Read Online Hornblower 05 - Hornblower and the Atropos by C. S. Forester - Free Book Online Page B

gig's crew must have appointed one of its members to keep watch for his lantern, while the others snatched what sleep they could in the exceedingly uncomfortable spaces of the gig. But however uncomfortable they were, they were better off than he was. He felt he could sleep on the bobstay of the Atropos if only he had the chance. He got into the gig.
    “Down river,” he ordered the coxswain.
    At Greenwich Pier it was still dark, no sign as yet of the late January dawn. And the wind was blowing steadily from the west, downstream. It would probably freshen as the day went on. A loud challenge halted him as he walked down the pier.
    “Friend,” said Hornblower, opening his cloak for his lantern to show his uniform.
    “Advance and give the countersign!”
    “The Immortal Memory,” said Hornblower — he had chosen that countersign himself; one detail out of a thousand details of the day before.
    “Pass, friend. All's well,” said the sentry.
    He was a private in the Blackheath Militia; during the time the Body had been lying in state at Greenwich there had had to be guards posted at all points to prevent the public from straying into areas where they were not wanted. The Hospital was lighted up; there was already bustle and excitement there.
    “The Governor's dressing now, sir,” said a wooden-legged lieutenant. “We're expecting the quality at eight.”
    “Yes,” said Hornblower. “I know.”
    It was he who had drawn up the time table; the national, naval, and civic dignitaries were to come by road from London, to accompany the Body back by water. And here was the Body, in its coffin, the trestles on which it lay concealed by flags and trophies and heraldic insignia. And here came the Governor, limping with his rheumatism, his bald head shining in the lamplight.
    “Morning, Hornblower.”
    “Good morning, sir.”
    “Everything settled?”
    “Yes, sir. But the wind's blowing very fresh from the west. It'll hold back the flood.”
    “I feared as much.”
    “It will delay the boats, too, of course, sir.”
    “Of course.”
    “In that case, sir, I'd be obliged if you would do all you can to see that the Mourners leave on time. There'll be little to spare, sir.”
    “I'll do my best, Hornblower. But you can't hurry an Admiral of the Fleet. You can't hurry Lord St Vincent. You can't hurry a Lord Mayor—not even his representative.”
    “It will be difficult, I know, sir.”
    “I'll do my best, Hornblower. But they have to have their bite of breakfast.”
    The Governor gestured towards the next room where, under the supervision of the wooden-legged lieutenant, seamen with black scarves round their necks were laying out a meal. There were cold pies, there were hams, there were cold roasts of beef being assembled on the buffet; silver was being set out on the dazzling white cloth. At the smaller buffet a trusted petty officer was setting out decanters and bottles.
    “A bite and a glass of something?” asked the Governor.
    Hornblower looked as always at his watch.
    “Thank you, sir. I've three minutes to spare.”
    It was gratifying to have a meal when he expected to have none; it was gratifying to gulp down slices of ham which otherwise would have gone down the throat of an Admiral of the Fleet. He washed the ham down with a glass of water, to the ill-concealed amazement of the petty officer at the wine buffet.
    “Thank you, sir,” he said to the Governor. “I must take my leave now.”
    “Good-bye, Hornblower. Good luck.”
    At the pier now it was almost dawn — light enough to satisfy the Mohammedan definition of being able to distinguish a black thread from a white. And the river was alive now with boats. From upstream the wind carried down the sound of the splash of oars and sharp naval commands. Here was the Atropos' longboat, with Smiley and Horrocks in the stern; here were the boats from the guardship and the receiving ship; measured tread on the pier heralded the arrival of another contingent of