Hornblower and the Atropos

Chapter VI

“Whitehall Steps,” said Hornblower, stepping down into his gig at Deptford Hard.

It was convenient having his gig for use here; it was faster than a wherryman’s boat and it cost him nothing.

“Give way!” said the coxswain.

Of course it was raining. The westerly wind still blew and bore with it today flurries of heavy rain, which hissed down on the surface of the river, roared on the tarpaulins of the wretched boat’s crew, and rattled loudly on the sou’wester which Hornblower wore on his head while he sheltered his cocked hat under his boat cloak. He sniffed lamentably. He had the worst cold he had ever experienced, and he needed to use his handkerchief. But that meant bringing a hand out from under his cloak, and he would not do that—with the boat cloak spread round him like a tent as he sat in the sternsheets, and with the sou’wester on top, he could hope to keep himself reasonably dry as far as Whitehall if he did not disturb the arrangement. He preferred to sniff.

Up the river, through the rain; under London Bridge, round the bends he had come to know so well during the last few days. He cowered in misery under his boat cloak, shuddering. He was sure he had never felt so ill in his life before. He ought to be in bed, with hot bricks at his feet and hot rumandwater at his side, but on the day when the First Lord was going to take him to the Court of St. James’s he could not possibly plead illness, not even though the shivers ran up and down his spine and his legs felt too weak to carry him.

The Steps were slippery where the tide had receded from them; in his weak state he could hardly keep his footing as he climbed them. At the top, with the rain still beating down, he put his appearance to rights as well as he could. He rolled up the sou’wester and put it in the pocket of his cloak, put on his cocked hat, and hurried, bending forward into the driving rain, the hundred and fifty yards to the Admiralty. Even in the short time that took him his stockings were splashed and wet, and the brim of his cocked hat was filled with water. He was glad to stand before the fire in the Captain’s Room while he waited until Bracegirdle came in with the announcement that His Lordship was ready for him.

“Morning, Hornblower,” said St Vincent, standing under the portico.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“No use waiting for a smooth,” growled St Vincent, looking up at the rain and eyeing the distance between him and his coach. “Come on.”

He hobbled manfully forward. Hornblower and Bracegirdle advanced with him. They had no cloaks on—Hornblower had left his at the Admiralty—and had to wait in the rain while St Vincent walked to the coach and with infinite slowness hauled himself into it. Hornblower followed him and Bracegirdle squeezed in after him, perching on the turndown seat in front. The coach rumbled forward over the cobbles, with a vibration from the ironrimmed wheels that found an echo in the shudders that were still playing up and down Hornblower’s spine.

“All nonsense, of course, having to use a coach to St. James’s from the Admiralty,” growled St Vincent. “I used to walk a full three miles on my quarterdeck in the old Orion.”

Hornblower sniffed again, miserably. He could not even congratulate himself on the fact that as he felt so ill he knew almost no qualms about his new experience which was awaiting him, because, stupefied by his cold, he was unable even to indulge in his habitual selfanalysis.

“I read your report last night, Hornblower,” went on St Vincent. “Satisfactory.”

“Thank you, my lord.” He braced himself into appearing intelligent. “And did the funeral at St. Paul’s go off well yesterday?”

“Well enough.”

The coach rumbled down the Mall.

“Here we are,” said St Vincent. “You’ll come back with me, I suppose, Hornblower? I don’t intend to stay long. Nine in the morning and I haven’t done a third of my day’s work yet.”

“Thank you, my lord. I’ll take station on you, then.”

The coach door opened, and Bracegirdle nimbly stepped out to help his chief down the steps. Hornblower followed; now his heart was beating faster. There were red uniforms, blue and gold uniforms, blue and silver uniforms, in evidence everywhere; many of the men were in powder. One powdered wig—the dark eyes below it were in startling contrast—detached itself and approached St Vincent. The uniform was black and silver; the polished facets of the silverhilted sword caught and reflected the light at a myriad points.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Morning, Catterick. Here’s my protégé, Captain Horatio Hornblower.”

Catterick’s keen dark eyes took in every detail of Hornblower’s appearance in one sweeping glance, coat, breeches, stockings, sword, but his expression did not change. One might gather he was used to the appearance of shabby naval officers at levees.

“His Lordship is presenting you, I understand, Captain. You accompany him into the Presence Chamber.”

Hornblower nodded; he was wondering how much was implied by that word “protégé.” His hat was in his hand, and he made haste to cram it under his arm as the others did.

“Follow me, then,” said St Vincent.

Up the stairs; uniformed men on guard on the landings; another black and silver uniform at the head of the stairs; a further brief exchange of sentences; powdered footmen massed about the doorway; announcements made in a superb speaking voice, restrained but penetrating.

“Admiral the Right Honourable Earl St Vincent. Captain Horatio Hornblower. Lieutenant Anthony Bracegirdle.”

The Presence Chamber was a mass of colour. Every possible uniform was represented there. The scarlet of the infantry; light cavalry in all the colours of the rainbow, befrogged and befurred, cloaks swinging, sabres trailing; heavy cavalry in jack boots up to the thigh; foreign uniforms of white and green; St Vincent carried his vast bulk through them all, like a battleship among yachts. And there was the King, seated in a thronelike chair with a lofty back; it was an odd surprise to see him, in his little tiewig, looking so exactly like his pictures. Behind him stood a semicircle of men wearing ribbons and stars, blue ribbons, red ribbons, green ribbons, over the left shoulder and over the right; Knights of the Garter, of the Bath, of St. Patrick, these must be, the great men of the land. St Vincent was bending himself in clumsy obeisance to the King.

“Glad to see you, my lord, glad to see you,” said the latter. “Haven’t had a moment since Monday. Glad all went well.”

“Thank you, sir. May I present the officer responsible for the naval ceremonial?”

“You may.”

The King turned his eyes on Hornblower; light blue eyes, prominent,

“Captain Horatio Hornblower,” said St Vincent, and Hornblower did his best to bow, as his French émigré dancing teacher had tried to teach him ten years before, left foot forward, hand over his heart. He did not know how far down to bend; he did not know how long to stay there when he had bent. But he came up again at last, with something of the sensation of breaking the surface of the water after a deep dive.

“What ship, sir? What ship?” asked the King.

“Atropos, twenty-two, Your Majesty.”

Sleepless during the previous night Hornblower had imagined that question might be put to him, and so the answer came fast enough.

“Where is she now?”

“Deptford, Your Majesty.”

“But you go to sea soon?”

“I—I—” Hornblower could not answer that question, but St Vincent spoke up for him.

“Very shortly, sir,” he said.

“I see,” said the King. “I see.”

He put up his hand and stroked his forehead with a gesture of infinite weariness before recalling himself to the business in hand.

“My greatnephew,” he said, “Prince Ernst—did I speak to you about him, my lord?”

“You did, sir,” answered St Vincent.

“Do you think Captain Hornblower would be a suitable officer for the duty?”

“Why yes, sir. Quite suitable.”

“Less than three years’ seniority,” mused the King, his eyes resting on Hornblower’s epaulette. “But still. Harmond!”

“Your Majesty.”

A glittering figure with ribbon and star came gliding forward from the semicircle.

“Present Captain Hornblower to His Serene Highness.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was a smile in the pale blue eyes.

“Thank you, Captain,” said the King. “Do your duty as you have done it, and your conscience will always be clear.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Hornblower.

St Vincent was bowing again; Hornblower bowed. He was aware of the fact that he must not turn his back upon the King—that was almost the sum of his knowledge of court ceremonial—and he found it not so difficult to withdraw. Already there was a line formed of people waiting their turn to reach the royal presence, and he sidled away from them in St Vincent’s wake.

“This way, if you please,” said Harmond, directing their course to the farther side of the room. “Wait a moment.”

“His Majesty’s service makes strange bedfellows sometimes,” said St Vincent as they waited. “I hardly expected you would be saddled with this, Hornblower.”

“I—I have not yet understood,” said Hornblower.

“Oh, the Prince is—”

“This way, if you please,” said Harmond, appearing again.

He led them towards a diminutive figure who awaited them with composure. A young man—no, only a boy—wearing an outlandish uniform of gold and green, a short goldhilted sword at his side, orders on his breast, and two more hanging from his neck. Behind them towered a burly figure in a more moderate version of the same uniform, swarthy, with fat pendulous cheeks. The boy himself was handsome, with fair hair falling in ringlets about his ears, frank blue eyes and a nose slightly turned upwards. The burly figure stepped forward, intercepting the approach of the group to the boy. Harmond and he exchanged glances.

“Presentations should be made to me first,” said the burly figure; he spoke thickly, in what Hornblower guessed to be a German accent.

“And why, sir?” asked Harmond.

“By the fundamental law of SeitzBunau only the High Chamberlain can make presentations to His Serene Highness.”

“Yes?”

“And I, sir, am the High Chamberlain. As you know.”

“Very well, sir,” said Harmond with resignation. “Then may I have the honour to present—Admiral the Right Honourable Earl St Vincent; Captain Horatio Hornblower; Lieutenant Anthony Bracegirdle.”

Hornblower was about to bow, but out of the tail of his eye he caught sight of St Vincent still holding himself ponderously erect, and he restrained himself.

“To whom have I the honour of being presented?” asked St Vincent, coldly. It appeared as if St Vincent entertained some prejudice against Germans.

“Doctor Eisenbeiss,” said Harmond.

“His Excellency the Baron von Eisenbeiss, High Chamberlain and Secretary of State to His Serene Highness the Prince of SeitzBunau,” said the burly man, in further explanation. “It is with much pleasure that I make your acquaintance.”

He stood meeting St Vincent’s eyes for a moment, and then he bowed; St Vincent bowed only after Eisenbeiss had begun to bow; Hornblower and Bracegirdle followed his example. All four of them straightened up at the same moment.

“And now,” said Eisenbeiss, “I have the honour to present—”

He turned to the Prince and continued his speech in German, apparently repeating his first words and then mentioning the names in turn. The little Prince gave a half bow at each name, but as St Vincent bowed low—nearly as low as he had bowed to the King—Hornblower did likewise. Then the Prince spoke in German to Eisenbeiss.

“His Serene Highness says,” translated the latter, “that he is delighted to make the acquaintance of officers of His Majesty’s Navy, because it is His Highness’s will that he should make war against the French tyrant in their company.”

“Tell His Serene Highness,” said St Vincent, “that we are all delighted, too.”

The translation was made, and the Prince produced a smile for each of them. Then there was an uncomfortable moment as they looked at each other. Finally Eisenbeiss said something again to the Prince, received a reply, and then turned to the group.

“His Serene Highness,” he announced, “says that he will not detain you longer.”

“Hm’ph,” said St Vincent, but he bent himself once more in the middle, as did the others, and then they withdrew themselves, backwards and sideways, from out of His Serene Highness’s presence.

“Damned upstart whippersnapper,” mumbled St Vincent to himself, and then added, “At any rate, our duty’s done. We can leave. Follow me over to that door.”

Down below loud bawling by a footman in the courtyard brought up the Earl’s coach again, and they climbed in, Hornblower utterly dazed by reason of his cold, the excitement he had been through, and his puzzlement about the incident in which he had taken part.

“Well, that’s your midshipman, Hornblower,” said St Vincent. His voice was so like the rumbling of the iron tyres over the cobbles that Hornblower was not sure that he had heard aright—especially as what St Vincent had said was so strange.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“I have no doubt you heard me. I said that’s your midshipman—the Prince of SeitzBunau.”

“But who is he, my lord?”

“One of those German princes. Boney chased him out of his principality last year, on his way to Austerlitz. Country’s brimful of German princes chased out by Boney. The point is that this one’s the King’s greatnephew, as you heard.”

“And he’s to be one of my midshipmen?”

“That is so. He’s young enough to learn sense, not like most of ‘em. Most of ‘em go in the army. On the staff, God help the staff. But now the navy’s fashionable—first time since the Dutch Wars. We’ve been winning battles, and God knows the soldiers haven’t. So all the ne’er do well young lords join the Navy nowadays instead of the Light Dragoons. It was His Majesty’s own idea that this young fellow should do the same.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“It won’t do him any harm. Atropos won’t be any palace, of course.”

“That’s what I was thinking, my lord. The midshipmen’s berth in Atropos–”

“You’ll have to put him there, all the same. Not much room in a flush-decked sloop. If it were a ship of the line he might berth by himself, but if it’s to be Atropos he’ll have to take what comes. And it won’t be caviar and venison, either. I’ll send you orders on the subject, of course.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

The coach was grinding to a stop at the Admiralty; someone opened the door, and St Vincent began to heave himself out of his seat. Hornblower followed him in under the portico.

“I’ll bid you goodbye, then, Hornblower,” said St Vincent, offering his hand.

“Goodbye, my lord.”

St Vincent stood looking at him from under his eyebrows.

“The Navy has two duties, Hornblower,” he said. “We all know what one is—to fight the French and give Boney what for.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“The other we don’t think about so much. We have to see that when we go we leave behind us a Navy which is as good as the one in which we served. You’ve less than three years’ seniority now, Hornblower, but you’ll find you’ll grow older. It’ll seem you’ve hardly had time to look round before you’ll have fortythree years’ seniority, like me. It goes fast enough, I assure you. Perhaps then you’ll be taking another young officer to present him at the Palace.”

“Er—yes, my lord.”

“Choose carefully, Hornblower, if it ever becomes your duty. One can make mistakes. But let them be honest mistakes.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“That’s all.”

The old man turned away without another word, leaving Hornblower with Bracegirdle under the portico.

“Jervie’s in a melting mood,” said Bracegirdle.

“So it seems.”

“I think he wanted to say he had his eye on you, sir.”

“But he had an anchor out to windward all the same,” said Hornblower, thinking of what St Vincent had said about the chance of one making mistakes.

“Jervie never forgives, sir,” said Bracegirdle, seriously.

“Well—”

Twelve years of service in the Navy had gone far to make Hornblower, on occasions, fatalist enough to be able to shrug off that sort of peril—at least until it was past.

“I’ll take my boat cloak, if you please,” he said, “and I’ll say good-bye, and thank you.”

“A glass of something? A cup of tea? A mouthful to eat, sir?”

“No, thank you, I’d better shove off.”

Maria was waiting for him at Deptford, longing to hear about his visit to Court and his presentation to the King. Maria had been wildly excited when Hornblower had told her what he was going to do. The thought that he was going to meet face to face the Lord’s anointed was almost too much for her—the midwife had come forward with a warning that all this excitement might bring on a fever. And he had not merely been presented to the King, but the King had actually spoken to him, had discussed his professional career with him. Besides, he was to have a real Prince as a midshipman on board his ship—a dispossessed prince, admittedly, but to counterbalance that was the fact that the prince was a greatnephew of the King, related by blood to the Royal Family. That would delight Maria as much as his presentation at Court.

She would want to know all about it, who was there (Hornblower found himself wishing he had been able to identify a single one of the figures who had stood behind the throne) and what everyone was wearing—that would be easier, as there had been no women present, of course, at the levee, and practically everyone had been in uniform. He would have to be careful in his account, as it was possible to hurt Maria’s feelings. Hornblower himself fought for his country; it might be better said that he fought for the ideals of liberty and decency against the unprincipled tyrant who ruled across the Channel; the hackneyed phrase “for King and Country” hardly expressed his feelings at all. If he was ready to lay down his life for his King that really had no reference to the kindly popeyed old gentleman with whom he had been speaking this morning; it meant that he was ready to die for the system of liberty and order that the old gentleman represented. But to Maria the King was representative of something other than liberty and order; he had received the blessing of the Church; he was somebody to be spoken about with awe. To turn one’s back on the King was to Hornblower a breach of good manners, something damaging, in some degree, to the conventions which held the country together in the face of its imminent peril; but to Maria it would be something very close to sacrilege. He would have to be careful not to speak too lightly of the old gentleman.

And yet (the gig was carrying him through the Pool now, under the walls of the Tower) Hornblower had to admit it to himself that Maria’s views about his service in the Navy were not on as lofty a plane as his own. To Maria it was a gentlemanly trade; it gave her a certain social status to which she otherwise would not have attained, and it put food into the mouth of her precious child—children, now that little Maria was born. But selfsacrifice for a cause; the incurring of danger beyond the dictates of duty; honour; glory; these were conceptions that Maria cared little about. She was in fact rather inclined to turn up her nose at them as purely masculine notions, part of an elaborate game or ritual devised by men to make them feel superior to and different from women whose selfrespect and sublime certainty of superiority needed no such puerile bolstering.

It was a surprise to Hornblower to find that the gig was now passing the Atropos as she lay at the edge of the stream. He should have been all eyes to see that all was well with her and that the officer of the watch had been on the alert to detect the gig as she came down the river; as it was Hornblower merely had time to acknowledge the salute of Lieutenant Jones as the gig left the ship behind. There was Deptfort Dock, and beside it the enormous activities of the Victualling Yard. From a sailing barge lying beside the jetty a gang of men were at work driving a herd of pigs up into the yard, destined for slaughter and salting down to feed the Navy.

“Eyes in the boat, there!” growled the coxswain.

One of the gig’s crew had made a sotto voice joke about those pigs, evidently. It was hard to believe, even with this evidence before their eyes, that the unrecognizable, wooden hard chunks of matter that were issued from the brine barrels to the men at sea, really came from decent respectable animals like those there. Hornblower’s sympathies were with his men. The coxswain was putting his tiller over to bring the gig up to Deptford Hard. Hornblower disembarked, to walk up to the “George,” to where his family was awaiting him. He would sit by Maria’s bed and tell her about the pageantry of the Court of St. James’s. He would hold his little daughter in his arms; he would play with his little son. It might well be for the very last time; at any moment his orders would come, and he would take Atropos to sea. Battle, storm, shipwreck, disease—what were the chances that he would never come back again? And if ever he did the squalling baby he was leaving behind would be a trim little miss playing with her dolls; little Horatio would be at least starting with slate and pencil writing his letters and figures; he might be beginning to decline mensa and learning the Greek alphabet. And he himself? He hoped he would be able to say he had done his duty; he hoped that those weaknesses of which he was so conscious would not prevent him from achieving something of which his children might be proud.