Hornblower and the Atropos

Chapter V

The sentry at the Admiralty was worried but adamant. “Pardon, sir, but them’s my orders. No one to pass, not even a Admiral, sir.”

“Where’s the petty officer of the guard?” demanded Hornblower.

The petty officer was a little more inclined to listen to reason.

“It’s our orders, sir,” he said, however. “I daren’t, sir. You understand, sir.”

No naval petty officer gladly said “no” to a Post Captain, even one of less than three years’ seniority.

Hornblower recognized a cockedhatted lieutenant passing in the background.

“Bracegirdle!” he hailed.

Bracegirdle had been a midshipman along with him in the old Indefatigable, and had shared more than one wild adventure with him. Now he was wearing a lieutenant’s uniform with the aigullettes of a staff appointment.

“How are you, sir?” he asked, coming forward.

They shook hands and looked each other over, as men will, meeting after years of war. Hornblower told about his watch, and asked permission to be allowed in to get it. Bracegirdle whistled sympathetically.

“That’s bad,” he said. “If it was anyone but old Jervie I’d risk it. But that’s his own personal order. I’ve no desire to beg my bread in the gutter for the rest of my days.”

Jervie was Admiral Lord St Vincent, recently become First Lord of the Admiralty again, and once Sir John Jervis whose disciplinary principles were talked of with bated breath throughout the Navy.

“You’re his flaglieutenant?” asked Hornblower.

“That’s what I am,” said Bracegirdle. “There are easier appointments. I’d exchange for the command of a powder hulk in Hell. But I only have to wait for that. By the time I’ve gone through my period of servitude with Jervie that’ll be the only command they’ll offer me.”

“Then I can say goodbye to my watch,” said Hornblower.

“Without even a farewell kiss,” said Bracegirdle. “But in after years when you visit the crypt of St. Paul’s you will be able to look at the hero’s tomb with the satisfaction of knowing that your watch is in there along with him.”

“Your humour is frequently misplaced, Mr. Bracegirdle,” replied Hornblower, quite exasperated, “and you seem to have forgotten that the difference in rank between us should invite a more respectful attitude on the part of a junior officer.”

Hornblower was tired and irritated; even as he said the words he was annoyed with himself for saying them. He was fond of Bracegirdle, and there was still the bond of perils shared with him, and the memory of lighthearted banter in the days when they were both midshipmen. It was not good manners, so to speak, to make use of his superior rank (which only good fortune had brought him) to wound Bracegirdle’s feelings as undoubtedly he had, and merely to soothe his own. Bracegirdle brought himself stiffly to attention.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I allowed my tongue to run away with me. I hope you will overlook the offense, sir.”

The two officers eyed each other for a moment before Bracegirdle unbent again.

“I haven’t said yet how sorry I am about your watch, sir,” he said. “I’m genuinely sorry on your account. Really sorry, sir.”

Hornblower was about to make a pacific reply, when another figure appeared behind Bracegirdle, huge and ungainly, still in goldlaced full dress, and peering from under vast white eyebrows at the two officers. It was St Vincent; Hornblower touched his hat and the gesture informed Bracegirdle that his superior was behind him.

“What’s the young man so sorry about, Hornblower?” asked St Vincent.

Hornblower explained as briefly as he could, with hardly a stumble this time over saying “my Lord.”

“I’m glad to see Mr. Bracegirdle was carrying out my orders,” said St Vincent. “We’d have the Admiralty chock a block with sightseers in a moment otherwise. But you have my personal permission, Captain Hornblower, to pass the sentries.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am most grateful.”

St Vincent was about to hobble on his way when he checked himself and looked more acutely than ever at Hornblower.

“Have you been presented to His Majesty yet, young Hornblower?”

“No sir—my lord.”

“You should be. Every officer should show his respect to his king. I’ll take you myself.”

Hornblower thought about his wife, about the new baby, about his ship at Deptford, about his wet uniform which would have to be pressed into incredible smartness before he could show it at court. He thought about the rich, and the great, and the powerful, who frequented courts, and knew he would be out of place there and would be unhappy every minute he was compelled to appear there. It might be possible to make an excuse. But—but it would be a new adventure. The distasteful aspects about which he had been thinking were really so many challenges, which he felt spurred to meet.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said, searching in his mind for the words appropriate to the subject, “I should be most honoured, most deeply obliged.”

“Settled, then. Today’s Monday, isn’t it? Levee’s on Wednesday. I’ll take you in my coach. Be here at nine.”

“Aye aye, sir—my lord.”

“Pass Captain Hornblower through, Mr. Bracegirdle,” said St Vincent, and hobbled on his way.

Bracegirdle led Hornblower through to where the coffin stood on its trestles, and there, sure enough, the watch still hung on the end handle. Hornblower unhooked it with relief and followed Bracegirdle out again. There he stood and offered his hand to Bracegirdle in farewell; as they clasped hands Bracegirdle’s expression was one of hesitant inquiry.

“Two bells in the forenoon watch the day after tomorrow, then, sir,” he said; there was the faintest accent on the “forenoon.”

“Yes, I’ll see you then,” said Hornblower.

His other responsibilities were crowding in upon him, and he turned and burned back to Whitehall Steps. But as he walked, with his mind busily engaged in planning his activities for the next two days, that slight stress came back into his mind. Bracegirdle had relieved him of one small extra worry—by tomorrow at the latest he would have been in painful doubt as to whether his appointment with St Vincent had been for the morning or the evening.

At the Steps the ebb was already running full; there were broad strips of mud visible on either side of the river. Over at the Lambeth jetty the funeral barge could be seen with Horrocks and his men completing their task of getting a tarpaulin over the bottom of the boat. The other boats which had taken part in the procession were clustered here, there, and everywhere, and it was with pleasure that Hornblower saw his own gig clinging to the steps below him. He climbed down into it, picked up his speaking trumpet, and plunged into the business of dispersing the craft in accordance with the scheme he had laid down in his previous orders. The wind was blowing as briskly as ever, but now that the tide had turned the water was more smooth, and the only new difficulty he encountered was the great number of small craft that now were pulling about the river, bearing sightseers to a closer inspection of the ceremonial vessels.

Aldermen and City Companies, Heralds at Arms and Admirals, had all landed and gone home to their respective dinners, and the January darkness had hardly closed in before Hornblower dismissed the last of his charges at Greenwich and, getting back into his gig, was able with relief to give the order to pull for Deptford Hard. He climbed wearily up to the “George,” cold and hungry and fatigued. That busy day seemed to stretch back in his memory for a week at least—except that he had left Maria in labour only that morning.

He came walking into the “George,” and the first face that he caught sight of was the landlord’s—a shadowy figure with whom he was scarcely acquainted, in this house where the landlady assumed all the responsibility.

“How’s my wife?” demanded Hornblower.

The landlord blinked.

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” he said, and Hornblower turned away from him impatiently and ran up the stairs. He hesitated at the bedroom door, with his hand on the handle; his heart was beating fast. Then he heard a murmur of voices within and opened the door. There was Maria in bed, lying back on the pillows, and the midwife moving about by the window. The light of a candle faintly illuminated Maria’s face.

“Horry!” said Maria; the glad surprise in her voice accounted for her use of the diminutive.

Hornblower took her hand.

“All well, dearest?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Maria.

She held up her lips to be kissed, but even before the kiss was completed she was turning her eyes towards the wicker basket which stood on a small table beside the bed.

“It’s a little girl, darling,” she said. “Our little girl.”

“And a fine little babby too,” added the midwife.

Hornblower walked round the bed and peered into the basket. The blanket there concealed a diminutive figure—Hornblower, grown accustomed to playing with little Horatio, had forgotten how tiny a thing was a newborn baby—and a minute red face, a sort of caricature of humanity, was visible on the little pillow. He gazed down upon it; the little lips opened and emitted a squall, faint and high-pitched, so that little Horatio’s remembered cries were lusty bellows by comparison.

“She’s beautiful,” said Hornblower, gallantly, while the squalling continued and two minute clenched fists appeared above the edge of the blanket.

“Our little Maria,” said Maria, “I’m sure her hair is going to curl.”

“Now, now,” said the midwife, not in reproof of this extravagant prophecy but because Maria was trying to lift herself in bed to gaze at the child.

“She has only to grow up like her mother,” said Hornblower, “to be the best daughter I could wish for.”

Maria rewarded him with a smile as she sank back on the pillow again.

“Little Horatio’s downstairs,” she said. “He has seen his sister.”

“And what did he think of her?”

“He cried when she did,” said Maria.

“I had better see how he is,” suggested Hornblower.

“Please do,” said Maria, but she extended her hand to him again, and Hornblower bent and kissed it.

The room was very warm with a fire burning briskly in the grate, and it smelt of sickness, oppressive to Hornblower’s lungs after the keen January air that had filled them all day.

“I am happy beyond all measure to see you so well, dear,” said Hornblower, taking his leave.

Downstairs as he stood hesitating in the hall the landlady popped her head out from the kitchen.

“The young gennelman’s in here, sir,” she said, “if you don’t mind stepping in.”

Little Horatio was sitting up in a highchair. His face lit up with a smile as he caught sight of his father—the most flattering experience Hornblower had ever known—and he bounced up and down in his chair and waved the crust he held in his fist.

“There! See him smile ‘cause his daddy’s come home!” said the landlady; then she hesitated before she put forward a suggestion which she knew to verge on the extravagant. “His bedtime’s coming soon, sir. Would you care to play with him until then, sir?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“There, baby!” said the landlady. “Daddy’s going to play with you. Oopsadaisy, then. The bar parlour’s empty now, sir. This way, sir. Emily, bring a candle for the captain.”

Little Horatio was in two minds, once he found himself on the parlour floor, as to which of two methods of progression was most satisfactory to a man almost a year old. On hands and knees he could make prodigious speed, and in any direction he chose. But on the other hand he could pull himself upright by clinging to the leg of a chair, and the radiant expression on his face when he did so was proof of the satisfaction this afforded him. Then, having let go of the chair, provided he had already been successful in the monstrous effort necessary to turn away from it, he could manage to take a step towards his father; he was then compelled to stop and sway perilously on widely separated feet before taking another step, and it was rarely that he could accomplish a step before sitting down on the floor with something of a bump. And was it possible that the monosyllable he said so frequently—“Da” it sounded like—was an attempt to say “Daddy?”

This was happiness again, fleeting, transient, to have his lithe son tottering towards him with a beaming smile.

“Come to Daddy,” said Hornblower, hands outstretched.

Then the smile would turn to a mischievous grin, and down on his hands and knees went young Horatio, galloping like lightning across the room, and gurgling with delirious joy when his father came running after him to seize him and swing him into the air. Simple and delightful pleasure; and then as Hornblower held the kicking gurgling baby up at arm’s length he had a fleeting recollection of the moment when he himself had hung suspended in the mizzen rigging on that occasion when the Indefatigable’s mizzen mast fell when he was in command of the top. This child would know peril and danger—and fear; in later years. He would not let the thought cloud his happiness. He lowered the baby down and then held him at arm’s length again—a most successful performance, judging by the gurgles it elicited.

The landlady came in, knocking at the door.

“That’s a big man,” she said, and Hornblower forced himself not to feel selfconscious at being caught enjoying the company of his own child.

“Dunno what come over me, sir,” went on the landlady. “I clear forgot to ask if you wanted supper.”

“Supper?” said Hornblower. The last time he had eaten was in the Painted Hall at Greenwich.

“Ham an’ eggs?” asked the landlady. “A bite o’ cold beef?”

“Both, if you please,” said Hornblower.

“Three shakes of a duck’s tail an’ you’ll have ‘em,” said the landlady. “You keep that young feller busy while I get it.”

“I ought to go back to Mrs. Hornblower.”

“She’ll do for another ten minutes without you,” said the landlady, briskly.

The smell of bacon and eggs when they came was heavenly. Hornblower could sit down with appetite while Emily bore little Horatio off to bed. And after bacon and eggs, cold beef and pickled onions, and a flagon of beer—another simple pleasure, that of eating his fill and more, the knowledge that he was eating too much serving as a sauce to him who kept himself almost invariably within bounds and who looked upon overindulgence usually with suspicion and contempt. With his duty carried out successfully today he had for once no care for the morrow, not even when the day after tomorrow would see him engaged in the rather frightening experience of attending the King’s levee. And Maria had come safely through her ordeal, and he had a little daughter who would be as adorable as his little son. Then he sneezed three times running.