“Sir! Sir!”
The curtains at the after end of the cabin had parted; an anxious seaman’s face was peering out, from where the reserve rowers lay concealed; so anxious was the speaker that he put out his hand to twitch at Hornblower’s black breeches to call attention to himself.
“What is it?”
“Sir! We’ve sprung a leak!”
My God! The news chimed in with his thoughts with perfectly devilish accuracy of timing.
“How bad?”
“Dunno, sir. But it’s up over the floorboards. That’s ‘ow we know. Must be making pretty fast, sir.”
That must have been when Horrocks allowed the barge to crash against the pier. A plank started. Up over the floorboards already? They would never get to Whitehall Steps in time, then. God, if they were to sink here in the middle of the river! Never, never, never, would England forgive the man who allowed Nelson’s coffin to sink, unceremoniously, in Thames mud beside the Isle of Dogs. Get in to shore and effect repairs? With the whole procession behind them — God, what confusion there would be! And without any doubt at all they would miss the tide, and disappoint the waiting thousands, to say nothing of His Majesty. And tomorrow was the final ceremony, when the Body would be carried from the Admiralty to St Paul’s — dukes, peers, the royal family, thousands of troops, hundreds of thousands of people were to take part in or to watch the ceremonies. To sink would be disaster. To stop would be disaster. No; he could get into shore and effect repairs, causing today’s ceremony to be abandoned. But then they could get the Body up to the Admiralty tonight, enabling tomorrow’s funeral to be carried out. It would ruin him professionally, but it was the safest half-measure. No, no, no! To hell with half‑measures.
“Mr. Horrocks!”
“Sir!”
“I’ll take the tiller. Get down in there. Wait, you fool, and listen to me. Get those floorboards up and deal with that leak. Keep bailing — use hats or anything else. Find that leak and stop it if you can — use one of the men’s shirts. Wait. Don’t let all the world see you bailing. Pitch the water out here, past my legs. Understand?”
“Er — yes, sir.”
“Give me the tiller, then. Get below. And if you fail I’ll have the hide off you, if it’s the last thing I do on earth. Get below.”
Horrocks dived down through the curtains, while Hornblower took the tiller and shifted his position so as to see forward past the coffin. He had to let his sword drop, and of course had had to abandon his melancholy aspect, but that was no hardship. The westerly wind was blowing half a gale now, right in their teeth; against the tide it was raising a decided chop on the water — spray was flying from the bows and now and then the oar‑blades raised fountains. Perhaps it was a fitting homecoming for the dead hero whose corpse lay just before him. As they came to the bend a fresher gust set them sagging off to leeward, the wind acting powerfully on all the top hamper in the stern.
“Put your backs into it!” shouted Hornblower to the rowers, throwing much of his dignity to the wind, although he was the leading figure in the procession.
The rowers clenched their teeth, snarling with the effort as they tugged at the oars, dragging the obstinate barge by main force forward. Here the wind, acting directly against the tide, was raising some quite respectable rollers, and the barge plunged over them, bows up, bows down, stagger, and heave, like a fishing smack in a gale at sea, lurching and plunging; it was hard to stand upright in her, harder to hold her on her course. And surely — surely — Hornblower was conscious of the water on board cascading forward and back as she plunged. With the ponderous coffin stowed so high up he was nervous about the stability of the absurd craft. Inch by inch they struggled round the bend, and once round it the massed shipping on the north side gave them a lee.
“Haven’t you got those floorboards up, Mr. Horrocks?” said Hornblower, trying to hurl the words down into the cabin without stooping in the sight of the crowds.