But he could not fulfil it immediately; nor did the dead body hang there for its allotted time. The wind was backing northerly and was showing signs of moderating. A westerly gale would keep the French fleet shut up in Brest; a northerly one might well bring them out, and the Channel fleet must hurry to its post again. Signals flew from the flagships.

“Hands to the capstan!” bellowed the bosun’s mates in twentyfour ships. “Hands make sail!”

With doublereefed topsails set, the ships of the Channel fleet formed up and began their long slant downChannel. In the Renown it had been, “Mr. Hornblower, see that that is disposed of.” While the hands laboured at the capstan the corpse was lowered from the yardarm and sewn into a weighted bit of sailcloth. Clear of Berry Head it was cast overside without ceremony or prayer. McCool had died a felon’s death and must be given a felon’s burial. And, closehauled, the big ships clawed their way back to their posts amid the rocks and currents of the Brittany coast. And on board the Renown there was one unhappy lieutenant, at least, plagued by dreadful memories.

In the tiny cabin which he shared with Smith there was something that kept Hornblower continually reminded of that morning: the mahogany chest with the name ‘B. I. McCool’ in high relief on the lid. And in Hornblower’s letter case lay that last letter and the rambling, delirious poem. Hornblower could send neither on to the widow until the Renown should return again to an English harbour, and he was irked that he had not yet fulfilled his half of the bargain. The sight of the chest under his cot jarred on his nerves; its presence in their little cabin irritated Smith.