Cecil Forester: Flying Colours

“I have that honour.”

“A charming woman for those who are partial to that type. And most influential as a link between the Wellesley party and her late husband’s.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

All the pleasure was evaporating from his success. The radiant afternoon sunshine seemed to have lost its brightness.

“Petersfield is just over the hill,” said Frere. “I expect there’ll be a crowd there.”

Frere was right. There were twenty or thirty people waiting at the Red Lion, and more came hurrying up, all agog to hear the result of the court martial. There was wild cheering at the news, and Mr. Frere took the opportunity to slip in a good word for the government.

“It’s the newspapers,” grumbled Frere, as they drove on with fresh horses. “I wish we could take a lead out of Boney’s book and only allow ‘em to publish what we think they ought to know. Emancipation—Reform—naval policy—the mob wants a finger in every pie nowadays.”

Even the marvellous beauty of the Devil’s Punch Bowl was lost on Hornblower as they drove past it. All the savour was gone from life. He was wishing he was still an unnoticed naval captain battling with Atlantic storms. Every stride the horses were taking was carrying him nearer to Barbara, and yet he was conscious of a sick, vague desire that he was returning to Maria, dull and uninteresting and undisturbing. The crowd that cheered him at Guildford—market day was just over—stank of sweat and beer. He was glad that with the approach of evening Frere ceased talking and left him to his thoughts, depressing though they were.

It was growing dark when they changed horses again at Esher.

“It is satisfactory to think that no footpad or highwayman will rob us,” laughed Frere. “We have only to mention the name of the hero of the hour to escape scot free.”

No footpad or highwayman interfered with them at all, as it happened. Unmolested they crossed the river at Putney and drove on past the more frequent houses and along the dark streets.

“Number Ten Downing Street, postie,” said Frere.

What Hornblower remembered most vividly of the interview that followed was Frere’s first sotto voce whisper to Perceval—“He’s safe”—which he overheard. The interview lasted no more than ten minutes, formal on the one side, reserved on the other. The Prime Minister was not in talkative mood apparently—his main wish seemed to be to inspect this man who might perhaps do him an ill turn with the Prince Regent or with the public. Hornblower formed no very favourable impression either of his ability or of his personal charm.

“Pall Mall and the War Office next,” said Frere. “God, how we have to work!”

London smelt of horses—it always did, Hornblower remembered, to men fresh from the sea. The lights of Whitehall seemed astonishingly bright. At the War Office there was a young Lord to see him, someone whom Hornblower liked at first sight. Palmerston was his name, the Under Secretary of State. He asked a great many intelligent questions regarding the state of opinion in France, the success of the last harvest, the manner of Hornblower’s escape. He nodded approvingly when Hornblower hesitated to answer when asked the name of the man who had given him shelter.

“Quite right,” he said. “You’re afraid some damned fool’ll blab it out and get him shot. Some damned fool probably would. I’ll ask you for it if ever we need it badly, and you will be able to rely on us then. And what happened to these galley slaves?”

“The first lieutenant in the Triumph pressed them for the service, my lord.”

“So they’ve been hands in a King’s ship for the last three weeks? I’d rather be a galley slave myself.”

Hornblower was of the same opinion. He was glad to find someone in high position with no illusions regarding the hardships of the service.

“I’ll have them traced and brought home if I can persuade your superiors at the Admiralty to give ‘em up. I can find a better use for ‘em.”

A footman brought in a note which Palmerston opened.

“His Royal Highness commands your presence,” he announced. “Thank you, Captain. I hope I shall again have the pleasure of meeting you shortly. This discussion of ours has been most profitable. And the Luddites have been smashing machinery in the north, and Sam Whitbread has been raising Cain in the House, so that your arrival is most opportune. Good evening, Captain.”

It was those last words which spoilt the whole effect. Lord Palmerston planning a new campaign against Bonaparte won Hornblower’s respect, but Lord Palmerston echoing Frere’s estimate of the political results of Hornblower’s return lost it again.

“What does His Royal Highness want of me?” he asked of Frere, as they went down the stairs together.

“That’s to be a surprise for you,” replied Frere archly.

“You may even have to wait until to-morrow’s levee to find out. It isn’t often Prinny’s sober enough for business at this time in the evening. Probably he’s not. You may find tact necessary in your interview with him.”

It was only this morning, thought Hornblower, his head whirling, that he had been sitting listening to the evidence at his court martial. So much had already happened to-day. He was surfeited with new experiences. He was sick and depressed. And Lady Barbara and his little son were in Bond Street, not a quarter of a mile away.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Ten o’clock. Young Pam keeps late hours at the War Office. He’s a glutton for work.”

“Oh,” said Hornblower.

God only knew at what hour he would escape from the palace. He would certainly have to wait until to-morrow before he called at Bond Street. At the door a coach was waiting, coachmen and footmen in the royal red liveries.

“Sent by the Lord Chamberlain,” explained Frere. “Kind of him.”

He handed Hornblower in through the door and climbed after him.

“Ever met His Royal Highness?” he went on.

“No.”

“But you’ve been to Court?”

“I have attended two levees. I was presented to King George in 98.”

“Ah! Prinny’s not like his father. And you know Clarence, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

The carriage had stopped at a doorway brightly lit with lanterns; the door was opened, and a little group of footmen were awaiting to hand them out. There was a glittering entrance hall, where somebody in uniform and powder and with a white staff ran his eyes keenly over Hornblower.

“Hat under your arm,” he whispered. “This way, please.”

“Captain Hornblower. Mr. Hookham Frere,” somebody announced.

It was an immense room, dazzling with the light of its candles; a wide expanse of polished floor, and at the far end a group of people bright with gold lace and jewels. Somebody came over to them, dressed in naval uniform—it was the Duke of Clarence, pop-eyed and pineapple-headed.

“Ah, Hornblower,” he said, hand held out, “welcome home.”

Hornblower bowed over the hand.

“Come and be presented. This is Captain Hornblower, sir.”

“Evenin’, Captain.”

Corpulent, handsome, and dissipated, weak and sly, was the sequence of impressions Hornblower received as he made his bow. The thinning curls were obviously dyed; the moist eyes and the ruddy pendulous cheeks seemed to hint that His Royal Highness had dined well, which was more than Hornblower had.

“Everyone’s been talkin’ about you, Captain, ever since your cutter—what’s its name, now?—came in to Portsmouth.”

“Indeed, sir?” Hornblower was standing stiffly at attention.

“Yes. And, damme, so they ought to. So they ought to, damme, Captain. Best piece of work I ever heard of—good as I could have done myself. Here, Conyngham, make the presentations.”