lived. And yet it assuaged his jealousy to think of her as a widow. But then perhaps she would marry again, and he would have to go once more through all the torment he had endured when he had first heard of her marriage to Leighton. In that case he would rather Leighton liveda cripple, perhaps mutilated or impotent; the implications of that train of thought drove him into a paroxysm of too-rapid thinking from which he only emerged after a desperate struggle for sanity.
In the cold reaction which followed he sneered at himself for a fool. He was the prisoner of a man whose empire extended from the Baltic to Gibraltar. He told himself he would be an old man, that his child and Marias would be grown up before he regained his liberty. And then with a sudden shock he remembered that he might soon be deadshot for violation of the laws of war. Strange how he could forget that possibility. Sneering, he told himself that he had a cowards mind which could leave the imminence of death out of its calculations because the possibility was too monstrous to bear contemplation.
There was something else he had not reckoned upon lately, too. If Bonaparte did not have him shot, if he regained his freedom, even then he still had to run the gauntlet of a court martial for the loss of the Sutherland. A court martial might decree for him death or disgrace or ruin; the British public would not hear lightly of a British ship of the line surrendering, however great the odds against her. He would have liked to ask Phillips, the seaman from the Pluto, about what had been said in the fleet regarding the Sutherlands action, whether the general verdict had been one of approval or not. But of course it would be impossible to ask; no captain could ask a seaman what the fleet thought of him, even if there was a chance of hearing the truthwhich, too, was doubtful. He was compassed about with uncertaintiesthe uncertainties of his imprisonment, of the possibility of his trial by the French, of his future court martial, of Leightons wound. There was even an uncertainty regarding Maria; she was pregnantwould the child be a girl or a boy, would he ever see it, would anyone raise a finger to help her, would she be able to educate the child properly without his supervision?
Once more the misery of imprisonment was borne in upon him. He grew sick with longing for his liberty, for his freedom, for Barbara and for Maria.
Chapter Three
not to break in upon the thoughts which preoccupied him. But he was too tired to think much nowall day and nearly all night yesterday he had paced his room, three paces up and three paces back, with his mind in a turmoil. Exhaustion was saving him now, he could think no more.
He welcomed as a distraction a bustle at the main gate, the turning out of the guard, the opening of the gate, and the jingling entrance of a coach drawn by six fine horses. He stood and watched the proceedings with all the interest of a captive. There was an escort of fifty mounted men in the cocked hats and blue-and-red uniforms of Bonapartes gendarmerie, coachmen and servants on the box, an officer dismounting hurriedly to open the door. Clearly the new arrival must be a man of importance. Hornblower experienced a faint feeling of disappointment when there climbed out of the coach not a Marshal with plumes and feathers, but just another officer of gendarmerie. A youngish man with a bullet black head, which he revealed as he held his cocked hat in his hand while stooping to descend; the star of the Legion of Honour on his breast; high black boots with spurs. Hornblower wondered idly why a colonel of gendarmerie who was obviously not crippled should arrive in a coach instead of on horseback. He watched him go clinking across the courtyard to the Governors headquarters.
Hornblowers walk was nearly finished when one of the young French aides-de-camp of the Governor approached him on the ramparts and saluted.
His Excellency sends you his compliments, sir, and he would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes of your time as soon as it is convenient to you.
Addressed to a prisoner, as Hornblower told himself bitterly, these words might as well have been Come at once.
I will come now, with the greatest of pleasure, said Hornblower, maintaining the solemn farce.
Down in the Governors office the colonel of gendarmerie was standing conversing alone with His Excellency; the Governors expression was sad.
I have the honour of presenting to you, Captain, he said, turning, Colonel Jean-Baptiste Caillard, Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honour, and one of His Imperial Majestys personal aides-de-camp. Colonel, this is Captain Horatio Hornblower, of His Britannic Majestys Navy.
The Governor was dearly worried and upset. His hands were fluttering and he stammered a little as he spoke, and he made a pitiful muddle of his attempt on the aspirates of Hornblowers name. Hornblower bowed, but as the colonel remained unbending he stiffened to attention. He could recognize that type of man at oncethe servant of a tyrant, and in close personal association with him, modelling his conduct not on the tyrants, but on what he fancied should be the correct behaviour of a tyrant, far out-Heroding Herod in arbitrariness and cruelty. It might be merely a posethe man might be a kind husband and the loving father of a familybut it was a pose which might have unpleasant results for anyone in his power. His victims would suffer in his attempt to prove, to himself as well as to others, that he could be more stern, more unrelentingand therefore naturally more ablethan the man who employed him.