“Well—” said Hornblower.

“You can read the letter,” added McCool. “You saw that other gentleman search my chest. Even though you send these things to Dublin, you can be sure that they contain nothing of what you would call treason.”

“I’ll read the letter before I agree,” said Hornblower.

It seemed a way out of a horrible situation. There would be small trouble about finding a coaster destined for Dublin; for a few shillings he could send letter and chest there.

“I’ll send you in pen and ink and paper,” said Hornblower.

It was time to make the other hideous preparations. To have a whip rove at the portside fore yardarm, and to see that the line ran easily through the block. To weight the line and mark a ring with chalk on the gangway where the end rested. To see that the noose ran smooth. To arrange with Buckland for ten men to be detailed to pull when the time came. Hornblower went through it all like a man in a nightmare.

Back in the condemned cell, McCool was pale and wakeful, but he could still force a smile.

“You can see that I had trouble wooing the muse,” he said.

At his feet lay a couple of sheets of paper, and Hornblower, glancing at them, could see that they were covered with what looked like attempts at writing poetry. The erasures and alterations were numerous.

“But here is my fair copy,” said McCool, handing over another sheet.

’My darling wife,’ the letter began. ‘It is hard to find words to say farewell to my very dearest—’

It was not easy for Hornblower to force himself to read that letter. It was as if he had to peer through a mist to make out the words. But they were only the words of a man writing to his beloved, whom he would never see again. That at least was plain. He compelled himself to read through the affectionate sentences. At the end it said: ‘I append a poor poem by which in the years to come you may remember me, my dearest love. And now goodbye, until we shall be together in heaven. Your husband, faithful unto death, Barry Ignatius McCool.’