“Aye aye, sir.”
“I’ll be at the “George” until five. Send any messages there.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He still had a personal life; Maria was very near her time now.
On the deck there was a brisk westerly wind harping in the rigging, gusty, Hornblower noted. The barges would call for careful handling unless it dropped considerably. He stepped down into the gig.
“Make for Deptford Hard,” he ordered the coxswain, and clasped his coat close tightly round him, for the cabin of the Atropos had been hot with lamps and candles and many people. He walked up the Hard and knocked at the door of the “George”; from the window at the side there was a faint light showing and the window of their room above was illuminated. The door opened to reveal the landlady.”
“Oh, it’s you, sir. I thought it was the midwife. I’ve just sent Davie for her. Your good lady —”
“Let me by,” said Hornblower.
Maria was walking about the bedroom in her dressing‑gown; two candles illuminated the room, and the shadows of the bed‑tester and the other furniture moved in sinister fashion as Hornblower opened the door.
“Darling!” said Maria.
Hornblower came towards her, his hands held out.
“I hope all is well with you, dear,” he said.
“I think so. I — I hope so. It has only just begun,” said Maria.
They kissed.
“Darling,” said Maria. “How good of you to come here. I — I was hoping I should see you again before — before — my time came.”
“Not good of me,” said Hornblower. “I came because I wanted to come. I wanted to see you.”
“But you are so busy. Today is the day of the procession, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
“And our child will be born today. A little girl, dear? Or another little boy?”
“We’ll know soon,” said Hornblower. He knew which Maria wanted. “Whichever it is we’ll love her — or him.”
“That we shall,” said Maria.
The last syllable was jerked out of her more forcibly than necessary, and Maria’s face took on an expression of preoccupation.
“How is it, dearest?” asked Hornblower, concerned.
“Only a pain,” said Maria, smiling — forcing a smile, as Hornblower well knew. “They are not coming close together yet.”
“I wish I could help,” said Hornblower, in the manner of uncounted millions of fathers.
“You have helped by coming to me, my darling,” said Maria.
A bustle outside the door and a knock heralded the entrance of the midwife and the landlady.
“Well, well,” said the midwife. “So it has began, has it?”
Hornblower looked her over carefully. She was not neat — no one could be expected to be in those conditions — but she were at least sober, and her gap‑toothed smile was kindly.
“I’ll have a look at you, ma’am,” said the midwife and then, with a sidelong glance, “Gentlemen will retire.”
Maria looked at him. She was trying so hard to appear unconcerned.
“I’ll see you again, dear,” said Hornblower, trying equally hard.
Outside the bedroom the landlady was cordial in her offers of hospitality.
“How about a go of brandy, sir? Or a glass o’ rum, hot?”
“No, thank you,” said Hornblower.
“The young gennelman’s sleeping in with one o’ the maids now,” explained the landlady. “He didn’t cry, no, not a sound, when we carried him in. A fine little fellow he is, sir.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He could smile at the thought of his little son.
“You’d better come into the coffee‑room, sir,” said the landlady. “There’s still what’s left of the fire there.”
“Thank you,” said Hornblower, with a glance at his watch. God, how time was passing!
“Your good lady will be all right,” said the landlady maternally. “It’ll be a boy, as sure as fate. I can tell by the way she was carrying.”
“Perhaps you’ll be right,” said Hornblower, and he looked at his watch again. He really must start preparations for the day.
“Now see here, please,” he said, and then he paused, as he made his mind clear itself of its preoccupation with Maria, and of its deadly fatigue. He began to list the things he needed from the bedroom upstairs, ticking them off on his fingers as he told them to the landlady. The black breeches and stockings, the epaulette and the best cocked hat, the sword and the mourning band.