Hornblower and the Atropos h-6 Read online

  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.

  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 wea
k 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 goldhil
ted 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.