Hornblower and the Atropos h-6

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “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 o
f 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 floorb
oards. 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.