“Thank you, my lord.”

Here he was, committing himself to a difficult—maybe an impossible—enterprise without any attempt to leave himself an avenue of retreat, neglecting utterly to sow any seed of future excuses which might be reaped to advantage in case of failure. It was utterly reckless of him, but that ridiculous pride of his, he knew, was preventing him. He could not use ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ to men like St. Vincent or to any man at all, for that matter. He wondered if it was because the First Lord’s recent compliments had gone to his head, or maybe it was because of the casual remark that he could ‘request’ help of Pellew, a Commander-in-Chief, who had been his captain twenty years ago when he was a midshipman. He decided it was not either of these reasons. Just his nonsensical pride.

“Wind’s nor’westerly and steady,” said St. Vincent, glancing up at the dial which repeated the indications of the weather-vane on the Admiralty roof. “Glass is dropping, though. The sooner you’re off the better. I’ll send your orders after you to your lodgings—take this chance to say goodbye to your wife. Where’s your kit?”

“At Smallbridge, my lord. Almost on the road to Portsmouth.”

“Good. Noon now. If you leave at three; po’chaise to Portsmouth—you can’t ride post with your sea-chest. Eight hours—seven hours, the roads aren’t poached yet at this time o’ year—you can be under way at midnight. I’ll send Freeman his orders by post this minute. I wish you luck, Hornblower.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Hornblower gathered his cloak round him, hitched up his sword, and took his leave. Before he had quitted the room a clerk had entered at the summons of St. Vincent’s jangling bell to take dictation of his order. Outside the northwesterly wind of which St. Vincent had spoken blew freshly, and he felt chilled and forlorn in his gay crimson and white silk. But the carriage was there waiting for him, as Barbara had promised.