The Steps were slippery where the tide had receded from them; in his weak state he could hardly keep his footing as he climbed them. At the top, with the rain still beating down, he put his appearance to rights as well as he could. He rolled up the sou’wester and put it in the pocket of his cloak, put on his cocked hat, and hurried, bending forward into the driving rain, the hundred and fifty yards to the Admiralty. Even in the short time that took him his stockings were splashed and wet, and the brim of his cocked hat was filled with water. He was glad to stand before the fire in the Captain’s Room while he waited until Bracegirdle came in with the announcement that His Lordship was ready for him.
“Morning, Hornblower,” said St Vincent, standing under the portico.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“No use waiting for a smooth,” growled St Vincent, looking up at the rain and eyeing the distance between him and his coach. “Come on.”
He hobbled manfully forward. Hornblower and Bracegirdle advanced with him. They had no cloaks on — Hornblower had left his at the Admiralty — and had to wait in the rain while St Vincent walked to the coach and with infinite slowness hauled himself into it. Hornblower followed him and Bracegirdle squeezed in after him, perching on the turndown seat in front. The coach rumbled forward over the cobbles, with a vibration from the iron‑rimmed wheels that found an echo in the shudders that were still playing up and down Hornblower’s spine.
“All nonsense, of course, having to use a coach to St. James’s from the Admiralty,” growled St Vincent. “I used to walk a full three miles on my quarterdeck in the old Orion.”
Hornblower sniffed again, miserably. He could not even congratulate himself on the fact that as he felt so ill he knew almost no qualms about his new experience which was awaiting him, because, stupefied by his cold, he was unable even to indulge in his habitual self‑analysis.
“I read your report last night, Hornblower,” went on St Vincent. “Satisfactory.”
“Thank you, my lord.” He braced himself into appearing intelligent. “And did the funeral at St. Paul’s go off well yesterday?”
“Well enough.”
The coach rumbled down the Mall.
“Here we are,” said St Vincent. “You’ll come back with me, I suppose, Hornblower? I don’t intend to stay long. Nine in the morning and I haven’t done a third of my day’s work yet.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’ll take station on you, then.”
The coach door opened, and Bracegirdle nimbly stepped out to help his chief down the steps. Hornblower followed; now his heart was beating faster. There were red uniforms, blue and gold uniforms, blue and silver uniforms, in evidence everywhere; many of the men were in powder. One powdered wig — the dark eyes below it were in startling contrast — detached itself and approached St Vincent. The uniform was black and silver; the polished facets of the silver‑hilted sword caught and reflected the light at a myriad points.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Morning, Catterick. Here’s my protégé, Captain Horatio Hornblower.”
Catterick’s keen dark eyes took in every detail of Hornblower’s appearance in one sweeping glance, coat, breeches, stockings, sword, but his expression did not change. One might gather he was used to the appearance of shabby naval officers at levees.
“His Lordship is presenting you, I understand, Captain. You accompany him into the Presence Chamber.”
Hornblower nodded; he was wondering how much was implied by that word “protégé”. His hat was in his hand, and he made haste to cram it under his arm as the others did.
“Follow me, then,” said St Vincent.
Up the stairs; uniformed men on guard on the landings; another black and silver uniform at the head of the stairs; a further brief exchange of sentences; powdered footmen massed about the doorway; announcements made in a superb speaking voice, restrained but penetrating.
“Admiral the Right Honourable Earl St Vincent. Captain Horatio Hornblower. Lieutenant Anthony Bracegirdle.”
The Presence Chamber was a mass of colour. Every possible uniform was represented there. The scarlet of the infantry; light cavalry in all the colours of the rainbow, be‑frogged and be‑furred, cloaks swinging, sabres trailing; heavy cavalry in jack boots up to the thigh; foreign uniforms of white and green; St Vincent carried his vast bulk through them all, like a battleship among yachts. And there was the King, seated in a throne‑like chair with a lofty back; it was an odd surprise to see him, in his little tie‑wig, looking so exactly like his pictures. Behind him stood a semi‑circle of men wearing ribbons and stars, blue ribbons, red ribbons, green ribbons, over the left shoulder and over the right; Knights of the Garter, of the Bath, of St. Patrick, these must be, the great men of the land. St Vincent was bending himself in clumsy obeisance to the King.