Hornblower and the Atropos

Chapter IV

“Black breeches?” asked Hornblower, startled.

“Of course. Black breeches and stockings, and mourning bands,” said Mr. Pallender solemnly.

He was an aged man, and although the top of his head was bald he wore the remainder of his white hair long, clubbed at the nape of his neck in a thick short queue tied with black ribbon. He had pale blue eyes, rheumy with age, and a thin pointed nose which in the chill of the room bore a small drop at its reddish tip—perhaps always bore one.

Hornblower made a note on the sheet of paper before him regarding the black breeches and stockings and mourning bands. He also made a mental note that he would have to obtain these things for himself as well, and he wondered where the money was coming from to do it.

“It would be best,” went on Mr. Pallender, “if the procession were to pass through the City at midday. Then the populace will have plenty of time to assembles and the apprentices can do a morning’s work.”

“I can’t promise that,” said Hornblower. “It depends on the tide.”

“The tide, Captain Hornblower? You must realize that this is a ceremonial in which the Court—His Majesty himself—is deeply interested.”

“But it has to depend on the tide all the same,” said Hornblower. “And even on the winds too.”

“Indeed? His Majesty will be most provoked if his ideas are scouted.”

“I see,” said Hornblower.

He thought of remarking that although His Majesty ruled the waves he had no more control over the tides than had his illustrious predecessor King Canute, but he thought better of it. Mr. Pallender was not the type to appreciate jokes about the limitations of the royal power. Instead Hornblower decided to imitate Mr. Pallender’s solemnity.

“Since the actual day of the ceremonial hasn’t yet been decided upon,” he said, “it might be possible to choose such a day as the tide serves best.”

“I suppose so,” conceded Mr. Pallender.

Hornblower made a note of the necessity of immediately consulting the tidetables.

“The Lord Mayor,” said Mr. Pallender, “Will not be present in person, but his representative will.”

“I understand.”

There would be some small relief in not being responsible for the person of the Lord Mayor, but not much, seeing that the eight most senior admirals in the Navy were going to be present, and were going to be his responsibility.

“Are you sure you won’t try a little of this brandy?” asked Mr. Pallender, giving the decanter a little push.

“No, thank you.”

Hornblower had no desire at all to drink brandy at this time of day; but now he knew what gave Mr. Pallender’s nose that reddish tip. Mr. Pallender sipped appreciatively before going on.

“Now as regards the minute guns—”

Along the processional route apparently there were fifteen points at which minute guns were to be fired, and his Majesty would be listening to see that they were properly timed. Hornblower covered more paper with notes. There would be thirtyeight boats and barges in the procession, to be assembled in the tricky tideway at Greenwich, marshalled in order, brought up to Whitehall Steps, and dispersed again after delivering over the body to a naval guard of honour assembled there which would escort it to the Admiralty to lie there for the night before the final procession to St. Paul’s.

“Can you tell me, sir,” asked Hornblower, “what kind of vessel these ceremonial barges are?”

He regretted the question as soon as he asked it; Mr. Pallender showed surprise that any man should not be familiar with ceremonial barges, but as for knowing how handy they were in choppy water, or even how many oars aside they rowed, that was of course more than could be expected of Mr. Pallender. Hornblower realized that the sooner he took one over, and rowed it over the course of the procession in the appropriate tidal conditions, timing every stage, the better. He went on adding to his pages of notes while Mr. Pallender went on with what to him was most important—the order of precedence of the boats; how the whole College of Heralds would be present, including Norroy King of Arms and himself, Blue Mantle Pursuivant; the Royal Dukes and the Admirals; the formalities to be observed at the embarkation and the landing; the Chief Mourner and the trainbearer, the pallbearers and the Family of the Deceased.

“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower at last, gathering up his notes. “I will begin these preparations at once.”

“Greatly obliged, I’m sure, sir,” said Mr. Pallender, as Hornblower took his leave.

This was an operation as elaborate as Abercrombie’s landing on the Egyptian coast—and in the Mediterranean there were no tides to complicate arrangements. Thirtyeight boats with their crews and oarsmen; guards of honour; mourners and officials; there would be a thousand officers and men at least under Hornblower’s command. And Hornblower’s heart sank a little when he was able to take one of the barges from the hands of the workmen who were attaching the insignia to it in Deptford Yard, and conduct his own trials with it. It was a vast clumsy vessel, not much smaller and no more manageable then a cargo lighter. Forward in the open bows she pulled twelve oars; from midships aft she was covered with a vast canopy of solid construction, exposing an enormous area to the wind. The barge allotted to the conveyance of the Body (Mr. Pallender had made that capital letter quite obvious in their discussion) was being so covered with plumes that she would catch the wind like a frigate’s mainsail. There must be lusty oarsmen detailed to the task of rowing that barge along—and it would be best to have as nearly as complete a relief available as possibly hidden away under the canopy. But as she would head the procession, with the other boats taking station upon her, he must be careful not to overdo that. He must time everything exactly—up with the flood tide, arriving at Whitehall Steps precisely at slack water so that the complicated manoeuvres there could be carried out with the minimum of risk, and then back with the ebb, dispersing barges and crews along the route as convenient.

“My dear,” said Maria to him, in their bedroom at the “George.” “I fear I have little of your attention at present.”

“Your pardon, dear?” said Hornblower, looking round from the table at which he was writing. He was deep in plans for issuing a solid breakfast to a thousand men who would have small chance of eating again all day.

“I was telling you that I spoke to the midwife today. She seems a worthy woman. She will hold herself free from tomorrow. As she lives only in the next street there is no need for her to take up residence here until the time comes, which is fortunate—you know how little money we have, Horatio.”

“Yes, dear,” said Hornblower. “Have those black breeches of mine been delivered yet?”

It was a perfectly natural step from Maria’s approaching confinement to Hornblower’s black breeches, via the question of money, but Maria resented her husband’s apparent heartlessness.

“Do you care more for your breeches than for your child?” she asked, “—or for me?”

“Dearest,” answered Hornblower. He had to put down his pen and rise from his chair to comfort her. “I have much on my mind. I can’t tell you how much I regret it at this moment.”

This was the very devil. The eyes not only of London but of all England would be on that procession. He would never be forgiven if there was any blunder. But he had to take Maria’s hands in his and reassure her.

“You, my dear,” he said, smiling into her eyes, “are my all in all. There is nothing in my world as important as you are.”

“I wish I could be sure,” said Maria.

He kissed the hands he held.

“What can I say to make you sure?” he asked. “That I love you?”

“That would be pleasant enough,” said Maria.

“I love you, dear,” he said, but he had not had now a smile from her as yet, and he went on, “I love you more dearly even than my new black breeches.”

“Oh!” said Maria.

He had to labour the point to make sure that she understood he was both joking and tender.

“More dearly than a thousand pair of black breeches,” he said. “Could any man say more?”

She was smiling now, and she took her hands from his and laid them on his shoulders.

“Is that a compliment for me to treasure always?” she asked.

“It will always be true, my dear,” he said.

“You are the kindest of husbands,” she said, and the break in her voice showed that she meant it.

“With the sweetest of wives,” he answered. “And now may I go on with my work?”

“Of course, darling. Of course. I fear I am selfish. But—but—darling, I love you so. I love you so!”

“There, there,” said Hornblower patting her shoulder. Perhaps he felt as strongly over this business as Maria did, but he had much else to feel strongly about. And if he mismanaged these ceremonial arrangements the child to come might go on short commons with him on half-pay for life. And Nelson’s body was at this very moment lying in state at Greenwich, and the day after tomorrow was the date fixed for the procession, with the tide beginning to flood at eleven, and there was still much to be done. He was glad to get back to the writing of his orders. He was glad to go back on board Atropos and plunge into business there.

“Mr. Jones, I’d be glad if you’d call the midshipmen and master’s mates. I need half a dozen who can write a fair round hand.”

The cabin of the Atropos took on the appearance of a schoolroom, with the midshipmen sitting on mess stools at improvised tables, with inkwells and pens, copying out Hornblower’s drafts of the orders, and Hornblower going from one to another, like a squirrel in a cage, answering questions.

“Please, sir, I can’t read this word.”

“Please, sir, do I start a new paragraph here?”

It was one way of finding out something of the junior officers, of distinguishing them as individuals out of what had been so far a formless mass of officers; there were the ones who appealed for help at every turn, and the ones who could make deductions from the context; there were the stupid ones who wrote orders that made nonsense.

“Damn it, man,” said Hornblower. “Would anyone out of Bedlam say a thing like that—far less write it?”

“That’s what it looked like, sir,” said the midshipman stubbornly.

“God help us all,” said Hornblower in despair.

But that was the man who wrote a very clear hand; Hornblower put him on to the task of writing the beginnings of each letter.

Other men could carry on from there, with a saving of time. The ninety different written orders with their duplicates were written at last, and distributed by midnight; crews and petty officers had been found from various sources for every boat that was to take part in the procession, rations allotted to them, their place in the line clearly stated—“You will take the seventeenth position, immediately after the barge of the CommanderinChief at the Nore and immediately preceding that of the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers.”

The final arrangements were made with Mr. Pallender at two in the morning of the day of the procession, and Hornblower, yawning, could think of nothing else to be done. Yes, there was a final change to be made.

“Mr. Horrocks, you will come with me with the Body in the first barge. Mr. Smiley, you’ll command the second with the Chief Mourner.”

Horrocks was the stupidest of the midshipmen and Smiley the brightest—it had been natural to reserve the latter for himself, but now he realized how stupid Horrocks was, and how necessary it was to keep him under his own eye.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower fancied Smiley looked pleased at thus escaping from the direct supervision of his captain, and he pricked that bubble.

“You’ll have nine admirals and four captains as passengers, Smiley,” he said. “Including Admiral of the Fleet Sir Peter Parker and Lord St Vincent.”

Smiley did not look nearly as pleased at that.

“Mr. Jones, have the longboat with the hands at Greenwich Pier at six o’clock, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And call away the gig for me now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’ll be at the “George” until five. Send any messages there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He still had a personal life; Maria was very near her time now.

On the deck there was a brisk westerly wind harping in the rigging, gusty, Hornblower noted. The barges would call for careful handling unless it dropped considerably. He stepped down into the gig.

“Make for Deptford Hard,” he ordered the coxswain, and clasped his coat close tightly round him, for the cabin of the Atropos had been hot with lamps and candles and many people. He walked up the Hard and knocked at the door of the “George;” from the window at the side there was a faint light showing and the window of their room above was illuminated. The door opened to reveal the landlady.”

“Oh, it’s you, sir. I thought it was the midwife. I’ve just sent Davie for her. Your good lady—”

“Let me by,” said Hornblower.

Maria was walking about the bedroom in her dressinggown; two candles illuminated the room, and the shadows of the bedtester and the other furniture moved in sinister fashion as Hornblower opened the door.

“Darling!” said Maria.

Hornblower came towards her, his hands held out.

“I hope all is well with you, dear,” he said.

“I think so. I—I hope so. It has only just begun,” said Maria.

They kissed.

“Darling,” said Maria. “How good of you to come here. I—I was hoping I should see you again before—before—my time came.”

“Not good of me,” said Hornblower. “I came because I wanted to come. I wanted to see you.”

“But you are so busy. Today is the day of the procession, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“And our child will be born today. A little girl, dear? Or another little boy?”

“We’ll know soon,” said Hornblower. He knew which Maria wanted. “Whichever it is we’ll love her—or him.”

“That we shall,” said Maria.

The last syllable was jerked out of her more forcibly than necessary, and Maria’s face took on an expression of preoccupation.

“How is it, dearest?” asked Hornblower, concerned.

“Only a pain,” said Maria, smiling—forcing a smile, as Hornblower well knew. “They are not coming close together yet.”

“I wish I could help,” said Hornblower, in the manner of uncounted millions of fathers.

“You have helped by coming to me, my darling,” said Maria.

A bustle outside the door and a knock heralded the entrance of the midwife and the landlady.

“Well, well,” said the midwife. “So it has began, has it?”

Hornblower looked her over carefully. She was not neat—no one could be expected to be in those conditions—but she were at least sober, and her gaptoothed smile was kindly.

“I’ll have a look at you, ma’am,” said the midwife and then, with a sidelong glance, “Gentlemen will retire.”

Maria looked at him. She was trying so hard to appear unconcerned.

“I’ll see you again, dear,” said Hornblower, trying equally hard.

Outside the bedroom the landlady was cordial in her offers of hospitality.

“How about a go of brandy, sir? Or a glass o’ rum, hot?”

“No, thank you,” said Hornblower.

“The young gennelman’s sleeping in with one o’ the maids now,” explained the landlady. “He didn’t cry, no, not a sound, when we carried him in. A fine little fellow he is, sir.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower. He could smile at the thought of his little son.

“You’d better come into the coffeeroom, sir,” said the landlady. “There’s still what’s left of the fire there.”

“Thank you,” said Hornblower, with a glance at his watch. God, how time was passing!

“Your good lady will be all right,” said the landlady maternally. “It’ll be a boy, as sure as fate. I can tell by the way she was carrying.”

“Perhaps you’ll be right,” said Hornblower, and he looked at his watch again. He really must start preparations for the day.

“Now see here, please,” he said, and then he paused, as he made his mind clear itself of its preoccupation with Maria, and of its deadly fatigue. He began to list the things he needed from the bedroom upstairs, ticking them off on his fingers as he told them to the landlady. The black breeches and stockings, the epaulette and the best cocked hat, the sword and the mourning band.

“I’ll get ‘em, sir. You can dress in here—no one won’t disturb you, not at this time o’ night.”

She came back later with her arms full of the things Hornblower had asked for.

“A marvel that I should forget this was the day of the Funeral, sir,” she said. “No one hasn’t talked o’ nothing else along the river not for the last week. There’s your things, sir.”

She looked closely at Hornblower in the candlelight.

“You’d better shave, sir,” she went on. “You can use my husband’s razor if yours is in the ship.”

One mention of maternity, it seemed, turned all women into mothers.

“Very well,” said Hornblower.

Later he was dressed and looking at his watch again.

“I must leave now,” he said. “Will you find out if I can see my wife?”

“I’ll tell you now you can’t, sir,” said the landlady. “Not if you can hear what I can hear.”

Much of what Hornblower felt must have shown in his expression, for the landlady went on—

“It’ll all be over in a bower, sir: whyn’t you wait a bit?”

“Wait?” repeated Hornblower, looking at his watch again. “No, I can’t do that. I’ll have to go.”

The landlady lighted the candle of his lantern at that on the coffee-room mantel.

“Lord a mercy,” she said. “You look just the picture. But it’s cold out.”

She fastened the button of his coat close at his neck.

“Can’t have you catching cold. There! Don’t you worry, now.”

Good advice, thought Hornblower, walking down the slope towards the river again, but as difficult to act upon as most good advice. He saw the light of the gig at the water’s edge, and a sudden movement of shadowy figures there. The gig’s crew must have appointed one of its members to keep watch for his lantern, while the others snatched what sleep they could in the exceedingly uncomfortable spaces of the gig. But however uncomfortable they were, they were better off than he was. He felt he could sleep on the bobstay of the Atropos if only he had the chance. He got into the gig.

“Down river,” he ordered the coxswain.

At Greenwich Pier it was still dark, no sign as yet of the late January dawn. And the wind was blowing steadily from the west, downstream. It would probably freshen as the day went on. A loud challenge halted him as he walked down the pier.

“Friend,” said Hornblower, opening his cloak for his lantern to show his uniform.

“Advance and give the countersign!”

“The Immortal Memory,” said Hornblower—he had chosen that countersign himself; one detail out of a thousand details of the day before.

“Pass, friend. All’s well,” said the sentry.

He was a private in the Blackheath Militia; during the time the Body had been lying in state at Greenwich there had had to be guards posted at all points to prevent the public from straying into areas where they were not wanted. The Hospital was lighted up; there was already bustle and excitement there.

“The Governor’s dressing now, sir,” said a woodenlegged lieutenant. “We’re expecting the quality at eight.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower. “I know.”

It was he who had drawn up the time table; the national, naval, and civic dignitaries were to come by road from London, to accompany the Body back by water. And here was the Body, in its coffin, the trestles on which it lay concealed by flags and trophies and heraldic insignia. And here came the Governor, limping with his rheumatism, his bald head shining in the lamplight.

“Morning, Hornblower.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Everything settled?”

“Yes, sir. But the wind’s blowing very fresh from the west. It’ll hold back the flood.”

“I feared as much.”

“It will delay the boats, too, of course, sir.”

“Of course.”

“In that case, sir, I’d be obliged if you would do all you can to see that the Mourners leave on time. There’ll be little to spare, sir.”

“I’ll do my best, Hornblower. But you can’t hurry an Admiral of the Fleet. You can’t hurry Lord St Vincent. You can’t hurry a Lord Mayor—not even his representative.”

“It will be difficult, I know, sir.”

“I’ll do my best, Hornblower. But they have to have their bite of breakfast.”

The Governor gestured towards the next room where, under the supervision of the woodenlegged lieutenant, seamen with black scarves round their necks were laying out a meal. There were cold pies, there were hams, there were cold roasts of beef being assembled on the buffet; silver was being set out on the dazzling white cloth. At the smaller buffet a trusted petty officer was setting out decanters and bottles.

“A bite and a glass of something?” asked the Governor.

Hornblower looked as always at his watch.

“Thank you, sir. I’ve three minutes to spare.”

It was gratifying to have a meal when he expected to have none; it was gratifying to gulp down slices of ham which otherwise would have gone down the throat of an Admiral of the Fleet. He washed the ham down with a glass of water, to the illconcealed amazement of the petty officer at the wine buffet.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to the Governor. “I must take my leave now.”

“Goodbye, Hornblower. Good luck.”

At the pier now it was almost dawn—light enough to satisfy the Mohammedan definition of being able to distinguish a black thread from a white. And the river was alive now with boats. From upstream the wind carried down the sound of the splash of oars and sharp naval commands. Here was the Atropos’ longboat, with Smiley and Horrocks in the stern; here were the boats from the guardship and the receiving ship; measured tread on the pier heralded the arrival of another contingent of seamen. The day was beginning in earnest.

Really in earnest. The thirty-eight boats had to be manned and arranged in their correct order, stretching a mile downstream. There were the fools who had mislaid their orders, and the fools who could not understand theirs. Hornblower dashed up and down the line in the gig, that watch of his continually in and out of his pocket. To complicate matters, the grog sellers, anticipating a good day’s business, were already out and rowing along the line, and they obviously had effected some surreptitious sales. There were red faces and foolish grins to be seen. The ebb was still running strongly, with the wind behind it. Horrocks, in the state barge that was to carry the Body, completely misjudged his distances as he tried to come alongside. The clumsy great boat, swept round by the wind and borne by the tide, hit the pier on her starboard quarter with a resounding crash. Hornblower on the pier opened his mouth to swear, and then shut it again. If he were to swear at every mishap he would be voiceless soon. It was enough to dart a glance at the unhappy Horrocks. The big rawboned lout wilted under it; and then turned to rave at the oarsmen.

These ceremonial barges were heartbreaking boats to manage, admittedly. Their twelve oars hardly sufficed to control their more than forty feet of length, and the windage of the huge cabin aft was enormous. Hornblower left Horrocks struggling to get into his station, and stepped down into his gig again. They flew downstream; they toiled up. Everything seemed to be in order. Hornblower, looking over the side from the pier when he landed again, thought he could detect a slacking of the ebb. Late, but good enough. High and clear from the Hospital came the notes of a trumpet. Tonedeaf as he was, the notes meant nothing to him. But the sound itself was sufficient. The militia were forming up along the road from the Hospital to the pier, and here came the dignitaries in solemn procession, walking two by two, the least important leading. The boats came to the pier to receive them, in inverted order of numbers—how hard that had been for Hornblower to impress upon the petty officers commanding—and dropped back again downstream to wait, reversing their order. Even now there was a boat or two out of correct order, but this was not a moment for trifles. The dignitaries on the pier were hustled into even inappropriate boats without a chance of protesting. More and more important were the dignitaries advancing on to the pier—here were the Heralds and Pursuivants, Mr. Pallender among them. And here at last was the Chief Mourner, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Peter Parker, with Blackwood bearing his train, and eight other admirals with—as the drillbook stated—melancholy aspects; perhaps their aspects would be melancholy even without the drillbook. Hornblower saw them down into their boat, all of them. The tide had turned, and already the flow was apparent. Minutes would be precious now.

The shattering boom of a gun from not far away made Hornblower start, and he hoped nobody would notice it. That was the first of the minute guns, that would boom on from now until the Body reached its next temporary restingplace at the Admiralty. For Hornblower it was the signal that the Body had started from the Hospital. He handed Sir Peter Parker into the barge. A loud order from the militia colonel, and the troops reversed their arms and rested on them. Hornblower had seen them doing that drill every available minute during the last two days. He reversed his own sword with as much military precision as he could manage—a couple of days ago Maria, coming into the bedroom at the “George,” had caught him practicing the drill, and had laughed immoderately. The mourners’ barge had shoved off, and Horrocks was gingerly bringing his up to the pier. Hornblower watched from under his eyebrows, but now that the wind was against the tide it was not such a difficult operation. The band approached; all tunes were dreary to Hornblower, but he gathered that the one they were playing was drearier than most. They wheeled to the right at the base of the pier, and the seamen drawing the gun-carriage, stepping short, with bowed heads, came into view behind them. Hornblower thought of the long line of boats struggling to keep position all down the reach, and wished they would step out, although he knew such a wish was nonsense. The monotonous booming of the minute gun marked the passage of valuable time. Up to the pier’s end came the carriage. It was a tricky business to transfer the coffin from the guncarriage to the top of the state barge; Hornblower caught some of the words whispered, savagely, by the petty officer supervising the operation, and tried not to smile at their incongruity. But the coffin was put safely in place, and quickly lashed into position, and while the wreaths and flags were being arranged to conceal the lashings Hornblower advanced to the barge. He had to make himself step short, with his back bowed and the melancholy aspect on his face, his reversed sword under his right arm, and he strove to maintain the attitude while making the wide stride from the pier on to the stern of the barge behind the canopy.

“Shove off!” he ordered, out of the side of his mouth. The minute guns bellowed a farewell to them as the barge left the pier, the oarblades dragging through the water before she gathered way. Horrocks beside him put the tiller over, and they headed out for midstream. Before they straightened on their course Hornblower, his head still bowed, was able to steal a sideways glance downstream at the waiting procession. All seemed to be well; the boats were bunched in places, crowded in others, with the effort of maintaining station in difficult weather conditions, but once everyone was under way it would be easier.

“Slow at first,” he growled to Horrocks, and Horrocks translated the order to the rowers; it was necessary to give the boats time to take up station.

Hornblower wanted to look at his watch. Moreover, he realized that he would have to keep his eye continually on his watch, and he certainly could not be pulling it out of his pocket every minute. The foot of the coffin was there by his face. With a quick movement he hauled out both watch and chain, and hung them on the end handle, the watch dangling conveniently before his nose. All was well; they were four minutes late, but they still had a full eleven minutes in reserve.

“Lengthen the stroke,” he growled to Horrocks.

Now they were rounding the bend. The shipping here was crowded with spectators, so was the shore, even as far from London as this. The Atropos had her yards manned by the remnant of her crew, as Hornblower had ordered. He could see that out of the tail of his eye; and as they approached the clear sharp bang of her aftermost ninepounder took up the tale of minute guns from the one at Greenwich. All well, still. Of all the ungrateful duties a naval officer ever had to perform, this one must be the worst. However perfect the performance, would he receive any credit? Of course not. Nobody—not even the Admiralty—would stop and think how much thought and labour were necessary to arrange the greatest water procession London had ever seen, on one of the trickiest possible sideways. And if anything went wrong there were hundreds of thousands of pairs of eyes ready to observe it, and hundreds of thousands of pairs of lips ready to open in condemnation.

“Sir! Sir!”

The curtains at the after end of the cabin had parted; an anxious seaman’s face was peering out, from where the reserve rowers lay concealed; so anxious was the speaker that he put out his hand to twitch at Hornblower’s black breeches to call attention to himself.

“What is it?”

“Sir! We’ve sprung a leak!”

My God! The news chimed in with his thoughts with perfectly devilish accuracy of timing.

“How bad?”

“Dunno, sir. But it’s up over the floorboards. That’s ‘ow we know. Must be making pretty fast, sir.”

That must have been when Horrocks allowed the barge to crash against the pier. A plank started. Up over the floorboards already? They would never get to Whitehall Steps in time, then. God, if they were to sink here in the middle of the river! Never, never, never, would England forgive the man who allowed Nelson’s coffin to sink, unceremoniously, in Thames mud beside the Isle of Dogs. Get in to shore and effect repairs? With the whole procession behind them—God, what confusion there would be! And without any doubt at all they would miss the tide, and disappoint the waiting thousands, to say nothing of His Majesty. And tomorrow was the final ceremony, when the Body would be carried from the Admiralty to St Paul’s—dukes, peers, the royal family, thousands of troops, hundreds of thousands of people were to take part in or to watch the ceremonies. To sink would be disaster. To stop would be disaster. No; he could get into shore and effect repairs, causing today’s ceremony to be abandoned. But then they could get the Body up to the Admiralty tonight, enabling tomorrow’s funeral to be carried out. It would ruin him professionally, but it was the safest half-measure. No, no, no! To hell with halfmeasures.

“Mr. Horrocks!”

“Sir!”

“I’ll take the tiller. Get down in there. Wait, you fool, and listen to me. Get those floorboards up and deal with that leak. Keep bailing—use hats or anything else. Find that leak and stop it if you can—use one of the men’s shirts. Wait. Don’t let all the world see you bailing. Pitch the water out here, past my legs. Understand?”

“Er—yes, sir.”

“Give me the tiller, then. Get below. And if you fail I’ll have the hide off you, if it’s the last thing I do on earth. Get below.”

Horrocks dived down through the curtains, while Hornblower took the tiller and shifted his position so as to see forward past the coffin. He had to let his sword drop, and of course had had to abandon his melancholy aspect, but that was no hardship. The westerly wind was blowing half a gale now, right in their teeth; against the tide it was raising a decided chop on the water—spray was flying from the bows and now and then the oarblades raised fountains. Perhaps it was a fitting homecoming for the dead hero whose corpse lay just before him. As they came to the bend a fresher gust set them sagging off to leeward, the wind acting powerfully on all the top hamper in the stern.

“Put your backs into it!” shouted Hornblower to the rowers, throwing much of his dignity to the wind, although he was the leading figure in the procession.

The rowers clenched their teeth, snarling with the effort as they tugged at the oars, dragging the obstinate barge by main force forward. Here the wind, acting directly against the tide, was raising some quite respectable rollers, and the barge plunged over them, bows up, bows down, stagger, and heave, like a fishing smack in a gale at sea, lurching and plunging; it was hard to stand upright in her, harder to hold her on her course. And surely—surely—Hornblower was conscious of the water on board cascading forward and back as she plunged. With the ponderous coffin stowed so high up he was nervous about the stability of the absurd craft. Inch by inch they struggled round the bend, and once round it the massed shipping on the north side gave them a lee.

“Haven’t you got those floorboards up, Mr. Horrocks?” said Hornblower, trying to hurl the words down into the cabin without stooping in the sight of the crowds.

He heard a splintering crash at that moment, and Horrocks’ face emerged between the curtains.

“They were all nailed down tight here,” he said. “I had to prise ‘em up. We’re down by the stern an’ we’d have to bail from here, anyways.”

What with the coffin and the auxiliary rowers they would, of course, be down by the stern.

“How much water?”

“Nigh on a foot, I should say, sir.”

“Bail like hell!”

Horrocks’ nose had hardly been withdrawn from between the curtains when a hatful of water shot out past Hornblower’s legs, and was followed by another and another and another. A good deal of it soused Hornblower’s new black breeches. He cursed but he could not complain. That was Bermondsey on the Surrey shore; Hornblower glanced at his watch dangling from the coffin. They were dropping very slightly behind time, thanks to this wind. Not dangerously, though. They were not nearly in as much danger of missing the tide as they were of sinking in midriver. Hornblower shifted position miserably in his soaking breeches and glanced back. The procession was keeping station well enough; he could see about half of it, for the centre of it was just now fighting round the bend he had already negotiated. Ahead lay another bend, this time to starboard. They would have a headwind there again.

So indeed they had. Once more they plunged and staggered over the rollers. There was one moment when the barge put her bows down and shipped a mass of water over them—as much must have come in as Horrocks had been able by now to bail out. Hornblower cursed again, forgetting all about the melancholy aspect he should maintain. He could hear and feel the water rolling about in her as she plunged. But the hatfuls of water were still flying out from between the curtains, past—and on to—Hornblower’s legs. Hornblower did not worry now about the effect on the crowd of the sight of the funeral barge bailing out; any seamen among the crowd, seeing that rough water, would appreciate the necessity for it without making allowance for a leak. They fought their way round the bend; for a few desperate moments it seemed as if they were making no progress at all, with the oarblades dragging through the water. But the gust was succeeded by a momentary lull and they went on again.

“Can’t you plug that leak, Mr. Horrocks?”

“’Tain’t easy, sir,” said Horrocks, putting his nose out again. “There’s a whole plank stove in. The treenails at the ends are on’y just holding, sir. If I plug too hard—”

“Oh, very well. Get on with the bailing again.”

Make for the shore? Over there, beside the Tower? That would be a convenient place. No, damn it. Never. Bail, bail, bail. Steer a course that gave them the utmost advantage from the flood and from the lee afforded by the shipping—that calculation was a tricky one, something to occupy his mind. If he could spare a moment to look round he could see the thousands of spectators massed along the shores. If he could spare a moment—God, he had forgotten all about Maria! He had left her in labour. Perhaps—most likely—the child was born by now. Perhaps—perhaps—no, that did not bear thinking about.

London Bridge, with its narrow arches and the wicked swirls and eddies beyond. He knew by the trials he had made two days ago that the oars were too wide for the arches. Careful timing was necessary; fortunately the bridge itself broke most of the force of the wind. He brought the tiller over and steadied the barge as best he could on a course direct for the arch’s centre.

“Now, pull!” he bellowed to the oarsmen; the barge swept forward, carried by the tide and the renewed efforts of the oarsmen. “In oars!”

Fortunately they did it smartly. They shot into the arch, and there the wind was waiting for them, shrieking through the gap, but their way took them forward. Hornblower measured their progress with his eye. The bows lurched and began to swing in the eddy beyond, but they were just clear enough even though he himself was still under the arch.

“Pull!” he yelled—under the bridge he had no fear of being seen behaving without dignity.

Out came the oars. They groaned in their rowlocks. The eddy was turning her—the oars were dragging her forward—now the rudder could bite again. Through—with the eddies left behind.

The water was still cascading out through the curtains, still soaking his dripping breeches, but despite the rate at which they were bailing he did not like the feel of the barge at all. She was sluggish, lazy. The leak must be gaining on them, and they were nearing the danger point.

“Keep pulling!” he shouted to the rowers; glancing back he saw the second barge, with the Chief Mourners, emerging from the bridge. Round the bend to sight the churches in the Strand—never did shipwrecked mariner sight a sail with more pleasure.

“Water’s nearly up to the thwarts, sir,” said Horrocks.

“Bail, damn you!”

Somerset House, and one more bend, a shallow one, to Whitehall Steps. Hornblower knew what orders he had given for the procession—orders drawn up in consultation with Mr. Pallender. Here the funeral barge was to draw towards the Surrey bank, allowing the next six barges in turn to come alongside the Steps and disembark their passengers. When the passengers had formed up in proper order, and not until then, the funeral barge was to come alongside for the coffin to be disembarked with proper ceremony. But not with water up to the thwarts—not with the barge sinking under his feet. He turned and looked back to where Smiley was standing in the sternsheets of the second barge. His head was bowed as the instructions stated, but fortunately the coxswain at the tiller noticed, and nudged Smiley to call his attention. Hornblower put up his hand with a gesture to stop; he accentuated the signal by gesturing as though pushing back. He had to repeat the signal before Smiley understood and nodded in reply. Hornblower ported his helm and the barge came sluggishly round, creeping across the river. Round farther; no; with that wind, and with the flood slacking off, it would be better to come alongside bows upstream. Hornblower steadied the tiller, judging his distances, and the barge crept towards the Steps.

“Easy all!”

Thank God, they were alongside. There was a Herald at Arms, tabard and all, standing there with the naval officer in command of the escort.

“Sir!” protested the Herald, as vehemently as his melancholy aspect allowed, “You’re out of your order—you—”

“Shut your mouth!” growled Hornblower, and then, to the naval officer, “Get this coffin ashore, quick!”

They got it ashore as quickly as dignity would permit; Hornblower, standing beside them, head bowed, a sword reversed again, heaved a genuine sigh of relief as he saw, from under his lowered brows, the barge rise perceptibly in the water when freed from the ponderous weight of the coffin. Still with his head bowed he snapped his orders.

“Mr. Horrocks! Take the barge over to the jetty there. Quick. Get a tarpaulin, put it overside and plug that leak. Get her bailed out. Give way, now.”

The barge drew away from the Steps; Hornblower could see that Horrocks had not exaggerated when he said the water was up to the thwarts. Smiley, intelligently, was now bringing the Mourners’ barge up to the Steps, and Hornblower, remembering to step short, moved out of the way. One by one they landed, Sir Peter Parker with Blackwood bearing his train, Cornwallis, St Vincent. St Vincent, labouring on his gouty feet, his shoulders hunched as well as his head bent, could hardly wait to growl his complaints, out of the corner of his mouth as he went up the Steps.

“What the devil, Hornblower?” he demanded. “Don’t you read your own orders?”

Hornblower took a few steps—stepping slow and short—alongside him.

“We sprung a leak, sir—I mean, my lord,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth in turn. “We were nigh on sinking. No time to spare.”

“Ha!” said St Vincent. “Oh, very well then. Make a report to that effect.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Hornblower.

He halted again, head bowed, sword reversed, and allowed the other mourners to flow on past him. This was extemporized ceremonial, but it worked. Hornblower tried to stand like a statue, although no statue he had ever seen was clothed in breeches streaming with wet. He had to repress a start when he remembered again about Maria. He wished he knew. And then he had more difficulty in repressing another start. His watch! That was still dangling on the coffin, now being put into the waiting hearse. Oh well, he could do nothing about that at the moment. And nothing about Maria. He went on standing in his icy breeches.