There was only the slightest extra stress on the word ‘says’, and only the slightest lingering in the glance that Hornblower shot at his two superiors as he said it, but it conveyed a warning.

“Well, ask him what he wants,” said Buckland.

The conversation in Spanish was formal; obviously all the opening remarks were cautious fencing as each speaker felt for the weaknesses in the other’s position and sought to conceal his own. But even Bush was aware of the moment when the vague sentences ended and definite proposals began. Ortega was bearing himself as a man conferring a favour; Hornblower like someone who did not care whether a favour was conferred or not. In the end he turned to Buckland and spoke in English.

“He has terms for a capitulation pat enough,” he said.

“Well?”

“Please don’t let him guess what you think, sir. But he suggests a free passage for the garrison. Ships—men—civilians. Passports for the ships while on passage to a Spanish possession—Cuba or Puerto Rico, in other words, sir. In exchange he’ll hand over everything intact. Military stores. The battery across the bay. Everything.”

“But—” Buckland struggled wildly to keep himself from revealing his feelings.

“I haven’t said anything to him worth mentioning, so far, sir,” said Hornblower.

Ortega had been watching the byplay keenly enough, and now he spoke again to Hornblower, with his shoulders back and his head high. There was passion in his voice, but what was more at odds with the dignity of his bearing was a peculiar gesture with which he accentuated one of his remarks—a jerk of the hand which called up the picture of someone vomiting.

“He says otherwise he’ll fight to the last,” interposed Hornblower. “He says Spanish soldiers can be relied upon to die to the last man sooner than submit to dishonour. He says we can do no more to them than we’ve done already—that we’ve reached the end of our tether, in other words, sir. And that we daren’t stay longer in the island to starve him out because of the yellow fever—the vomito negro, sir.”

In the whirl of excitement of the last few days Bush had forgotten all about the possibility of yellow fever. He found that he was looking concerned at the mention of it, and he hurriedly tried to assume an appearance of indifference. A glance at Buckland showed his face going through exactly the same transitions.

“I see,” said Buckland.

It was an appalling thought. If yellow fever were to strike it might within a week leave the Renown without enough men to work her sails.

Ortega broke into passionate speech again, and Hornblower translated.

“He says his troops have lived here all their lives. They won’t get yellow jack as easily as your men, and many of them have already had it. He has had it himself, he says, sir.”

Bush remembered the emphasis with which Ortega had tapped his breast.

“And the blacks believe us to be their enemies, because of what happened in Dominica, sir, so he says. He could make an alliance with them against us. They could send an army against us here in the fort tomorrow, then. But please don’t look as if you believe him, sir.”

“Damn it to hell,” said Buckland, exasperated. Bush wondered vaguely what it was that had happened in Dominica. History—even contemporary history—was not one of his strong points.

Again Ortega spoke.

“He says that’s his last word, sir. An honourable proposal and he won’t abate a jot, so he says. You could send him away now that you’ve heard it all and say that you’ll give him an answer in the morning.”

“Very well.”

There were ceremonious speeches still to be made. Ortega’s bows were so polite that Buckland and Bush were constrained, though reluctantly, to stand and endeavour to return them. Hornblower tied the handkerchief round Ortega’s eyes again and led him out.

“What do you think about it?” said Buckland to Bush.

“I’d like to think it over, sir,” replied Bush.

Hornblower came in again while they were still considering the matter. He glanced at them both before addressing himself to Buckland.

“Will you be needing me again tonight, sir?”

“Oh, damn it, you’d better stay. You know more about these Dagoes than we do. What do you think about it?”

“He made some good arguments, sir.”

“I thought so too,” said Buckland with apparent relief.

“Can’t we turn the thumbscrews on them somehow, sir?” asked Bush.

Even if he could not make suggestions himself, he was too cautious to agree readily to a bargain offered by a foreigner, even such a tempting one as this.

“We can bring the ship up the bay,” said Buckland. “But the channel’s tricky. You saw that yesterday.”

Good God! it was still only yesterday that the Renown had tried to make her way in under the fire of redhot shot. Buckland had had a day of comparative peace, so that the mention of yesterday did not appear as strange to him.

“We’ll still be under the fire of the battery across the bay, even though we hold this one,” said Buckland.

“We ought to be able to run past it, sir,” protested Bush “We can keep over to this side.”

“And if we do run past? They’ve warped their ships right up the bay again. They draw six feet less of water than we do—and if they’ve got any sense they’ll lighten ‘em so as to warp ‘em farther over the shallows. Nice fools we’ll look if we come in an’ then find ‘em out of range, an’ have to run out again under fire. That might stiffen ‘em so that they wouldn’t agree to the terms that fellow just offered.”

Buckland was in a state of actual alarm at the thought of reporting two fruitless repulses.

“I can see that,” said Bush, depressed.

“If we agree,” said Buckland, warming to his subject, “the blacks’ll take over all this end of the island. This bay can’t be used by privateers then. The blacks’ll have no ships, and couldn’t man ‘em if they had. We’ll have executed our orders. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hornblower?”

Bush transferred his gaze. Hornblower had looked weary in the morning, and he had had almost no rest during the day. His face was drawn and his eyes were rimmed with red.

“We might still be able to—to put the thumbscrews on ‘em, sir,” he said.

“How?”

“It’d be risky to take Renown into the upper end of the bay. But we might get at ‘em from the peninsula here, all the same, sir, if you’d give the orders.”

“God bless my soul!” said Bush, the exclamation jerked out of him.

“What orders?” asked Buckland.

“If we could mount a gun on the upper end of the peninsula we’d have the far end of the bay under fire, sir. We wouldn’t need hot shot—we’d have all day to knock ‘em to pieces however much they shifted their anchorage.”

“So we would, by George,” said Buckland. There was animation in his face. “Could you get one of these guns along there?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, sir, an’ I’m afraid we couldn’t. Not quickly, at least. Twentyfourpounders. Two an’ a half tons each. Garrison carriages. We’ve no horses. We couldn’t move ‘em with a hundred men over those gullies, four miles or more.”

“Then what the hell’s the use of talking about it?” demanded Buckland.

“We don’t have to drag a gun from here, sir,” said Hornblower. “We could use one from the ship. One of those long ninepounders we’ve got mounted as bow chasers. Those long guns have a range pretty nearly as good as these twenty-fours, sir.”

“But how do we get it there?”

Bush had a glimmering of the answer even before Hornblower replied.

“Send it round in the launch, sir, with tackle and cables, near to where we landed yesterday. The cliff’s steep there. And there are big trees to attach the cables to. We could sway the gun up easy enough. Those ninepounders only weigh a ton.”

“I know that,” said Buckland, sharply.

It was one thing to make unexpected suggestions, but it was quite another to tell a veteran officer facts with which he was well acquainted.