Smiley did not look nearly as pleased at that.

“Mr. Jones, have the longboat with the hands at Greenwich Pier at six o’clock, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And call away the gig for me now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’ll be at the “George” until five. Send any messages there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He still had a personal life; Maria was very near her time now.

On the deck there was a brisk westerly wind harping in the rigging, gusty, Hornblower noted. The barges would call for careful handling unless it dropped considerably. He stepped down into the gig.

“Make for Deptford Hard,” he ordered the coxswain, and clasped his coat close tightly round him, for the cabin of the Atropos had been hot with lamps and candles and many people. He walked up the Hard and knocked at the door of the “George;” from the window at the side there was a faint light showing and the window of their room above was illuminated. The door opened to reveal the landlady.”

“Oh, it’s you, sir. I thought it was the midwife. I’ve just sent Davie for her. Your good lady—”

“Let me by,” said Hornblower.

Maria was walking about the bedroom in her dressinggown; two candles illuminated the room, and the shadows of the bedtester and the other furniture moved in sinister fashion as Hornblower opened the door.

“Darling!” said Maria.

Hornblower came towards her, his hands held out.

“I hope all is well with you, dear,” he said.

“I think so. I—I hope so. It has only just begun,” said Maria.

They kissed.

“Darling,” said Maria. “How good of you to come here. I—I was hoping I should see you again before—before—my time came.”

“Not good of me,” said Hornblower. “I came because I wanted to come. I wanted to see you.”

“But you are so busy. Today is the day of the procession, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“And our child will be born today. A little girl, dear? Or another little boy?”

“We’ll know soon,” said Hornblower. He knew which Maria wanted. “Whichever it is we’ll love her—or him.”

“That we shall,” said Maria.

The last syllable was jerked out of her more forcibly than necessary, and Maria’s face took on an expression of preoccupation.

“How is it, dearest?” asked Hornblower, concerned.

“Only a pain,” said Maria, smiling—forcing a smile, as Hornblower well knew. “They are not coming close together yet.”

“I wish I could help,” said Hornblower, in the manner of uncounted millions of fathers.

“You have helped by coming to me, my darling,” said Maria.

A bustle outside the door and a knock heralded the entrance of the midwife and the landlady.

“Well, well,” said the midwife. “So it has began, has it?”

Hornblower looked her over carefully. She was not neat—no one could be expected to be in those conditions—but she were at least sober, and her gaptoothed smile was kindly.

“I’ll have a look at you, ma’am,” said the midwife and then, with a sidelong glance, “Gentlemen will retire.”

Maria looked at him. She was trying so hard to appear unconcerned.

“I’ll see you again, dear,” said Hornblower, trying equally hard.

Outside the bedroom the landlady was cordial in her offers of hospitality.

“How about a go of brandy, sir? Or a glass o’ rum, hot?”

“No, thank you,” said Hornblower.

“The young gennelman’s sleeping in with one o’ the maids now,” explained the landlady. “He didn’t cry, no, not a sound, when we carried him in. A fine little fellow he is, sir.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower. He could smile at the thought of his little son.

“You’d better come into the coffeeroom, sir,” said the landlady. “There’s still what’s left of the fire there.”

“Thank you,” said Hornblower, with a glance at his watch. God, how time was passing!

“Your good lady will be all right,” said the landlady maternally. “It’ll be a boy, as sure as fate. I can tell by the way she was carrying.”

“Perhaps you’ll be right,” said Hornblower, and he looked at his watch again. He really must start preparations for the day.

“Now see here, please,” he said, and then he paused, as he made his mind clear itself of its preoccupation with Maria, and of its deadly fatigue. He began to list the things he needed from the bedroom upstairs, ticking them off on his fingers as he told them to the landlady. The black breeches and stockings, the epaulette and the best cocked hat, the sword and the mourning band.

“I’ll get ‘em, sir. You can dress in here—no one won’t disturb you, not at this time o’ night.”

She came back later with her arms full of the things Hornblower had asked for.

“A marvel that I should forget this was the day of the Funeral, sir,” she said. “No one hasn’t talked o’ nothing else along the river not for the last week. There’s your things, sir.”

She looked closely at Hornblower in the candlelight.

“You’d better shave, sir,” she went on. “You can use my husband’s razor if yours is in the ship.”

One mention of maternity, it seemed, turned all women into mothers.

“Very well,” said Hornblower.

Later he was dressed and looking at his watch again.

“I must leave now,” he said. “Will you find out if I can see my wife?”

“I’ll tell you now you can’t, sir,” said the landlady. “Not if you can hear what I can hear.”

Much of what Hornblower felt must have shown in his expression, for the landlady went on—

“It’ll all be over in a bower, sir: whyn’t you wait a bit?”

“Wait?” repeated Hornblower, looking at his watch again. “No, I can’t do that. I’ll have to go.”

The landlady lighted the candle of his lantern at that on the coffee-room mantel.

“Lord a mercy,” she said. “You look just the picture. But it’s cold out.”

She fastened the button of his coat close at his neck.

“Can’t have you catching cold. There! Don’t you worry, now.”

Good advice, thought Hornblower, walking down the slope towards the river again, but as difficult to act upon as most good advice. He saw the light of the gig at the water’s edge, and a sudden movement of shadowy figures there. The 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 woodenlegged 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.