“So they would, by jingo,” said Bush.
“They’d climb down, d’ye think?”
“Yes—I mean I think so, sir. You could name your own terms, then. Unconditional surrender for the soldiers.”
“It’s what we said at the start,” said Bush. “They’d rather surrender to us than to the blacks, if they have to.”
“You could allow some conditions to salve their pride, sir,” said Hornblower. “Agree that the women are to be conveyed to Cuba or Puerto Rico if they wish. But nothing important. Those ships would be our prizes, sir.”
“Prizes, by George!” said Buckland.
Prizes meant prize money, and as commanding officer he would have the lion’s share of it. Not only that—and perhaps the money was the smallest consideration—but prizes escorted triumphantly into port were much more impressive than ships sunk out of sight of the eyes of authority. And unconditional surrender had a ring of finality about it, proof that the victory gained could not be more complete.
“What do you say, Mr. Bush?” asked Buckland.
“I think it might be worth trying, sir,” said Bush.
He was fatalistic now about Hornblower. Exasperation over his activity and ingenuity had died of surfeit. There was something of resignation about Bush’s attitude, but there was something of admiration too. Bush was a generous soul, and there was not a mean motive in him. Hornblower’s careful handling of his superior had not been lost on him, and Bush was decently envious of the tact that had been necessary. Bush realistically admitted to himself that even though he had fretted at the prospect of agreeing to Ortega’s terms he had not been able to think of a way to modify them, while Hornblower had. Hornblower was a very brilliant young officer, Bush decided; he himself made no presence at brilliance, and now he had taken the last step and had overcome his suspicions of brilliance. He made himself abandon his caution and commit himself to a definite opinion.