“Pull!” he yelled — under the bridge he had no fear of being seen behaving without dignity.
Out came the oars. They groaned in their rowlocks. The eddy was turning her — the oars were dragging her forward — now the rudder could bite again. Through — with the eddies left behind.
The water was still cascading out through the curtains, still soaking his dripping breeches, but despite the rate at which they were bailing he did not like the feel of the barge at all. She was sluggish, lazy. The leak must be gaining on them, and they were nearing the danger point.
“Keep pulling!” he shouted to the rowers; glancing back he saw the second barge, with the Chief Mourners, emerging from the bridge. Round the bend to sight the churches in the Strand — never did shipwrecked mariner sight a sail with more pleasure.
“Water’s nearly up to the thwarts, sir,” said Horrocks.
“Bail, damn you!”
Somerset House, and one more bend, a shallow one, to Whitehall Steps. Hornblower knew what orders he had given for the procession — orders drawn up in consultation with Mr. Pallender. Here the funeral barge was to draw towards the Surrey bank, allowing the next six barges in turn to come alongside the Steps and disembark their passengers. When the passengers had formed up in proper order, and not until then, the funeral barge was to come alongside for the coffin to be disembarked with proper ceremony. But not with water up to the thwarts — not with the barge sinking under his feet. He turned and looked back to where Smiley was standing in the stern‑sheets of the second barge. His head was bowed as the instructions stated, but fortunately the coxswain at the tiller noticed, and nudged Smiley to call his attention. Hornblower put up his hand with a gesture to stop; he accentuated the signal by gesturing as though pushing back. He had to repeat the signal before Smiley understood and nodded in reply. Hornblower ported his helm and the barge came sluggishly round, creeping across the river. Round farther; no; with that wind, and with the flood slacking off, it would be better to come alongside bows upstream. Hornblower steadied the tiller, judging his distances, and the barge crept towards the Steps.
“Easy all!”
Thank God, they were alongside. There was a Herald at Arms, tabard and all, standing there with the naval officer in command of the escort.
“Sir!” protested the Herald, as vehemently as his melancholy aspect allowed, “You’re out of your order — you —”
“Shut your mouth!” growled Hornblower, and then, to the naval officer, “Get this coffin ashore, quick!”
They got it ashore as quickly as dignity would permit; Hornblower, standing beside them, head bowed, a sword reversed again, heaved a genuine sigh of relief as he saw, from under his lowered brows, the barge rise perceptibly in the water when freed from the ponderous weight of the coffin. Still with his head bowed he snapped his orders.
“Mr. Horrocks! Take the barge over to the jetty there. Quick. Get a tarpaulin, put it overside and plug that leak. Get her bailed out. Give way, now.”
The barge drew away from the Steps; Hornblower could see that Horrocks had not exaggerated when he said the water was up to the thwarts. Smiley, intelligently, was now bringing the Mourners’ barge up to the Steps, and Hornblower, remembering to step short, moved out of the way. One by one they landed, Sir Peter Parker with Blackwood bearing his train, Cornwallis, St Vincent. St Vincent, labouring on his gouty feet, his shoulders hunched as well as his head bent, could hardly wait to growl his complaints, out of the corner of his mouth as he went up the Steps.
“What the devil, Hornblower?” he demanded. “Don’t you read your own orders?”
Hornblower took a few steps — stepping slow and short — alongside him.
“We sprung a leak, sir — I mean, my lord,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth in turn. “We were nigh on sinking. No time to spare.”
“Ha!” said St Vincent. “Oh, very well then. Make a report to that effect.”