Hornblower 05 - Hornblower and the Atropos by C. S. Forester

course it was raining. The westerly wind still blew and bore with it today flurries of heavy rain, which hissed down on the surface of the river, roared on the tarpaulins of the wretched boat's crew, and rattled loudly on the sou'wester which Hornblower wore on his head while he sheltered his cocked hat under his boat cloak. He sniffed lamentably. He had the worst cold he had ever experienced, and he needed to use his handkerchief. But that meant bringing a hand out from under his cloak, and he would not do that — with the boat cloak spread round him like a tent as he sat in the stern-sheets, and with the sou'wester on top, he could hope to keep himself reasonably dry as far as Whitehall if he did not disturb the arrangement. He preferred to sniff.
    Up the river, through the rain; under London Bridge, round the bends he had come to know so well during the last few days. He cowered in misery under his boat cloak, shuddering. He was sure he had never felt so ill in his life before. He ought to be in bed, with hot bricks at his feet and hot rum-and-water at his side, but on the day when the First Lord was going to take him to the Court of St. James's he could not possibly plead illness, not even though the shivers ran up and down his spine and his legs felt too weak to carry him.
    The Steps were slippery where the tide had receded from them; in his weak state he could hardly keep his footing as he climbed them. At the top, with the rain still beating down, he put his appearance to rights as well as he could. He rolled up the sou'wester and put it in the pocket of his cloak, put on his cocked hat, and hurried, bending forward into the driving rain, the hundred and fifty yards to the Admiralty. Even in the short time that took him his stockings were splashed and wet, and the brim of his cocked hat was filled with water. He was glad to stand before the fire in the Captain's Room while he waited until Bracegirdle came in with the announcement that His Lordship was ready for him.
    “Morning, Hornblower,” said St Vincent, standing under the portico.
    “Good morning, my lord.”
    “No use waiting for a smooth,” growled St Vincent, looking up at the rain and eyeing the distance between him and his coach. “Come on.”
    He hobbled manfully forward. Hornblower and Bracegirdle advanced with him. They had no cloaks on — Hornblower had left his at the Admiralty — and had to wait in the rain while St Vincent walked to the coach and with infinite slowness hauled himself into it. Hornblower followed him and Bracegirdle squeezed in after him, perching on the turndown seat in front. The coach rumbled forward over the cobbles, with a vibration from the iron-rimmed wheels that found an echo in the shudders that were still playing up and down Hornblower's spine.
    “All nonsense, of course, having to use a coach to St. James's from the Admiralty,” growled St Vincent. “I used to walk a full three miles on my quarterdeck in the old Orion.”
    Hornblower sniffed again, miserably. He could not even congratulate himself on the fact that as he felt so ill he knew almost no qualms about his new experience which was awaiting him, because, stupefied by his cold, he was unable even to indulge in his habitual self-analysis.
    “I read your report last night, Hornblower,” went on St Vincent. “Satisfactory.”
    “Thank you, my lord.” He braced himself into appearing intelligent. “And did the funeral at St. Paul's go off well yesterday?”
    “Well enough.”
    The coach rumbled down the Mall.
    “Here we are,” said St Vincent. “You'll come back with me, I suppose, Hornblower? I don't intend to stay long. Nine in the morning and I haven't done a third of my day's work yet.”
    “Thank you, my lord. I'll take station on you, then.”
    The coach door opened, and Bracegirdle nimbly stepped out to help his chief down the steps. Hornblower followed; now his heart was beating faster. There were red uniforms, blue and gold uniforms, blue