FullReads

On the first-floor landing they were met by a truly ridiculous spectacle. There emerged from a doorway on the left of the wide corridor an old gentleman clad in night-cap, night-shirt and bedroom slippers, buttoning his breeches and cursing vigorously; while close upon him followed a valet with dressing-gown on one arm, waistcoat and wig on the other, vainly striving to keep pace with his master’s impatience.

“The braces, my lord–your Lordship has them forepart behind, if I may suggest–“

“Damn the braces!” swore the old gentleman. “Where is he? Hi, Tylney!” as he caught sight of the Secretary. “Where are we to go? My room, I suppose?”

“The fire is out there, my lord. . . . ‘Tis past three in the morning. But after sending word to awake you, I hunted round and by good luck found a plenty of promising embers in the Board Room grate. On top of these I’ve piled what remained of my own fire, and Dobson has set a lamp there–“

“You’ve been devilish quick, Tylney. Dressed like a buck you are, too!”

“Your Lordship’s wig,” suggested the valet.

“Damn the wig!” Lord Barham snatched it and attempted to stick it on top of his night-cap, damned the night-cap, and, plucking it off, flung it to the man.

“I happened to be sitting up late, my lord, over the Aeolus papers,” said Mr. Secretary Tylney.

“Ha?” Then, to the valet, “The dressing-gown there! Don’t fumble! . . . So this is Captain–“

“Lieutenant, sir: Lapenotiere, commanding the Pickle schooner.”

The Lieutenant saluted.

“From the Fleet, my lord–off Cadiz; or rather, off Cape Trafalgaro.”

He drew the sealed dispatch from an inner breast-pocket and handed it to the First Lord.

“Here, step into the Board Room. . . . Where the devil are my spectacles?” he demanded of the valet, who had sprung forward to hold open the door.

Evidently the Board Room had been but a few hours ago the scene of a large dinner-party. Glasses, dessert-plates, dishes of fruit, decanters empty and half empty, cumbered the great mahogany table as dead and wounded, guns and tumbrils, might a battlefield. Chairs stood askew; crumpled napkins lay as they had been dropped or tossed, some on the floor, others across the table between the dishes.

“Looks cosy, eh?” commented the First Lord. “Maggs, set a screen around the fire, and look about for a decanter and some clean glasses.”

He drew a chair close to the reviving fire, and glanced at the cover of the dispatch before breaking its seal.

“Nelson’s handwriting?” he asked. It was plain that his old eyes, unaided by spectacles, saw the superscription only as a blur.

“No, my lord: Admiral Collingwood’s,” said Lieutenant Lapenotiere, inclining his head.

Old Lord Barham looked up sharply. His wig set awry, he made a ridiculous figure in his hastily donned garments. Yet he did not lack dignity.

“Why Collingwood?” he asked, his fingers breaking the seal. “God! you don’t tell me–“

“Lord Nelson is dead, sir.”

“Dead–dead? . . . Here, Tylney–you read what it says. Dead? . . . No, damme, let the captain tell his tale. Briefly, sir.”

“Briefly, sir–Lord Nelson had word of Admiral Villeneuve coming out of the Straits, and engaged the combined fleets off Cape Trafalgaro. They were in single line, roughly; and he bore down in two columns, and cut off their van under Dumanoir. This was at dawn or thereabouts, and by five o’clock the enemy was destroyed.”

“How many prizes?”

“I cannot say precisely, my lord. The word went, when I was signalled aboard the Vice-Admiral’s flagship, that either fifteen or sixteen had struck. My own men were engaged, at the time, in rescuing the crew of a French seventy-four that had blown up; and I was too busy to count, had counting been possible. One or two of my officers maintain to me that our gains were higher. But the dispatch will tell, doubtless.”