“All the same,” said Frere, “it’s just as well that Leighton was hit at Rosas. Not that I wished him harm, but it drew the teeth of that gang. It would have been them or us otherwise, I fancy. His friends counted twenty votes on a division. You know his widow, I’ve heard?”
“I have that honour.”
“A charming woman for those who are partial to that type. And most influential as a link between the Wellesley party and her late husband’s.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
All the pleasure was evaporating from his success. The radiant afternoon sunshine seemed to have lost its brightness.
“Petersfield is just over the hill,” said Frere. “I expect there’ll be a crowd there.”
Frere was right. There were twenty or thirty people waiting at the Red Lion, and more came hurrying up, all agog to hear the result of the court martial. There was wild cheering at the news, and Mr Frere took the opportunity to slip in a good word for the government.
“It’s the newspapers,” grumbled Frere, as they drove on with fresh horses. “I wish we could take a lead out of Boney’s book and only allow ’em to publish what we think they ought to know. Emancipation — Reform — naval policy — the mob wants a finger in every pie nowadays.”
Even the marvellous beauty of the Devil’s Punch Bowl was lost on Hornblower as they drove past it. All the savour was gone from life. He was wishing he was still an unnoticed naval captain battling with Atlantic storms. Every stride the horses were taking was carrying him nearer to Barbara, and yet he was conscious of a sick, vague desire that he was returning to Maria, dull and uninteresting and undisturbing. The crowd that cheered him at Guildford — market day was just over — stank of sweat and beer. He was glad that with the approach of evening Frere ceased talking and left him to his thoughts, depressing though they were.
It was growing dark when they changed horses again at Esher.
“It is satisfactory to think that no footpad or highwayman will rob us,” laughed Frere. “We have only to mention the name of the hero of the hour to escape scot free.”
No footpad or highwayman interfered with them at all, as it happened. Unmolested they crossed the river at Putney and drove on past the more frequent houses and along the dark streets.
“Number Ten Downing Street, postie,” said Frere.
What Hornblower remembered most vividly of the interview that followed was Frere’s first sotto voce whisper to Perceval — “He’s safe” — which he overheard. The interview lasted no more than ten minutes, formal on the one side, reserved on the other. The Prime Minister was not in talkative mood apparently — his main wish seemed to be to inspect this man who might perhaps do him an ill turn with the Prince Regent or with the public. Hornblower formed no very favourable impression either of his ability or of his personal charm.
“Pall Mall and the War Office next,” said Frere. “God, how we have to work!”
London smelt of horses — it always did, Hornblower remembered, to men fresh from the sea. The lights of Whitehall seemed astonishingly bright. At the War Office there was a young Lord to see him, someone whom Hornblower liked at first sight. Palmerston was his name, the Under Secretary of State. He asked a great many intelligent questions regarding the state of opinion in France, the success of the last harvest, the manner of Hornblower’s escape. He nodded approvingly when Hornblower hesitated to answer when asked the name of the man who had given him shelter.
“Quite right,” he said. “You’re afraid some damned fool’ll blab it out and get him shot. Some damned fool probably would. I’ll ask you for it if ever we need it badly, and you will be able to rely on us then. And what happened to these galley slaves?”
“The first lieutenant in the Triumph pressed them for the service, my lord.”
“So they’ve been hands in a King’s ship for the last three weeks? I’d rather be a galley slave myself.”