He finished his second reading, folded the despatch, and then swept his gaze round the chapel. Two score Knights of the Bath stiffened with excitement and hoped to catch his eye. St. Vincent rose to his feet and clasped his crimson cloak about him; he threw a word to the waiting lieutenant, and then, seizing his plumed hat, proceeded to hobble stiffly out of the chapel. Attention immediately transferred itself to the lieutenant, who was watched by every eye as he walked across the transept, and Hornblower stirred uncomfortably, his heart beating fast, as he realised that the lieutenant was beading straight for him.
“His Lordship’s compliments, sir,” said the lieutenant, “and he would like a word with you immediately.”
Now it was Hornblower’s turn to fasten his mantle and to remember to pick up his plumed hat. He must at all costs appear nonchalant, and give to the assembled Knights no chance to smile at him for appearing flustered at this summons from the First Lord. He must look as if he was accustomed to this sort of thing every day. He stepped negligently out of his stall; his sword made its way between his legs and only by the mercy of Providence was he saved from tumbling headlong. He recovered himself with a clatter of spurs and scabbard, and set himself to stalk with slow dignity down the aisle. Every eye was on him; the Army officers present must be feeling merely a disinterested curiosity, but the Navy — Lydiard and the others — must be wondering what new fantastic turn the naval war had taken, and envying him the adventures and distinction which must await him. At the back of the chapel, in the seats reserved for the privileged public, Hornblower caught sight of Barbara making her way out of her pew to meet him. He smiled nervously at her — he could not trust himself to speak with all those eyes on him — and gave her his arm. He felt the firm touch of her hand upon it, and heard her clear, incisive voice; of course Barbara would not be awed by the fact that everyone was watching them.
“Further trouble, I suppose, dear?” said Barbara.
“I suppose so,” mumbled Hornblower.
Beyond the door St. Vincent was awaiting them, the little wind tossing the ostrich feathers of his hat and ruffling the crimson cloak of silk. His massive legs bulged the white silk trunk hose; and he was pacing up and down on huge, gouty, deformed feet that distorted the white silk shoes. But the fantastic costume in no way detracted from the grim dignity of the man. Barbara slipped her arm out of Hornblower’s and discreetly dropped back to allow the two men to converse in private.
“Sir?” said Hornblower, and then, remembering — he was not used yet to dealings with the peerage — “My lord?”
“You’re ready for active service now, Hornblower?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You’ll have to start tonight.”
“Aye aye, sir — my lord.”
“When they bring my damned coach up I’ll take you to the Admiralty and give you your orders.” St. Vincent lifted his voice in a bellow that had hailed the maintop in West Indian hurricanes. “Haven’t they got those damned horses in yet, Johnson?”
St. Vincent caught sight of Barbara over Hornblower’s shoulder,
“Your servant, ma’am” he said; he took off the plumed hat and held it across his breast as he bowed; age and gout and a lifetime at sea had not deprived him of the courtly graces, but the business of the country still had first call upon his attention, and he turned back immediately to Hornblower.
“What is the service, my lord?” asked the latter.
“Suppression of mutiny,” said St. Vincent grimly. “Damned bloody mutiny. It might be ’94 over again. Did you ever know Chadwick — Lieutenant Augustine Chadwick?”
“Midshipman with me under Pellew, my lord.”
“Well, he’s — ah, here’s my damned coach at last. What about Lady Barbara?”
“I’ll take my own carriage back to Bond Street,” said Barbara, “and I’ll send it back for Horatio at the Admiralty. Here it comes now.”
The carriage, with Brown and the coachman on the box, drew up behind St. Vincent’s coach, and Brown sprang down.