He heard a splintering crash at that moment, and Horrocks’ face emerged between the curtains.
“They were all nailed down tight here,” he said. “I had to prise ’em up. We’re down by the stern an’ we’d have to bail from here, anyways.”
What with the coffin and the auxiliary rowers they would, of course, be down by the stern.
“How much water?”
“Nigh on a foot, I should say, sir.”
“Bail like hell!”
Horrocks’ nose had hardly been withdrawn from between the curtains when a hatful of water shot out past Hornblower’s legs, and was followed by another and another and another. A good deal of it soused Hornblower’s new black breeches. He cursed but he could not complain. That was Bermondsey on the Surrey shore; Hornblower glanced at his watch dangling from the coffin. They were dropping very slightly behind time, thanks to this wind. Not dangerously, though. They were not nearly in as much danger of missing the tide as they were of sinking in mid‑river. Hornblower shifted position miserably in his soaking breeches and glanced back. The procession was keeping station well enough; he could see about half of it, for the centre of it was just now fighting round the bend he had already negotiated. Ahead lay another bend, this time to starboard. They would have a head‑wind there again.
So indeed they had. Once more they plunged and staggered over the rollers. There was one moment when the barge put her bows down and shipped a mass of water over them — as much must have come in as Horrocks had been able by now to bail out. Hornblower cursed again, forgetting all about the melancholy aspect he should maintain. He could hear and feel the water rolling about in her as she plunged. But the hatfuls of water were still flying out from between the curtains, past — and on to — Hornblower’s legs. Hornblower did not worry now about the effect on the crowd of the sight of the funeral barge bailing out; any seamen among the crowd, seeing that rough water, would appreciate the necessity for it without making allowance for a leak. They fought their way round the bend; for a few desperate moments it seemed as if they were making no progress at all, with the oar‑blades dragging through the water. But the gust was succeeded by a momentary lull and they went on again.
“Can’t you plug that leak, Mr. Horrocks?”
“‘Tain’t easy, sir,” said Horrocks, putting his nose out again. “There’s a whole plank stove in. The tree‑nails at the ends are on’y just holding, sir. If I plug too hard —”
“Oh, very well. Get on with the bailing again.”
Make for the shore? Over there, beside the Tower? That would be a convenient place. No, damn it. Never. Bail, bail, bail. Steer a course that gave them the utmost advantage from the flood and from the lee afforded by the shipping — that calculation was a tricky one, something to occupy his mind. If he could spare a moment to look round he could see the thousands of spectators massed along the shores. If he could spare a moment — God, he had forgotten all about Maria! He had left her in labour. Perhaps — most likely — the child was born by now. Perhaps — perhaps — no, that did not bear thinking about.
London Bridge, with its narrow arches and the wicked swirls and eddies beyond. He knew by the trials he had made two days ago that the oars were too wide for the arches. Careful timing was necessary; fortunately the bridge itself broke most of the force of the wind. He brought the tiller over and steadied the barge as best he could on a course direct for the arch’s centre.
“Now, pull!” he bellowed to the oarsmen; the barge swept forward, carried by the tide and the renewed efforts of the oarsmen. “In oars!”
Fortunately they did it smartly. They shot into the arch, and there the wind was waiting for them, shrieking through the gap, but their way took them forward. Hornblower measured their progress with his eye. The bows lurched and began to swing in the eddy beyond, but they were just clear enough even though he himself was still under the arch.