“By your leave, sir,” said a seaman, hastening to the peak halliards—a little more, and he would have been elbowed out of the way.
“Good morning, sir,” said the captain of the ship, and instantly turned to shout orders to the men at the main topsail halliards; the captain of a hired transport did not want to offer any encouragement to a King’s captain to comment on the handling of the ship. King’s officers would only grudgingly admit that even admirals came between them and God.
Aquila dipped her colours to the flagship, and Ocean returned the compliment, the White Ensign slowly descending and rising again. That was the last memory Hornblower was to have of Palermo and of his voyage in the Atropos. Aquila braced round her sails and caught the first of the land breeze, heading boldly northward out to sea, and Sicily began to fade into the distance, while Hornblower tried to displace his unaccountable sadness by telling himself that he was on his way to Maria and the children. He tried to stimulate himself into excitement over the thought that a new command awaited him, and new adventures. Collingwood’s flag lieutenant had passed on to him the gossip that the Admiralty was still commissioning ships as fast as they could be made ready for sea; there was a frigate, the Lydia, making ready, which would be an appropriate commend for a captain of his seniority. But it was only slowly that he was able to overcome his sense of loss and frustration, as slowly as the captain of the Aquila made him welcome when he was taking his noon sights, as slowly as the days passed while Aquila beat her way to the Straits and out into the Atlantic.
Autumn was waiting for them beyond the straits, with the roaring westerly gales of the equinox, gale after gale, when fortunately they had made westing enough to keep them safe from the coast of Portugal while they lay hove to for long hours in the latitude of Lisbon, in the latitude of Oporto, and then in the Bay of Biscay. It was on the tail of the last of the gales that they drove wildly up the Channel, stormbattered and leaky, with pumps going and topsails treble reefed. And there was England, dimly seen, but well remembered, the vague outline to be gazed at with a catch in the breath. The Start, and at last St. Catharine’s, and the hour of uncertainty as to whether they could get into the lee of the Wight or would have to submit to being blown all the way upchannel. A fortunate slant of wind gave them their opportunity, and they attained the more sheltered waters of Spithead, with the unbelievable green of the Isle of Wight on their left hand, and so they attained to Portsmouth, to drop anchor where the quiet and calm made it seem as if all the turmoil outside had been merely imagined.
A shore boat took Hornblower to the Sally Port, and he see foot on English soil again, with a surge of genuine emotion, mounting the steps and looking round him at the familiar buildings of Portsmouth. A shore loafer—an old, bent man—hurried away on twisted legs to fetch his barrow while Hornblower looked round him; when he returned Harnblower had to help him lift his chests on to the barrow.
“Thank’ee, cap’n, thank’ee,” said the old man. He used the title automatically, without knowing Hornblower’s rank.
No one in England knew as yet—Maria did not know—that Hornblower was in England. For that matter no one in England knew as yet about the last exploit of the Atropos and the capture of Castilla. Copies of Ford’s and Hornblower’s reports to Collingwood were on board Aquila, in the sealed mailbag in the captain’s charge, to be sent on to the Secretary of the Admiralty “for the information of Their Lordships.” In a day or two they might be in the Gazette, and they might even be copied to appear in the Naval Chronicle and the daily newspapers. Most of the honour and glory, of course, would go to Ford, but a few crumbs might come Hornblower’s way; there was enough chance of that to put Hornblower in a good temper as he walked along with the wooden wheels of the barrow thumping and squeaking over the cobbles behind him.
The sadness and distress he had suffered when he parted from Atropos had largely died away by now. He was back in England, walking as fast as the old man’s legs would allow towards Maria and the children, free for the moment from all demands upon his patience or his endurance, free to be happy for a while, free to indulge in ambitious dreams of the frigate Their Lordships might give him, free to relax in Maria’s happy and indifferent chatter, with little Horatio running round the room, and with little Maria making valiant efforts to crawl at his feet. The thumping of the barrow wheels beat out a pleasant rhythm to accompany his dreams.
Here was the house and the wellremembered door. He could hear the echo within as he let the knocker fall, and he turned to help the old man lift off the chests. He put a shilling into the shaky hand and turned back quickly as he heard the door open. Maria was there with a child in her arms. She stood beside the door looking at him without recognition for a long second, and when at last she spoke it was as if she were dazed.
“Horry!” she said. “Horry!”
There was no smile on her bewildered face.
“I’ve come home, dearest,” said Hornblower.
“I—I thought you were the apothecary,” said Maria, speaking slowly, “the—the babies aren’t so well.”
She offered the child in her arms for his inspection. It must be little Maria, although he did not know the flushed, feverish face. The closed eyes opened, and then shut again with the pain of the light, and the little head turned away fretfully but wearily, and the mouth opened to emit a low cry.
“Sh—sh,” said Maria, folding the child to her breast again, bowing her head over the wailing bundle. Then she looked up at Hornblower again.
“You must come in,” she said. “The—the cold. It will strike the fever inward.”
The remembered hall; the room at the side where he had asked Maria to marry him; the staircase to the bedroom. Mrs. Mason was there, her grey hair untidy even in the curtained twilight of the room.
“The apothecary?” she asked from where she bent over the bed.
“No, mother. It’s Horry come back again.”
“Horry? Horatio!”
Mrs. Mason looked up to confirm what her daughter said, and Hornblower came towards the bedside. A tiny little figure lay there, half on its side, one hand outside the bedclothes holding Mrs. Mason’s finger.
“He’s sick,” said Mrs. Mason. “Poor little man. He’s so sick.”
Hornblower knelt beside the bed and bent over his son. He put out his hand and touched the feverish cheek. He tried to soothe his son’s forehead as the head turned on the pillow. That forehead; it felt strange; like small shot felt through velvet. And Hornblower knew what that meant. He knew it well, and he had to admit the certainty to himself before telling the women what it meant. Smallpox.
Before he rose to his feet he had reached another conclusion, too. There was still duty to be done, his duty to his King and Country and to the Service and to Maria. Maria must be comforted. He must always comfort her, as long as life lasted.