“I’ll get ’em, sir. You can dress in here — no one won’t disturb you, not at this time o’ night.”
She came back later with her arms full of the things Hornblower had asked for.
“A marvel that I should forget this was the day of the Funeral, sir,” she said. “No one hasn’t talked o’ nothing else along the river not for the last week. There’s your things, sir.”
She looked closely at Hornblower in the candlelight
“You’d better shave, sir,” she went on. “You can use my husband’s razor if yours is in the ship.”
One mention of maternity, it seemed, turned all women into mothers.
“Very well,” said Hornblower.
Later he was dressed and looking at his watch again.
“I must leave now,” he said. “Will you find out if I can see my wife?”
“I’ll tell you now you can’t, sir,” said the landlady. “Not if you can hear what I can hear.”
Much of what Hornblower felt must have shown in his expression, for the landlady went on —
“It’ll all be over in a bower, sir: whyn’t you wait a bit?”
“Wait?” repeated Hornblower, looking at his watch again. “No, I can’t do that. I’ll have to go.”
The landlady lighted the candle of his lantern at that on the coffee-room mantel.
“Lord a mercy,” she said. “You look just the picture. But it’s cold out.”
She fastened the button of his coat close at his neck.
“Can’t have you catching cold. There! Don’t you worry, now.”
Good advice, thought Hornblower, walking down the slope towards the river again, but as difficult to act upon as most good advice. He saw the light of the gig at the water’s edge, and a sudden movement of shadowy figures there. The gig’s crew must have appointed one of its members to keep watch for his lantern, while the others snatched what sleep they could in the exceedingly uncomfortable spaces of the gig. But however uncomfortable they were, they were better off than he was. He felt he could sleep on the bobstay of the Atropos if only he had the chance. He got into the gig.
“Down river,” he ordered the coxswain.
At Greenwich Pier it was still dark, no sign as yet of the late January dawn. And the wind was blowing steadily from the west, downstream. It would probably freshen as the day went on. A loud challenge halted him as he walked down the pier.
“Friend,” said Hornblower, opening his cloak for his lantern to show his uniform.
“Advance and give the countersign!”
“The Immortal Memory,” said Hornblower — he had chosen that countersign himself; one detail out of a thousand details of the day before.
“Pass, friend. All’s well,” said the sentry.
He was a private in the Blackheath Militia; during the time the Body had been lying in state at Greenwich there had had to be guards posted at all points to prevent the public from straying into areas where they were not wanted. The Hospital was lighted up; there was already bustle and excitement there.
“The Governor’s dressing now, sir,” said a wooden‑legged lieutenant. “We’re expecting the quality at eight.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower. “I know.”
It was he who had drawn up the time table; the national, naval, and civic dignitaries were to come by road from London, to accompany the Body back by water. And here was the Body, in its coffin, the trestles on which it lay concealed by flags and trophies and heraldic insignia. And here came the Governor, limping with his rheumatism, his bald head shining in the lamplight.
“Morning, Hornblower.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Everything settled?”
“Yes, sir. But the wind’s blowing very fresh from the west. It’ll hold back the flood.”
“I feared as much.”
“It will delay the boats, too, of course, sir.”
“Of course.”
“In that case, sir, I’d be obliged if you would do all you can to see that the Mourners leave on time. There’ll be little to spare, sir.”
“I’ll do my best, Hornblower. But you can’t hurry an Admiral of the Fleet. You can’t hurry Lord St Vincent. You can’t hurry a Lord Mayor—not even his representative.”
“It will be difficult, I know, sir.”