“Horatio, you must come and have your dinner,” said Maria. “And you have left me alone all day.”
“Not long before we reach Oxford now, dear,” said Hornblower — he was just able to conceal the fact that he had temporarily, until then, forgotten the existence of his wife and child.
“Horatio —”
“In a little while, dear,” said Hornblower.
The winter evening was closing round them, the light mellowing while it faded over ploughland and meadow, over the Pollard willows knee-deep in the stream, over the farmhouses and cottages. It was all very lovely; Hornblower had the feeling that he did not want this moment ever to end. This was happiness, as his earlier feelings of well‑being changed to something more peaceful, just as the surface of the river had changed below the eddy. Soon he would be back in another life again, plunged once more into a world of cruelty and war — the world he had left behind in the tide‑water of the Severn and would meet again in the tide‑water of the Thames. It was symbolic that it should be here in the centre of England, at the midpoint of his journey, that he should reach this momentary summit of happiness. The cattle in the fields, the rooks in the trees — were they part of this happiness? Possibly, but not certainly. The happiness came from within him, and depended on even more transitory factors than those. Hornblower breathed the evening air as though it were divine poetry, and then he noticed Jenkins waving to him from his saddle and pointing with his whip, and the moment was over, lost for ever.
That was the next staunch at which Jenkins was pointing. Hornblower steered boldly for it, without a moment of nervousness; he steadied the boat on her course above it, felt the heave and sudden acceleration as she topped the slope, and grinned with delight as she shot down it, hit the eddy below, and emerged as before after a brief period of indecision. Onward, down the river, through the gathering night. Bridges; another staunch — Hornblower was glad it was the last; there had been much point to what Jenkins had said about needing daylight in which to run them — villages, churches. Now it was quite dark, and he was cold and weary. The next time Maria came aft to him he could address her sympathetically, and even share her indignation that Oxford was so far away. Jenkins had lighted candle‑lanterns; one hung on the collar of the lead horse and the other from the cantle of the saddle of the horse he rode. Hornblower, in the stern sheets of the Queen Charlotte, saw the specks of light dancing on the towpath — they gave him an indication of the turns the river was making, and just enabled him to steer a safe course, although twice his heart was in his mouth as the side of the boat brushed against the reeds at the river bank. It was quite dark when Hornblower felt the boat slow up suddenly with the easing of the towlines, and in response to Jenkins’ quiet hail he steered the boat towards a lantern‑lit landing‑stage; ready hands took the lines and moored the boat, and the passengers began to swarm out.
“Captain — sir?” said Jenkins.
That was not the way he had used the word “captain” at their first acquaintance. Then it had been with an equalitarian gibe; now he was using the formula and the intonation that would be used by any member of a ship’s company addressing his captain.
“Yes?” said Hornblower.
“This is Oxford, sir, and the relief is here.”
In the wavering lantern light Hornblower could see the two men indicated.
“So now I can have my dinner?” he asked, with gentle irony.
“That you can, sir, an’ it’s sorry I am that you have had to wait for it. Sir, I’m your debtor. Sir —”
“Oh, that’s all right, Jenkins,” said Hornblower testily. “I had my own reasons for wishing to get to London.”
“Thank’ee sir, and —”
“How far to London now?”
“A hundred miles to Brentford, sir, by the river. You’ll be there at the first light. How’ll the tide be then, Jem?”