“You are positively eloquent, Captain,” said Marsden, still without any inflexion in his voice.

“I had no intention of being eloquent, sir,” said Hornblower, and was a little taken aback at realizing how much truth there was in such a simple statement.

He was suddenly annoyed both with himself and with the others. He had allowed himself to be drawn into indiscretions, to appear as one of the featherbrained crackpots for whom Marsden must have so much contempt. He rose in irritation from his chair, and then restrained himself on the verge of being still more indiscreet by displaying irritation. A stiffly formal attitude would be better; something that would prove that his recent speeches had been mere polite and meaningless conversation. Moreover he must forestall the imminent and inevitable dismissal if he were going to preserve any of his selfrespect.

“I have consumed a great deal of your very valuable time, gentlemen,” he said.

There was a sudden sharp pleasure, despite his weariness, in thus being the first to make a move, to volunteer to quit the company of the Secretary to the Board, and of the Second Secretary, while dozens of junior officers were prepared to wait hours and days for an interview. But Marsden was addressing Barrow.

“What’s the name of that South American fellow who’s haunting every anteroom at present, Mr. Barrow? You meet him everywhere — he was even dining at White’s last week with Camberwell.”

“The fellow who wants to start a revolution, sir? I’ve met him a couple of times myself. It’s — it’s Miranda, or Mirandola, something like that, sir.”

“Miranda! That’s the name. I suppose we can lay hands on him if we want him.”

“Easily enough, sir.”

“Yes. Now there’s Claudius in Newgate Gaol. I understand he was a friend of yours, Mr. Barrow.”

“Claudius, sir? I met him, as everyone else did.”

“He’ll be coming up for trial within the week, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. He’ll swing next Monday. But why are you asking about him, Mr. Marsden?”

There was some faint pleasure in seeing one of those two, even though it was only the Second Secretary, so bewildered, and at the moment he was given no satisfaction.

“So there is no time to waste.” Marsden turned to Hornblower, who was standing uncomfortably aware that most of the drama of his exit had fallen a little flat with this delay. “The doorkeeper has your address, Captain?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall send for you very shortly.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower had shut the door before he experienced any qualm regarding using this purely naval expression towards a civilian, nor did it linger, with so much else for his weary brain to think about. He wanted food; he was desperately in need of sleep. He hardly cared about the unknown Miranda, this mysterious Claudius in Newgate Gaol. What he must do was to eat himself into a torpor, and then sleep, and sleep, and sleep. But also he must write to Maria.

Hornblower awoke in an overheated condition. The sunshine was blazing through the window, and his little attic was like an oven. Sleep had overcome him in the end while he lay under a blanket, and he was sweating profusely. Throwing off the blanket brought some relief, and he cautiously began to straighten himself out; apparently he had slept without a change of position, literally like a log. There was still an ache or two to be felt, which served to recall to mind where he was and how he came to be there. His formula for inducing sleep had worked after a long delay. But it must be well after sunrise; he must have slept for ten or perhaps twelve hours.

What day of the week was it? To answer that question called for a plunge into the past. It had been a Sunday that he had spent in the postchaise — he could remember the church bells sounding across the countryside and the churchgoers gathering round the postchaise in Salisbury. So that he had arrived in London on Monday morning — yesterday, hard to believe though that was — and today was Tuesday. He had left Plymouth — he had last seen Maria — on Saturday afternoon. Hornblower felt his pleasant relaxation replaced by tension; he actually felt his muscles tightening ready for action as he went back from there — it was during the small hours of Friday morning that the Princess had headed away from the disabled Guèpe. It was on Thursday evening that he had climbed on to the deck of the Guèpe to conquer or die, with death more probable than conquest. Last Thursday evening, and this was only Tuesday morning.

He tried to put the uncomfortable thoughts away from him; there was a momentary return of tension as an odd thought occurred to him. He had left behind in the Admiralty — he had completely forgotten until now — the French captain’s blanket in which he had bundled the ship’s papers. Presumably some indigent clerk in the Admiralty had gladly taken it home last night, and there was nothing to be tense about — nothing, provided he did not allow himself to think about the French captain’s head shattered like a cracked walnut.

He made himself listen to the street cries outside, and to the rumbling of cart wheels; the diversion allowed him to sink back again into quiescence, into semiconsciousness. It was not until some time later that he drowsily noted the sound of a horse’s hoofs outside in the street, a trotting horse, with no accompanying sound of wheels. He raised himself when the clatter stopped under his window. He could guess what it was. But he had progressed no further than to be standing in his shirt when steps on the stairs and a thumping on his door checked him.

“Who is it?”

“Admiralty messenger.”

Hornblower slid the bolt back in the door. The messenger was there, in blue coat and leather breeches and high boots, under his arm a billycock hat with a black cockade. From behind peered the stupid face of the idiot son.

“Captain Hornblower?”

“Yes.”

The captain of a ship of war was accustomed to receiving messages in his shirt. Hornblower signed the receipt with the proffered pencil and opened the note.

The Secretary to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would be greatly obliged if Captain Horatio Hornblower would attend at the Admiralty at eleven o’clock AM today, Tuesday.

“What’s the time now?” asked Hornblower.

“Not long past eight, sir.”

“Very well.” Hornblower could not resist continuing with a question. “Does the Admiralty send all its messages out on horseback?”

“Only those over a mile, sir.” The messenger allowed himself the faintest hint of what he thought of naval officers who lodged on the wrong side of the river.

“Thank you. That will be all.”

There was no need for a reply. An affirmative could be taken quite for granted when the Secretary expressed himself as likely to be greatly obliged. Hornblower proceeded to shave and dress.

He took the boat across the river, despite the additional three ha’pence that it cost, first telling himself that he had to go to the post office to hand in his letter to Maria, and then amusedly admitting that it was a temptation to find himself afloat again after three days on land.

“That Calder has let the Frenchies give him the slip, Captain,” said the wherryman between leisurely pulls at his sculls.

“We’ll know more about it in a day or two,” replied Hornblower mildly.

“He caught ‘em and let ‘em go. Nelson wouldn’t ‘a done that.”

“There’s no knowing what Lord Nelson would have done.”

“Boney on our doorstep, an’ Villainnoove at sea. That Calder! ‘E ought to be ashamed. I’ve ‘eard about Admiral Byng an’ ‘ow they shot ‘im. That’s what they ought to do with Calder.”

That was the first sign Hornblower observed of the storm of indignation roused by the news of the battle off Cape Finisterre. The landlord of the Saracen’s Head when Hornblower went in to breakfast was eager with questions, and the two maids stood anxiously listening to the discussion until their mistress sent them about their business.