“Far enough,” said Hornblower; between Brentford and Deptford lay the whole extent of London and much more beside, while the river on which they were to travel wound sinuously in wide curves, backwards and forwards. And they had arrived late, and the tide would barely serve.
The wherrymen were soliciting for his custom.
“Boat, sir? Sculls, sir? Oars, sir?”
“Oars,” said Hornblower.
It cost twice as much for a wherry rowed by two oarsmen as for one rowed by a single man with sculls, but with the ebbing tide it was worth it. Hornblower helped Maria and the baby down into the sternsheets and looked on while the baggage was handed down.
“Right, Bill. Give way,” said strokeoar, and the wherry shot away from the slip out on to the grey river.
“Ooh,” said Maria, a little afraid.
The oars ground in the rowlocks, the boat danced on the choppy water.
“They say the old King’s fair mazed, sir, at Lord Nelson’s death,” said stroke, with a jerk of his hand towards Kew, across the river. “That’s where he lives, sir. In the Palace there.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower; in no mood to discuss the King or Lord Nelson or anyone else.
The wind was brisk and westerly; had it been easterly the river would have been far more choppy, and their progress would be delayed, so there was something at least to be said in favour of this grey world.
“Easy, ‘Arry,” said bow, and the wherry began to round the bend.
“Hush, baby. Don’t you like the nasty boat?” said Maria to little Horatio, who was making it plain that Maria had guessed at the truth of the matter.
“Nipper’s cold, likely,” volunteered stroke.
“I think he is,” agreed Maria.
The boatman and Maria fell into conversation, to Hornblower’s relief; he could immerse himself in his thoughts then, in his hopes and his apprehensions—the latter predominating—about his ship that awaited him down river. It would only be an hour or two before he would go on board. Ship, officers sad crew were an unknown to him.
“The Dook lives there, ma’am,” said the boatman, through little Horatio’s yells, “an’ you can see the Bishop’s Palace through the trees.”
This was Maria’s first visit to London; it was convenient that they should have a loquacious boatman.
“See the pretty houses,” said Maria, dancingthe baby in her arms. “Look at the pretty boats.”
The houses were getting thicker and thicker; they shot bridge after bridge, and the boat traffic on the river was growing dense, and suddenly Hornblower became aware they were at London’s edge.
“Westminster, ma’am,” said the boatman. “I used to ply on the ferry here until they built the bridge. A ha’penny toll took the bread out of the mouths of many an honest boatman then.”
“I should think so, indeed,” said Maria, sympathetically. By now she had forgotten the dignity of her position as a captain’s wife.
“White’all Steps, ma’am, and that ‘ere’s the Strand.”
Hornblower had taken boat to Whitehall Steps often during those bitter days of halfpay when he was soliciting employment from the Admiralty.
“St Paul’s, ma’am.”
Now they were really within the City of London. Hornblower could smell the smoke of the coal fires.
“Easy, ‘Arry,” said bow again, looking back over his shoulder. Boats, lighters, and barges covered the surface of the river, and there was London Bridge ahead of them.
“Give way, ‘ard,” said bow, and the two oarsmen pulled desperately through a gap in the traffic above the bridge. Through the narrow arches the tide ran fast; the river was piled up above the constriction of the bridge. They shot down through the narrow opening.
“Goodness!” said Maria.
And here was the greatest port in the world; ships at anchor, ships discharging cargo, with only the narrowest channel down the centre. North country collier brigs, Ramsgate trawlers, coasters, grain ships, with the grey tower looking down on them.
“The Pool’s always a rare sight, ma’am,” said stroke. “Even wi’ the war an’ all.”
All this busy shipping was the best proof that Bonaparte across the water was losing his war against England. England could never be conquered while the Navy dominated the sea, strangling the continental powers while allowing free passage to British commerce.
Below the Pool lay a ship of war, idly at anchor, topmasts sent down, hands at work on stages overside painting. At her bows was a crude figurehead of a draped female painted in red and white; in her clumsily carved hands she carried a large pair of gilded shears, and it was those which told Hornblower what the ship was, before he could count the eleven gunports aside, before they passed under her stern and he could read her name, Atropos. He choked down his excitement as he stared at her, taking note of her trim and her lines, of the petty officer of the anchor watch—of everything that in that piercing moment he could possibly observe.
“Atropos, twentytwo,” said strokeoar, noting Hornblower’s interest.
“My husband is captain of her,” said Maria proudly.
“Indeed, sir?” answered stroke, with a new respect that must have been gratifying to Maria.
Already the boat was swinging round; there was Deptford Creek and Deptford Hard.
“Easy!” said bow. “Give way again. Easy!”
The boat rasped against the shore, and the journey from Gloucester was over. No, not over, decided Hornblower preparing to disembark. There was now all the tedious business before them of getting a lodging, taking their baggage there, and settling Maria in before he could get to his ship. Life was a succession of pills that had to be swallowed. He paid the boatman under Maria’s watchful eye; fortunately a riverside lounger came to solicit custom, and produced a barrow on which he piled the luggage. Hornblower took Maria’s arm and helped her up the slippery Hard as she carried the baby.
“Glad I’ll be,” said Maria, “to take these shoes off. And the sooner little Horatio is changed the better. There, there, darling.” Only the briefest walk, luckily, took them to the “George.” A plump landlady received than, running a sympathetic eye over Maria’s condition. She took them up to a room while a maid under her vigorous urgings sped to get hot water and towels.
“There, my poppet,” said the landlandy to little Horatio.
“Ooh,” said Maria, sitting down on the bed and already beginning to take off her shoes.
Hornblower was standing by the door waiting for his sea chests to be brought up.
“When are you expecting, ma’am?” asked the landlady.
It seemed not a moment before she and Maria were discussing midwives and the rising cost of living—the latter subject introduced by Maria’s determination to chaffer over the price of the room. The potman and the riverside lounger carried the baggage up and put it down on the floor of the room, interrupting the discussion. Hornblower took out his keys and knelt eagerly at his chest.
“Horatio, dear,” said Maria, “we’re speaking to you.”
“Eh—what?” asked Hornblower absently over his shoulder.
“Something hot, sir, while breakfast is preparing?” asked the landlady. “Rum punch? A dish o’ tea?”
“Not for me, thank you,” said Hornblower.
He had his chest open by now and was unpacking it feverishly.
“Cannot that wait until we’ve had breakfast, dear?” asked Maria. “Then I could do it for you.”
“I fear not, ma’am,” said Hornblower, still on his knees.
“Your best shirts! You’re crumpling them,” protested Maria.
Hornblower was dragging out his uniform coat from beneath them. He laid the coat on the other chest and searched for his epaulette.
“You’re going to your ship!” exclaimed Maria.