. . . Yes, time had gone wrong, somehow: and the
events of the passage home to Falmouth, of the journey up to the
doors of the Admiralty, though they ran on a chain, had no intervals
to be measured by a clock, but followed one another like pictures on
a wall. He saw the long, indigo-coloured swell thrusting the broken
ships shoreward. He felt the wind freshening as it southered and he
left the Fleet behind: he watched their many lanterns as they sank
out of sight, then the glow of flares by the light of which
dead-tired men were repairing damages, cutting away wreckage.
His ship was wallowing heavily now, with the gale after her,--and now
dawn was breaking clean and glorious on the swell off Lizard Point.
A Mount's Bay lugger had spied them, and lying in wait, had sheered
up close alongside, her crew bawling for news. He had not forbidden
his men to call it back, and he could see the fellows' faces now, as
it reached them from the speaking-trumpet: "Great victory--twenty
taken or sunk--Admiral Nelson killed!" They had guessed something,
noting the _Pickle's_ ensign at half-mast: yet as they took in the
purport of the last three words, these honest fishermen had turned
and stared at one another; and without one answering word, the lugger
had been headed straight back to the mainland.
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