He felt rain on his face and soon it was falling in torrents, roaring on the deck, soaking his best uniform. His cocked hat weighed on his head like lead with the accumulation of water in the brim. He was about to take shelter below when his mind began to follow an old train of thought, and he stayed. Gerard loomed up in the darkness with his sou’wester and oilskins, but he paid no attention to him. Was it possible that all this was a false alarm? That Cambronne had nothing else in mind than to take back the Guard to France? No, of course not. He would not have taken six hundred muskets on board in that case, nor bales of uniforms, and there would have been no need for a hurried and clandestine departure.
“If you please, My Lord,” said Gerard, standing insistently by with his oilskins.
Hornblower remembered how, before he left England, Barbara had taken Gerard to one side and had talked to him long and earnestly. No doubt she had been telling him of the need to see he did not get wet and that he had his meals regularly.
“Too late now, Mr Gerard,” he said, with a grin. “I’m soaked through.”
“Then please, My Lord, go below and shift your clothes.”
There was genuine anxiety in Gerard’s voice, a real concern. The rain was roaring on Gerard’s oilskins in the darkness like the nitre-crusher of a powder-mill.
“Oh, very well,” said Hornblower.
He made his way down the little companion, Gerard following him.
“Giles!” called Gerard sharply; Hornblower’s servant appeared at once. “Put out dry clothes for His Lordship.”
Giles began to bustle round the little cabin, kneeling on the deck to fish a fresh shirt out of the chest. Half a gallon of water cascaded down beside him as Hornblower took off his hat.
“See that His Lordship’s things are properly dried,” ordered Gerard.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Giles, with sufficient restrained patience in his tone to make Gerard aware that it was an unnecessary order. Hornblower knew that these men were both fond of him. So far their affection had survived his failure – for how long?
“Very well,” he said in momentary irritation. “I can look after myself now.”
He stood alone in the cabin, stooping under the deck beams. Unbuttoning his soaking uniform coat he realised he was still wearing his ribbon and star; the ribbon, as he passed it over his head, was soaking wet too. Ribbon and star mocked at his failure, just at the very moment when he was sneering at himself for hoping again that Daring might have gone aground somewhere during her passage down the river.
A tap at the door brought Gerard back into the cabin.
“I said I could look after myself,” snapped Hornblower.
“Message from Mr Harcourt, My Lord,” said Gerard, unabashed. “The tug will be casting off soon. The wind is fair, a strong breeze, east by north.”
“Very well.”
A strong breeze, a fair wind, would be all in Daring’s favour. Crab might have stood a chance of overhauling her in fluky, contrary airs. Fate had done everything possible to load the dice against him.
Giles had taken the opportunity to slip back into the cabin. He took the wet coat from Hornblower’s hand.
“Didn’t I tell you to get out?” blared Hornblower, cruelly.
“Aye aye, My Lord,” replied Giles imperturbably. “What about this – this cap, My Lord?”
He had picked up the bearskin cap of the Imperial Guard which was still lying in the locker.
“Oh, take it away!” roared Hornblower.
He had kicked off his shoes and was beginning to peel off his stockings when the thought struck him; he remained stooping to consider it.
A bearskin cap – bales and bales of bearskin caps. Why? Muskets and bayonets he could understand. Uniforms, too, perhaps. But who in their sane senses would outfit a regiment for service in tropical America with bearskin caps? He straightened up slowly, and stood still again, thinking deeply. Even uniform coats with buttons and embroidery would be out of place among the ragged ranks of Bolivar’s hordes; bearskin caps would be quite absurd.