It was Bush’s turn to grab for the telescope. There was no mistaking the trim of those topsails. From the Renown he transferred his attention to the opposite shore of the bay. There was the other battery with the Spanish flag above it—the flag was now drooping, now flapping lazily in the light wind prevailing over the shore. He could make out no sign of activity whatever, and there was some finality in his gesture as he closed the telescope and looked at his second in command.

“Everything’s quiet,” he said. “Nothing to be done until Renown comes down.”

“That is so,” agreed Hornblower.

It was interesting to watch Hornblower’s animation ebb away. Intense weariness was obvious in his face the moment he was off his guard.

“We can feed the men,” said Bush. “And I’d like to have a look at the wounded. Those damned prisoners have to be sorted out—Whiting’s got ‘em all herded in the casemate, men and women, captains and drum boys. God knows what provisions there are here. We’ve got to see about that. Then we can set a watch, dismiss the watch below, and some of us can get some rest.”

“So we can,” said Hornblower; reminded of the necessary activities that still remained, he resumed his stolid expression. “Shall I go down and start attending to it, sir?”

The sun at noontime was glaring down into the fort of Samaná. Within the walls the heat was pitilessly reflected inwards to a murderous concentration, so that even the corners which had shade were dreadfully hot. The sea breeze had not yet begun to blow, and from the flagstaff the White Ensign drooped spiritlessly, half covering the Spanish colours that drooped below it. Yet discipline still prevailed. On every bastion the lookouts stood in the blazing sun to guard against surprise. The marine sentries, with regular and measured step, were ‘walking their posts of duty in a smart and soldierly manner’ in accordance with regulations, muskets sloped, scarlet tunics buttoned to the neck, crossbelts exactly in position. When one of them reached the end of his beat he would halt with a click of his heels, bring down his musket to the ‘order’ position in three smart movements, and then, pushing his right hand forward and his left foot out, stand ‘at ease’ until the heat and the flies drove him into motion again, when his heels would come together, the musket rise to his shoulder, and he would walk his beat once more. In the battery the guns’ crew dozed on the unrelenting stone, the lucky men in the shade cast by the guns, the others in the narrow strip of shade at the foot of the parapet; but two men sat and kept themselves awake and every few minutes saw to it that the slow matches smouldering in the tubs were still alight, available to supply fire instantly if the guns had to be worked, whether to fire on ships in the bay or to beat off an attack by land. Out beyond Samaná Point HMS Renown lay awaiting the first puffs of the sea breeze to come up the bay and get into touch with her landing party.

Beside the main storehouse Lieutenant Bush sat on a bench and tried to stay awake, cursing the heat, cursing his own kindness of heart that had led him to allow his junior officers to rest first while he assumed the responsibilities of officer on duty, envying the marines who lay asleep and snoring all about him. From time to time he stretched his legs, which were stiff and painful after all his exertions. He mopped his forehead and thought about loosening his neckcloth.

Round the corner came a hurried messenger.

“Mr. Bush, sir. Please, sir, there’s a boat puttin’ off from the battery across the bay.”

Bush rolled a stupefied eye at the messenger.

“Heading which way?”

“Straight towards us, sir. She’s got a flag—a white flag, it looks like.”

“I’ll come and see. No peace for the wicked,” said Bush, and he pulled himself to his feet, with all his joints complaining, and walked stiffly over to the ramp and up to the battery.

The petty officer of the watch was waiting there with the telescope, having descended from the lookout tower to meet him. Bush took the glass and looked through it. A sixoared boat, black against the blue of the bay, was pulling straight towards him, as the messenger had said. From the staff in the bow hung a flag, which might be white; there was no wind to extend it. But in the boat there were no more than ten people all told, so that there could be no immediate danger to the fort in any case. It was a long row across the glittering bay. Bush watched the boat heading steadily for the fort. The low cliffs which descended to meet the water on this side of the Samaná peninsula sank in an easy gradient here in the neighbourhood of the fort; diagonally down the gradient ran a path to the landing stage, which could be swept—as Bush had already noted—by the fire of the last two guns at the righthand end of the battery. But there was no need to man those guns, for this could not be an attack. And in confirmation a puff of wind blew out the flag in the boat. It was white.

Undeviating, the boat pulled for the landing stage and came alongside it. There was a flash of bright metal from the boat and then in the heated air the notes of a trumpet call, high and clear, rose to strike against the ears of the garrison. Then two men climbed out of the boat on to the landing stage. They wore uniforms of blue and white, one of them with a sword at his side while the other carried the twinkling trumpet, which he set to his lips and blew again. Piercingly and sweet, the call echoed along the cliffs; the birds which had been drowsing in the heat came fluttering out with plaintive cries, disturbed as much by the trumpet call as they had been by the thunder of the artillery in the morning. The officer wearing the sword unrolled a white flag, and then he and the trumpeter set themselves to climb the steep path to the fort. This was a parley in accordance with the established etiquette of war. The pealing notes of the trumpet were proof that no surprise was intended; the white flag attested the pacific intentions of the bearer.

As Bush watched the slow ascent he meditated on what powers he had to conduct a negotiation with the enemy, and he thought dubiously about the difficulties that would be imposed on any negotiation by differences of language.

“Turn out the guard,” he said to the petty officer; and then to the messenger, “My compliments to Mr. Hornblower, and ask him to come here as soon as he can.”

The trumpet echoed up the path again; many of the sleepers in the fort were stirring at the sound, and it was a proof of the fatigue of the others that they went on sleeping. Down in the courtyard the tramp of feet and the sound of curt orders told how the marine guard was forming up. The white flag was almost at the edge of the ditch; the bearer halted, looking up at the parapets, while the trumpeter blew a last final call, the wild notes of the fanfare calling the last of the sleepers in the garrison to wakefulness.

“I’m here, sir,” reported Hornblower.

The hat to which he raised his hand was lopsided, and he was like a scarecrow in his battered uniform. His face was clean, but it bore a plentiful growth of beard.

“Can you speak Spanish enough to deal with him?” asked Bush, indicating the Spanish officer with a jerk of his thumb.

“Well, sir—yes.”

The last word was in a sense spoken against Hornblower’s will. He would have liked to temporise, and then he had given the definite answer which any military situation demanded.

“Let’s hear you, then.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower stepped up on the parapet; the Spanish officer, looking up from the edge of the ditch, took off his hat at the sight of him and bowed courteously; Hornblower did the same. There was a brief exchange of apparently polite phrases before Hornblower turned back to Bush.