Flying Colours

“I would suggest that you take off your hat, sir,” said Frere’s voice in his ear, “and show how much you appreciate the compliment.”

He took off his hat and sat there in the afternoon sun, awkwardly in the sternsheets of the barge. He tried to smile, but he knew his smile to be wooden—he was nearer tears than smiles. The mists were closing round him again, and the deep-chested bellowing was like the shrill piping of children in his ears.

The boat rasped against the wall. There was more cheering here, as they handed him up. People were thumping him on the shoulder, wringing his hand, while a blaspheming party of marines forced a passage for him to the post chaise with its horses restless amid the din. Then a clatter of hoofs and a grinding of wheels, and they were flying out of the yard, the postillion cracking his whip.

“A highly satisfactory demonstration of sentiment, on the part of the public and of the armed forces of the Crown,” said Frere, mopping his face.

Hornblower suddenly remembered something, which made him sit up, tense.

“Stop at the church!” he yelled to the postillion.

“Indeed, sir, and might I ask why you gave that order? I have the express commands of His Royal Highness to escort you to London without losing a moment.”

“My wife is buried there,” snapped Hornblower.

But the visit to the grave was unsatisfactory—was bound to be with Frere fidgeting and fuming at his elbow, and looking at his watch. Hornblower pulled off his hat and bowed his head by the grave with its carved headstone, but he was too much in a whirl to think clearly. He tried to murmur a prayer—Maria would have liked that, for she was always pained by his free thinking. Frere clucked with impatience.

“Come along then,” said Hornblower, turning on his heel and leading the way back to the post chaise.

The sun shone gloriously over the countryside as they left the town behind them, lighting up the lovely green of the trees and the majestic rolling Downs. Hornblower found himself swallowing hard. This was the England for which he had fought for eighteen long years, and as he breathed its air and gazed round him he felt that England was worth it.

“Damned lucky for the Ministry,” said Frere, “this escape of yours. Something like that was needed. Even though Wellington’s just captured Almeida the mob was growing restive. We had a ministry of all the talents once—now it’s a ministry of no talent. I can’t imagine why Castlereagh and Ca

Mr. Frere seemed to take much for granted—for instance, that Hornblower was wholeheartedly on the government side, and that Hornblower had fought at Rosas Bay and had escaped from France solely to maintain a dozen politicians in office. It rather damped Hornblower’s spirits. He sat silent, listening to the rattle of the wheels.

“H.R.H. is none too helpful,” said Frere. “He didn’t turn us out when he assumed the Regency, but he bears us no love—the Regency Bill didn’t please him. Remember that, when you see him to-morrow. He likes a bit of flattery, too. If you can make him believe that you owe your success to the inspiring examples both of H.R.H. and of Mr. Spencer Perceval you will be taking the right line. What’s this? Horndean?”

The postillion drew the horses to a halt outside the i

“Sixty miles from London,” commented Mr. Frere. “We’ve just time.”

The i

“Acquitted, sir?” he asked.

“Naturally, sir,” replied Frere at once. “Most honourably acquitted.”

“Hooray for Hornblower!” yelled the tinker, throwing his hat into the air. The squire waved his arms and stamped with joy, and the farm hands echoed the cheer.

“Down with Boney!” said Frere. “Drive on.”

“It is surprising how much interest has been aroused in your case,” said Frere a minute later. “Although naturally one would expect it to be greatest along the Portsmouth Road.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

“I can remember,” said Frere, “when the mob were howling for Wellington to be hanged, drawn, and quartered—that was after the news of Cintra. I thought we were gone then. It was his court of inquiry which saved us as it happened, just as yours is going to do now. Do you remember Cintra?”

“I was commanding a frigate in the Pacific at the time,” said Hornblower, curtly.

He was vaguely irritated—and he was surprised at himself at finding that he neither liked being cheered by tinkers nor flattered by politicians.

“All the same,” said Frere, “it’s just as well that Leighton was hit at Rosas. Not that I wished him harm, but it drew the teeth of that gang. It would have been them or us otherwise, I fancy. His friends counted twenty votes on a division. You know his widow, I’ve heard?”

“I have that honour.”

“A charming woman for those who are partial to that type. And most influential as a link between the Wellesley party and her late husband’s.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower.

All the pleasure was evaporating from his success. The radiant afternoon sunshine seemed to have lost its brightness.

“Petersfield is just over the hill,” said Frere. “I expect there’ll be a crowd there.”

Frere was right. There were twenty or thirty people waiting at the Red Lion, and more came hurrying up, all agog to hear the result of the court martial. There was wild cheering at the news, and Mr. Frere took the opportunity to slip in a good word for the government.

“It’s the newspapers,” grumbled Frere, as they drove on with fresh horses. “I wish we could take a lead out of Boney’s book and only allow ‘em to publish what we think they ought to know. Emancipation—Reform—naval policy—the mob wants a finger in every pie nowadays.”

Even the marvellous beauty of the Devil’s Punch Bowl was lost on Hornblower as they drove past it. All the savour was gone from life. He was wishing he was still an u

It was growing dark when they changed horses again at Esher.

“It is satisfactory to think that no footpad or highwayman will rob us,” laughed Frere. “We have only to mention the name of the hero of the hour to escape scot free.”

No footpad or highwayman interfered with them at all, as it happened. Unmolested they crossed the river at Putney and drove on past the more frequent houses and along the dark streets.

“Number Ten Downing Street, postie,” said Frere.

What Hornblower remembered most vividly of the interview that followed was Frere’s first sotto voce whisper to Perceval—“He’s safe”—which he overheard. The interview lasted no more than ten minutes, formal on the one side, reserved on the other. The Prime Minister was not in talkative mood apparently—his main wish seemed to be to inspect this man who might perhaps do him an ill turn with the Prince Regent or with the public. Hornblower formed no very favourable impression either of his ability or of his personal charm.