“Yes, sir. ‘Bout that much. But it isn’t a real fall, if you know what I mean, sir. Steep, but no more.”
“And we have to run down it?”
“Yes, sir. It’s easy enough sir — at the top, leastways.”
“And at the bottom?”
“There’s an eddy there, sir, like as you’d expect. But if you hold her straight, sir, the nags’ll take you through.”
“I’ll hold her straight,” said Hornblower.
“O’ course you will, sir.”
“But what the devil do they have these staunches on the river for?”
“They keeps back the water for the mills — an’ the navigation, sir.”
“But why don’t they have locks?”
Jenkins spread his hand and his hock in a gesture of ignorance.
“Dunno, sir. There’s locks from Oxford down. These ‘ere staunches are a plague. Takes six horses to get the old Queen Charlotte up ’em, sometimes.”
Hornblower’s thinking about the subject had not get progressed as far as thinking about how the staunches were passed up‑river; and he was a little annoyed with himself at not having raised the point. But he managed to nod sagely at the information.
“I daresay,” he said. “Well, it doesn’t concern us this voyage.”
“No, sir,” said Jenkins. He pointed down the canal. “The first ‘un is half a mile below Lechlade Bridge, there. It’s well over on the port side. You can’t miss it, sir.”
Hornblower hoped he was right about that. He took his place in the stern and seized the tiller with a bold attempt to conceal his misgivings, and he waved to the lock‑keeper as the boat moved rapidly out of the lock — he was adept enough by now to be able to spare attention for that even with a gate to negotiate. They shot out on to the surface of the young river; there was plenty of current running in their direction — Hornblower noted the eddy at the point — but the speed of the horses gave them plenty of steerage‑way.
Lechlade Bridge just ahead of them — the staunch was half a mile beyond, Jenkins said. Although the air was distinctly cold now Hornblower was conscious that his palms, as they rested on the tiller, were distinctly damp. To him now it appeared a wildly reckless thing to do, to attempt to shoot the staunch inexperienced as he was. He would prefer — infinitely prefer — not to try. But he had to steer through the arch of the bridge — the horses splashed fetlock deep there — and then it was too late to do anything about his change of mind. There was the line of the staunch across the stream, the gap in it plainly visible on the port side. Beyond the staunch the surface of the river was not visible because of the drop, but above the gap the water headed down in a steep, sleek slope, higher at the sides than in the middle; the fragments which floated on the surface were all hurrying towards it, like people in a public hall all pressing towards a single exit. Hornblower steered for the centre of the gap, choking a little with excitement; he could feel the altered trim of the boat as her bows sank and her stern rose on the slope. Now they were flying down, down. Below, the smooth slope narrowed down to a point, beyond which and on each side was the turbulent water of the eddy. He still had steerage way enough to steer down the point; as he felt the boat answer the helm he was momentarily tempted to follow up the mathematical line of thought presented by that situation, but he had neither time nor really the inclination. The bows hit the turbulent water with a jar and a splash; the boat lurched in the eddy, but next moment the towlines plucked them forward again. Two seconds’ careful steering and they were through the eddy and they were gliding over a smooth surface once more, foam‑streaked but smooth, and Hornblower was laughing out loud. It had been simple, but so exhilarating that it did not occur to him to condemn himself for his earlier misgivings. Jenkins looked back, turning in his saddle, and waved his whip, and Hornblower waved back.