Hornblower and the Atropos h-6

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “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  Horrocks’ nose had hardly been withdrawn from between the curtains when a hatful of water shot out past Hornblower’s legs, and was followed by another and another and another.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.

  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 t
he 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.