‘That is Nelson's coffin,’ Laurence said, when Temeraire inquired quietly. A hush had fallen over all the ship, and even the most bitter of the impressed landsmen had been silenced while the casket was in view—by the fists of their fellows if not by a sense of decorum. Tears showed on hardened faces, and Laurence could hear one man sobbing like a child, somewhere up in the rigging. A confused prickling of tears stood in his own eyes.

Nelson had given Britain mastery of the sea at Trafalgar. From Copenhagen he had brought back eighteen prizes and secured the passages of the Baltic Sea. The month before the battle at Shoeburyness had been joined, he had with his fleet swept the Channel clean of French shipping and beaten away at the regular French flights, so Napoleon should have no reinforcements. The ships had concealed their flags and painted over their names, to conceal his return, and for love of him, not one man out of five thousand sailors had deserted, even while the ships hid in home ports.

His personal sins might have been excused, though Nelson had selfishly exposed his wife to the misery of his flagrant unfaithfulness, and his friend Lord Hamilton to the astonished censure of the world. Lady Hamilton had rescued her reputation, by her heroic spy-work in the occupation, though it did not fully redeem Nelson's choice. But even if these venial matters were passed-over for so much victory and sacrifice, there were worse evils held to Nelson's account. He had defended slavery, and without a qualm advocated the hideous murder of thousands of dragons, allies and neutrals as well as their enemies, by the spreading of the plague. These evils Laurence could never forgive, and whose consequence he would personally bear the rest of his life.

Yet for a moment, Laurence could feel nothing but wrenching misery, watching the barge heave off the dock, its black sails filling; it was a grief unburdened by judgment; a grief he might have felt wholeheartedly, in another life. Guns were firing as the barge passed: an impromptu thunder of salutes. The Allegiance's ragged crew managed to contribute a meaningful roar or two to the procession, though they could not yet fire a broadside in unison.

The barge vanished swiftly over the horizon, carried inland by wind and tide. Distantly the salutes blasted on, like a receding storm, and at last faded entirely. The Allegiance groaned softly at her anchors, and the unhappy life of the ship resumed behind him. Laurence breathed again. He had not wept, in the end.

Temeraire had watched the procession with interest; now he stretched his wings—cautiously keeping them in line with the wind and not abreast of it—and asked, ‘Will we leave soon?’

‘When the captain and the passengers are come aboard,’ Laurence said. ‘In a few days perhaps, if the wind turns fair.’