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

and silver uniforms, in evidence everywhere; many of the men were in powder. One powdered wig — the dark eyes below it were in startling contrast — detached itself and approached St Vincent. The uniform was black and silver; the polished facets of the silver-hilted sword caught and reflected the light at a myriad points.
    “Good morning, my lord.”
    “Morning, Catterick. Here's my protégé, Captain Horatio Hornblower.”
    Catterick's keen dark eyes took in every detail of Hornblower's appearance in one sweeping glance, coat, breeches, stockings, sword, but his expression did not change. One might gather he was used to the appearance of shabby naval officers at levees.
    “His Lordship is presenting you, I understand, Captain. You accompany him into the Presence Chamber.”
    Hornblower nodded; he was wondering how much was implied by that word “protégé”. His hat was in his hand, and he made haste to cram it under his arm as the others did.
    “Follow me, then,” said St Vincent.
    Up the stairs; uniformed men on guard on the landings; another black and silver uniform at the head of the stairs; a further brief exchange of sentences; powdered footmen massed about the doorway; announcements made in a superb speaking voice, restrained but penetrating.
    “Admiral the Right Honourable Earl St Vincent. Captain Horatio Hornblower. Lieutenant Anthony Bracegirdle.”
    The Presence Chamber was a mass of colour. Every possible uniform was represented there. The scarlet of the infantry; light cavalry in all the colours of the rainbow, be-frogged and be-furred, cloaks swinging, sabres trailing; heavy cavalry in jack boots up to the thigh; foreign uniforms of white and green; St Vincent carried his vast bulk through them all, like a battleship among yachts. And there was the King, seated in a throne-like chair with a lofty back; it was an odd surprise to see him, in his little tie-wig, looking so exactly like his pictures. Behind him stood a semi-circle of men wearing ribbons and stars, blue ribbons, red ribbons, green ribbons, over the left shoulder and over the right; Knights of the Garter, of the Bath, of St. Patrick, these must be, the great men of the land. St Vincent was bending himself in clumsy obeisance to the King.
    “Glad to see you, my lord, glad to see you,” said the latter. “Haven't had a moment since Monday. Glad all went well.”
    “Thank you, sir. May I present the officer responsible for the naval ceremonial?”
    “You may.”
    The King turned his eyes on Hornblower; light blue eyes, prominent,
    “Captain Horatio Hornblower,” said St Vincent, and Hornblower did his best to bow, as his French émigré dancing teacher had tried to teach him ten years before, left foot forward, hand over his heart. He did not know how far down to bend; he did not know how long to stay there when he had bent. But he came up again at last, with something of the sensation of breaking the surface of the water after a deep dive.
    “What ship, sir? What ship?” asked the King
    “Atropos, twenty-two, Your Majesty.”
    Sleepless during the previous night Hornblower had imagined that question might be put to him, and so the answer came fast enough.
    “Where is she now?”
    “Deptford, Your Majesty.”
    “But you go to sea soon?”
    “I — I —” Hornblower could not answer that question, but St Vincent spoke up for him.
    “Very shortly, sir,” he said.
    “I see,” said the King. “I see.”
    He put up his hand and stroked his forehead with a gesture of infinite weariness before recalling himself to the business in hand
    “My great-nephew,” he said, “Prince Ernst — did I speak to you about him, my lord?”
    “You did, sir,” answered St Vincent.
    “Do you think Captain Hornblower would be a suitable officer for the duty?”
    “Why yes, sir. Quite suitable.”
    “Less than three years' seniority,” mused the King, his eyes resting on Hornblower's epaulette. “But still. Harmond!”
    “Your