There was no time for enjoyment of the pleasures of land at the moment. The shore party did indeed cook their rations before a huge bonfire, and revel in roast fresh meat after seven months of boiled salt meat, but with the characteristic contrariness of British sailors they turned with revulsion from the delicious fruit which was offered thembananas and pawpaws, pineapples and guavas, and considered themselves the victims of sharp practice because these were substituted for their regulation ration of boiled dried peas.
And then, on the second evening, as Hornblower walked the quarterdeck enjoying the sea breeze at its freshest, and rebelling in the thought
that he was free of the land if necessary for another six months, and looking forward with the sheerest joy to his imminent dinner of roast fowl, there came the sound of firing from the beach A scattering volley at first; a few dropping shots, and then another ragged volley. Hornblower forgot his dinner, his feeling of wellbeing, everything. Trouble on the mainland, of whatever sort, meant that the success of his mission was being imperilled. In hot haste he called for his gig, and he was pulled to the shore by a crew who made the stout oars bend as they flung their weight on the handles in response to the profane urgings of Coxswain Brown.
The scene that greeted his eyes as he rounded the point excited his worst apprehensions. The whole landing party was clubbed together on the beach; the dozen marines were in line on one flank, reloading their muskets; the sailors were bunched beside them armed with whatever weapons had come to their hands. In a wide semicircle round them were the inhabitants, brandishing swords and muskets, and in the no mans land between the two parties lay one or two corpses. At the waters edge, behind the sailors, lay one of the hands with two of his mates bending over him. He was propped up on his elbow and he was vomiting floods of blood.
Hornblower sprang into the shallows; he paid no attention to the wounded sailor, but pushed his way through the mob before him. As he emerged into the open there came a puff of smoke from the half circle up the beach and a bullet sang over his head. He paid no attention to that either.
Put those muskets down! he roared at the marines, and he turned towards the gesticulating inhabitants and held up his hand palm forward, in the universal and instinctive gesture of peace. There was no room in his mind for thought of personal danger, so hot was he with anger at the thought that someone was botching his chance of success.
Whats the meaning of this? he demanded.
Galbraith was in command. He was about to speak, but he was given no opportunity. One of the sailors who had been attending to the dying man came pushing forward, discipline forgotten in the blind whirl of sentimental indignation which Hornblower instantly recognized as characteristic of the lower deckand which he despised and distrusted.
They been torturing a pore devil up there, sir, he said. Lashed him to a spar and left him to die of thirst.
Silence! bellowed Hornblower, beside himself with rage not merely at this breach of discipline but at realising the difficulties ahead of him. Mr. Galbraith!
Galbraith was slow of speech and of mind.
I dont know how it started, sir, he began; although he had been at sea since childhood there was still a trace of Scotch in his accent. A party came running back from up there. They had Smith with them, wounded.
Hes dead now, put in a voice.
Silence! roared Hornblower again.
I saw they were going to attack us, and so I had the marines fire, sir, went on Galbraith.
Ill speak to you later, Mr. Galbraith, snapped Hornblower. You, Jenkins. And you, Poole. What were you doing up there?
Well, sir, it was like this, sir began Jenkins. He was sheepish and crestfallen now. Hornblower had pricked the bubble of his indignation and he was being publicly convicted of a breach of orders.
You knew the order that no one was to go beyond the creek?
Yessir.
Tomorrow morning Ill show you what orders mean, and you, too, Poole. Theres the sergeant of marines?
Here, sir.
A fine guard you keep, sergeant, to let these men get by. What were your pickets about?
The sergeant could say nothing; he could only stand rigidly at attention in face of this incontrovertible proof of his being found wanting.
Mr. Simmonds will speak to you in the morning, went on Hornblower. I dont expect youll keep those stripes on your arm much longer.
Hornblower glowered round at the landing party. His fierce rebukes had them all cowed and subservient now, and he felt his anger ebbing away as he realised that he had managed this without having to say a word in extenuation of SpanishAmerican justice. He turned to greet Hernandez, who had come riding up as fast as his little horse would gallop, reining up on his haunches in a shower of sand.
Did el Supreme give orders for this attack on my men? asked Hornblower, getting in the first broadside.
No, Captain, said Hernandez, and Hornblower rejoiced to see how he winced at the mention of el Supremos name.