Flying Colours. C. S. Forester

Hornblower was of the same opinion. He was glad to find someone in high position with no illusions regarding the hardships of the service.

“I’ll have them traced and brought home if I can persuade your superiors at the Admiralty to give ’em up. I can find a better use for ’em.”

A footman brought in a note which Palmerston opened.

“His Royal Highness commands your presence,” he announced. “Thank you, Captain. I hope I shall again have the pleasure of meeting you shortly. This discussion of ours has been most profitable. And the Luddites have been smashing machinery in the north, and Sam Whitbread has been raising Cain in the House, so that your arrival is most opportune. Good evening, Captain.”

It was those last words which spoilt the whole effect. Lord Palmerston planning a new campaign against Bonaparte won Hornblower’s respect, but Lord Palmerston echoing Frere’s estimate of the political results of Hornblower’s return lost it again.

“What does His Royal Highness want of me?” he asked of Frere, as they went down the stairs together.

“That’s to be a surprise for you,” replied Frere archly.

“You may even have to wait until to-morrow’s levee to find out. It isn’t often Prinny’s sober enough for business at this time in the evening. Probably he’s not. You may find tact necessary in your interview with him.”

It was only this morning, thought Hornblower, his head whirling, that he had been sitting listening to the evidence at his court martial. So much had already happened to-day. He was surfeited with new experiences. He was sick and depressed. And Lady Barbara and his little son were in Bond Street, not a quarter of a mile away.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Ten o’clock. Young Pam keeps late hours at the War Office. He’s a glutton for work.”

“Oh,” said Hornblower.

God only knew at what hour he would escape from the palace. He would certainly have to wait until to-morrow before he called at Bond Street. At the door a coach was waiting, coachmen and footmen in the royal red liveries.

“Sent by the Lord Chamberlain,” explained Frere. “Kind of him.”

He handed Hornblower in through the door and climbed after him.

“Ever met His Royal Highness?” he went on.

“No.”

“But you’ve been to Court?”

“I have attended two levees. I was presented to King George in 98.”

“Ah! Prinny’s not like his father. And you know Clarence, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

The carriage had stopped at a doorway brightly lit with lanterns; the door was opened, and a little group of footmen were awaiting to hand them out. There was a glittering entrance hall, where somebody in uniform and powder and with a white staff ran his eyes keenly over Hornblower.

“Hat under your arm,” he whispered. “This way, please.”

“Captain Hornblower. Mr Hookham Frere,” somebody announced.

It was an immense room, dazzling with the light of its candles; a wide expanse of polished floor, and at the far end a group of people bright with gold lace and jewels. Somebody came over to them, dressed in naval uniform — it was the Duke of Clarence, pop-eyed and pineapple-headed.

“Ah, Hornblower,” he said, hand held out, “welcome home.”

Hornblower bowed over the hand.

“Come and be presented. This is Captain Hornblower, sir.”

“Evenin’, Captain.”

Corpulent, handsome, and dissipated, weak and sly, was the sequence of impressions Hornblower received as he made his bow. The thinning curls were obviously dyed; the moist eyes and the ruddy pendulous cheeks seemed to hint that His Royal Highness had dined well, which was more than Hornblower had.

“Everyone’s been talkin’ about you, Captain, ever since your cutter — what’s its name, now? — came in to Portsmouth.”

“Indeed, sir?” Hornblower was standing stiffly at attention.

“Yes. And, damme, so they ought to. So they ought to, damme, Captain. Best piece of work I ever heard of — good as I could have done myself. Here, Conyngham, make the presentations.”

Hornblower bowed to Lady This and Lady That, to Lord Somebody and to Sir John Somebody-else. Bold eyes and bare arms, exquisite clothes and blue Garter-ribbons, were all the impressions Hornblower received. He was conscious that the uniform made for him by the Victory’s tailor was a bad fit.

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