Authors: Patrick O'Brian
Hobden changed colour once or twice - a variety of
emotions appeared upon his face, all of them wretchedly unhappy.
‘If you choose to write it now, here are pens and
paper, said Jack, nodding to his desk and chair.
For some time Jacob and Stephen Maturin had been
talking about the pleasanter sides of their evening with Mr Wright as they
sharpened their instruments on variety of hones and oilstones by the Argand
light in the orlop. When they had finished discussing their dispassionate and
geometrical treatment of the Locatelli, Jacob said, ‘Yet earlier on I fear I
was somewhat too loquacious, with my examples of the Zeneta dialect and the
double gutturals of the local Hebrew; but at least I did not bore the company
with an account of what is perhaps the most curious thing about the Beni Mzab -
curious, but difficult to explain in a few words.
I mean the fact that not only are the Moslems Ibadite heretics, but
many of the Jews are Cainites, equally erroneous according to the orthodox.’
Stephen reflected, grinding still, and then said,
‘I do not think I know about Cainites.’
‘They derive their descent from the Kenites, who themselves have Abel’s brother Cain as their common
ancestor: furthermore, the initiated still bear his mark; though discreetly,
since they do not choose to have it generally known, there still being so many
vulgar prejudices against him. This shared mark of Cain forms the strongest
bond imaginable, far outdoing that between Freemasons, and of infinitely
greater antiquity.’
‘So I should imagine.’
‘In early Christian times some of them formed a
Gnostic sect; but those belonging to the Beni Mzab have returned to the ancient
ways, maintaining that Cain was brought into being by a superior power and Abel
by an inferior; and that he was the ancestor of Esau, Korah and the Sodomites.’
‘Come in,’ called Stephen.
Captain Hobden came stooping under the lintel. ‘I
beg pardon for interrupting you, Doctor Maturin. I beg your pardon. Here is my
apology’ - handing his letter - ‘and here is my dog.’
‘You are very good, sir,’ cried Stephen, starting
up and shaking his hand. ‘Do not fear for Naseby: these are very simple
operations, and I would not hurt him for the world.’
Seamen, according to Dr Maturin’s experience, were
even fonder of remedies that could be seen and felt to work at once than most
people; and the Surprise’s medicine-chest was well stocked with powerful
emetics.
‘There is little hope,’ said Stephen as he slid the
dose down Naseby’s unresisting throat. ‘At
this late hour there is little hope, at all.’
‘On the other hand, the animal’s early detection
and subsequent evident guilt may well have diminished or even arrested his digestive
secretions.’
‘Hold the bucket and belay, there. Stand back.’
Sick, sick as a dog he was: but indeed it was too
late. ‘Yet at least we have virtually all the bones,’ said Stephen, stirring with
a pair of retractors. ‘And they are almost untouched. All the rest is now
meaningless, but once the bones are boiled clean we can wire them together: the
hand will be even more emphatically hand-like, and that will comfort the crew. Poll. Poll there! Be so good as to call for a couple of
swabbers, and I will take this poor fellow back to his master.’
The wiring-together with the help of the
carpenter’s finest drills, the very convincing wiring-together, which was
completed before the end of the last dog-watch, did indeed comfort the crew.
They waited in files to see the dead-white fingers rising tall and high from
the neat pattern of carpalbones set in black-gleaming pitch, the whole enclosed
in a stern-lantern glass. Each group, having gazed upon it for the regulation
minute, hurried back to the beginning of the line to see it again; and it was
universally agreed that a more Glorious Hand did not exist. No one was foolish
enough to mention luck, but the Surprises wore a deeply satisfied look that
said much more than any open exultation.
At quarters the next day they were still unusually
lively and cheerful in spite of the falling breeze, backing so far easterly
that it might come foul before the end of the exercise, and that also carried
drifting swathes of mist, and sometimes rain. But even downright snow would neither have chilled or damped their spirits, and they ran
their guns in and above all out with a fine hearty thump.
Then, just before the drum beat the retreat and
hammocks were piped down, an extremely shrill and piercing voice from the
foretopmast cried, ‘On deck, there. On deck, there.
Two sail of ships, four points on the starboard beam. Standing
south-east. Just about hull-up.’
‘Mr Daniel,’ called Jack to the master’s mate.
‘Follow me aloft with my night-glass from the cabin, will you?’ He was settled
in the topgallant cross-trees by the time Daniel and the telescope reached him;
but whereas the Commodore was puffing, Daniel, in spite of his recent
hardships, was not.
‘There, sir,’ called the lookout some way along the
yard. ‘Just abaft the preventer-stay.’ And there
indeed, just for a moment, was a white blur: perhaps two white blurs. Then the
low cloud hid them entirely.
‘Joe,’ said the Commodore, who had known the
lookout from childhood, ‘what did you make of them at best?’
‘Just when I hailed, sir, they were pretty clear. I
should have said a right man-of-war, a medium frigate: trim, though foreign. And maybe a merchantman in her wake. Under
all plain sail. But when I see them again they had altered course,
working to windward; and I am reasonable sure the frigate heaved a white flag
aboard, as though for a parley, like.’
Jack nodded, smiling: the white flag, showing
either submission or an absence of hostile intent or a wish to speak was often
used as a ruse de guerre to obtain intelligence or even sometimes a tactical
advantage: in any case he was not going to present his squadron on the lee-bow
of any potential enemy. Yet before he called down the orders that would do away
with such an uncomfortable situation, a tear in the low cloud and a certain
diffused moonlight showed him the two strangers fairly clear. They were not
indeed under a press of sail, but they had more abroad than Surprise or Pomone,
and they were certainly steering a course that would presently give them the
weather-gauge, with all the advantages it conferred - power to attack or to
decline battle as they saw fit, and a sense of general comfort. He also saw,
though only as a squarish pallor, the white flag that Joe Willett had
mentioned; but he paid little attention, his mind being taken up with ensuring
that in these variable airs and currents and Pomone’s imperfections, first
light would find the squadron well to windward of the strangers.
Below him, as he revolved the possibilities, the
Marines beat the retreat, hammocks were piped down, and at eight bells the
watch was mustered: all these operations were carried out correctly, but with a
most uncommon degree of levity - jocose remarks, open laughter, antic gestures
with the hammocks.
It was the master, Mr Woodbine, who had the first
watch: Jack told him that the squadron should very gradually increase sail - no
appearance of anxiety or hurry - and perpetually work to windward, so that at
dawn they should certainly have the weather-gage. He then summoned the Ringle,
and to her captain he said, ‘William, I am not going to ask Pomone to come
within hail in this head-sea, so you run down, lie under her larboard quarter
and tell Captain Vaux with my compliments that there are two strange sail in
the east-north-east - did you see them?’
‘Yes, sir: we caught just a couple of glimpses
through the murk.’
‘What did you make of them?’
‘I thought they might be frigates. One was wearing
a white flag for a parley.’
‘Parley be damned, William. Those wicked brutes are
edging away to gain the weather-gage. Obviously we must do the same, and Devil
take the hindmost.’
‘Amen, sir: so be it.’
‘So you run down and tell Pomone, will you? She is
a fairly weatherly ship, in spite of bows like a butcher’s arse. Then crack on
and bear away to windward and see if you can learn anything of them to tell us
at first light.’
The Ringle filled and spun about: Jack walked into
his cabin and leant over the charts, considering the probable local currents in
this weather and at this time of the year. He had had a very good noon observation and both his
chronometers agreed admirably: with the present wet obscurity he could hope for
no external confirmation, but he was reasonably certain of the ship’s position;
and in any event there were no cruel coasts nor uncomfortable shoals in this part
of the sea. With the present breeze or even with twice the present breeze he
had sea-room enough to manoeuvre against the potential enemy until noon tomorrow: his only anxiety
was the Pomone, with her unhandy crew. He was unwilling to use top- or even
sternlanterns, which might so easily betray his motions; but in order that poor
Vaux with his band of boobies should not lose the pennant-ship altogether he
had a stout, well provisioned boat veered astern, carrying Bonden and half a
dozen of his shipmates, who were to guide the frigate with a fisherman’s light
if ever she offered to stray.
This accomplished he took a last look at
traverse-board and log-readings, pencilled a tentative disk on his chart, with
the exact time, returned to the deck and the familiar, welcome task of driving
his ship to windward, taking advantage of every very slightly favourable shift
in sea or wind. With his own people round him, keenly attentive to his orders
and expert in carrying them out intelligently, with the utmost speed, he made
such excellent way that two bells later and with the utmost hesitation Harding,
his first lieutenant, begged his pardon and observed that Pomone was dropping
far behind, while there was real danger that the cutter astern might tow under.
His words aroused displeasure, strong displeasure
among all within earshot: but on looking round Jack cried, ‘By God, you are
right, Harding... I am driving her altogether too hard.’ He raised his voice
and gave the orders that deadened her way - orders that were obeyed slowly,
with sullen looks, but that nevertheless changed the voice of the sea on her
cutwater, down her sides and under her rudder from a thrilling urgency to
something quite commonplace in a matter of minutes.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Killick, ‘but supper will
be on table whenever you please.’
Stephen was already in the cabin, trying to play a
half forgotten tune pizzicato on Jack’s second-best sea-going fiddle. ‘I heard
this long ago at a crossroads meeting something north of Derry and perhaps just in the county Donegal, the kind of gathering for
music and song and above all for dancing that we call a ceilidh; but there was
a dying fall near the end that I cannot recapture.’
‘It will come to you in the middle of the night,’
said Jack. ‘Pray draw up your chair and let us fall to: I am fairly wasted with
hunger.’
They ate a large quantity of ox-tail soup, Jack
fairly shovelling it down like a boy, then half a small tunny, caught by
trolling over the side, and then their almost invariable toasted cheese, a
Minorcan fromatge duro, not unlike Cheddar, that toasted remarkably well.
‘What a joy it is to satisfy desire,’ observed Jack
when all was done. He emptied his glass, threw down his napkin, and said, ‘Will
you not turn in now, Stephen? It is very late. I shall be doing nothing but
work steadily to windward: there will be no excitement until well on in the
morning watch, when I hope to find these skulking villains under our lee.’
Comfortable words: but scarcely had hammocks been
piped up (at six bells, this being a Sunday morning) and scarcely had the sound
of stowing them in the nettings been superimposed upon that of the decks being
thoroughly cleaned, than something very like a battle broke out, starting with
fairly distant gunfire, then deep-voiced cannon no great way off.
Yet there was no interruption in the steady
swabbing overhead, the flogging of the spotless quarterdeck to spotless
dryness, no excited cries, no orders, and above all no beating to quarters; and
as the Surprise began to fire Stephen’s mind arose, not without difficulty,
still somewhat bemused from an extraordinarily vivid, and coloured dream of
wiring a small primate’s skeleton together, Christine Wood directing or
performing the more delicate movements, and he realized that this was not an
engagement at all but the leisurely, regular, and perfectly dispassionate
return to a salute.
A young gentleman darted in, stood by
Stephen’s cot and in a very shrill voice he cried, ‘Sir, if you please: if you
are awake the Captain desires you will come on deck, in uniform.’ He had
obviously been told to emphasize the last words, and this he did with such
force that his voice broke an octave above its usual pitch.
Messages about uniform and respectability had also
reached Killick, who now, opening the door, called out, ‘By your leave, Mr
Spooner, I have to attend to the Doctor. Captain’s orders.
Not a moment to spare - the Devil to pay and no pitch hot.’ Quite what he meant
by this was far from clear, but he hustled the boy out, and with a zeal to be
equalled only by his desire for forgiveness he plucked Stephen’s nightshirt
from him, sponged and soaped his face, shaved it as close as a bridegroom’s,
clothed him in clean drawers, a cambric shirt and his regulation garments,
hissing the while as though to soothe a restive horse, arranged his cravat,
clapped on and smoothed his best wig - all without a word in answer to
Stephen’s now peevish enquiries but with an intensity that compelled respect -
and so led him up to the quarterdeck, delivering him to Harding by the capstan
with a final tweak.
‘There you are, Doctor,’ cried Jack, turning from
the starboard rail, ‘a very good morning to you. Here’s a glorious sight.’
Blinking in the glare of the early sun, Stephen
followed his pointing hand, and there rode a fine proud frigate together with a
smaller, shabbier companion, probably a twenty-two-gun corvette: they were both
wearing the Bourbon ensign, a white flag with a white cross; and rather more
than half-way between the two French ships and Surprise a captain’s barge was
rowing with an even stroke.
Stephen had been quite extraordinarily far down in
his dreaming sleep, and even after his brisk handling and the brilliant dawn
all round he found it hard to fix his mind on Jack’s explanation: ‘...so there
he is in his barge, coming across to breakfast. Do not you recognize him,
Stephen? Surely you recognize him? Take my glass.’
Stephen took the glass. He focused it, and there,
sharp and clear in the early sun, was the happy, familiar face of Captain
Christy-Palliere, their captor a little before the Algeciras action in 18o1 and
then their host in Toulon during the brief peace that followed. ‘How happy I am
to see him,’ he cried.
‘Yes. He declared for the king at once, and so did
all his officers - they had almost finished refitting in a little yard south of
Castelnuovo, bar some spars and a certain amount of cordage - but many of the
other sea-officers up and down the coast were all for Bonaparte or for setting
up on their own account, and some are preparing for sea. He had meant to head
straight for Malta, where he had friends, but
the wind would not serve (as it does not serve for us) so he came by Messina, and in the straits he
picked up that corvette, commanded by a cousin of his.’
Already the Marines were beginning to form on the
quarterdeck; the bosun had his ceremonial whistle, the sideboys were fiddling
with their gloves. Stephen was gathering his wits, but not as quickly as he
could have wished - the dream still hung heavily about him. He glanced aft,
where the Pomone lay with a backed foresail, heaving on the swell; and the
sight of her, though she was not vessel he could like, brought him more nearly
into the present world. The Ringle, with a tender’s modesty, rode under the
Commodore’s lee.
The French barge hooked on: the side-boys ran down
with their padded man-ropes, and the moment Captain Christy-Palliere set foot
upon the steps the bosun raised his call and piped him aboard in style.
‘Captain Christy-Palliere,’ cried Jack, taking him
most affectionately by the hand, ‘how very happy I am to see you here, and
looking so uncommon well - I do not have to introduce Dr Maturin, I am sure?’
‘Never in life,’ said Christy-Pallière in
his perfect English. ‘Dear Doctor, how do you do?’ They too shook hands, and
Jack went on, ‘But you will allow me to present my first lieutenant, Mr
Harding. Mr Harding, this is Captain Christy-Palliere, of His Most Christian
Majesty’s frigate Caroline.’
‘Very happy, sir,’ said each, bowing; and Jack led
his guest below.
‘First, Commodore,’ said Christy-Palliere, taking
his seat at the breakfast table, ‘let me congratulate you on your broad
pennant. I have never saluted one with half so much pleasure in all my life.’
‘How kind you are to say so: and may I say how very
agreeable it is to have you sitting here as a friend and an ally. Apart from
anything else, I know how short-handed or rather short-shipped poor Admiral
Fanshawe is in Mahon. He will greet you with
open arms, if only to convoy a few merchantmen to the chops of the Channel.’
‘Might I beg you to give me an introduction?’
‘Of course I will. May I help you to another
sausage?’
‘Oh, if you please. I have not smelt this
divine combination of toast, bacon, sausage and coffee since last I was with my
cousins in
Laura Place
.’
They talked about the cousins and about Bath for a few moments and then
settled to really serious eating. Grimble, Killick’s mate, had been a
pork-butcher by land, and given a bold, thriving hog he could turn out a
Leadenhall sausage of the very first order.
Eventually they reached toast, marmalade and the
third pot of coffee, and Jack Aubrey said, ‘My orders take me to the Adriatic. With a favourable wind I
shall look into Malta for possible but
improbable reinforcements and the latest intelligence from those parts, and
then proceed to Durazzo and beyond for the purpose of
strengthening royalists and of capturing or destroying Bonapartist or-
privateering ships. Would it be indiscreet to ask you how the land lies along
the coast? I mean the places where there are shipyards that would concern me
one way or the other?’
‘It would not be in the least indiscreet, my dear
Aubrey,’ said Christy-Palliere, ‘and I will freely tell you all I know. But the
situation there is so extremely complicated, with doubtful loyalties, concealed
motives, blunders in Paris, that I should have to collect my wits - recollect
myself... and I think I could best give you a fairly clear notion of things as
they were when I left Castelnuovo if I were to be looking at your charts.’
It was clear to Stephen that Christy-Palliere felt
that matters to do with intelligence were no proper subject for general
conversation. He agreed most heartily, and presently - two cups of coffee later
- he excused himself: not only were there his morning rounds but he also had a
minor operation to perform.
‘We shall see you again in the sick-bay towards the
end of divisions,’ said Jack to him, and to his guest, ‘I am so glad that you
are here on a Sunday. I shall be able to show you one of our Navy’s particular
ceremonies: we call it divisions.’
‘Oh indeed?’ cried Christy-Palliere. ‘Then in that
case may I beg that Caroline’s secretary may be present? He takes the utmost
interest in these matters, and he is writing a comparative study of the
different nations’ naval economies, disciplines, ceremonies and the like.’
‘Does the gentleman speak English?’
‘Not a word,’ cried Christy-Palliere, laughing at
so wild a notion. ‘Richard speak English? Oh dear me
no. Wonderfully fluent in Latin, but English... oh, ha, ha, ha!’
‘Then perhaps Dr Maturin could join us at the
beginning of divisions,’ said Jack, with a questioning look at Stephen.
‘Very happy,’ said Dr Maturin, perfectly at ease,
since Jacob would be present, with everything perfectly in order when the
Commodore and his guest came to inspect the sick-bay. So when five bells in the
forenoon watch resounded there he was, so unnaturally trim that he almost did
the frigate credit. The bosun piped divisions, and in the howling of the
long-drawn notes the Commodore, with his guest and Mr Harding, walked up to the
quarterdeck, followed by Stephen and Richard.
Here, as exactly arranged as the men on a
chess-board in spite of the swell, stood the Surprise’s Royal Marines, drawn up
athwartships right aft, with their officer, sergeant, corporal and drummer.
They were in their fine scarlet coats, white waistcoats, tight white breeches
and gaiters; their black stocks were as trim and tight as was consistent with
breathing at all, their muskets, side-arms, buttons
gleaming. Ordinarily, when they were helping with the work of the ship or
making part of a gun-crew, they wore seaman’s slops, sometimes with an old
Marine jacket or cap. The high pitch of military splendour was reached only
when they were on guard-duty or at this climax of the week; and out of
Christian charity Jack inspected them first, so that they could be dismissed
and no longer suffer in the sun.
This done, with a fine stamp, a dismissive clash of
arms and a roll on the drum, the Commodore turned to the purely nautical side.
‘As you see,’ murmured Stephen, ‘the various
divisions, each under a particular lieutenant, with sub-divisions under his
midshipmen or master’s mates, are already standing along predetermined lines
upon the deck. They are in their best sea-going clothes, they are newly-shaved,
their pigtails have been tied afresh. This has taken
them two and a half hours; and they have been closely inspected by their
lieutenant and his midshipmen. And now, as you see, the Commodore inspects them
all over again - see, he checks a midshipman for not
wearing gloves. But on the whole there are very few reproofs... very little
occasion for reproof in so seasoned and competent a ship’s company.’
‘Is nobody to be flogged?’
‘No, sir. Not at divisions.’
‘I am glad of that. It is a spectacle that I find
extremely painful.’
Jack had finished with the first division: he said something
kind to the lieutenant and the senior midshipman and moved on. The group he had
just inspected was made up of the afterguard and waisters, but in such a ship
as the Surprise almost all of them were right seamen, though some might be a
little less nimble than they were: Stephen knew every soul present except for
those who replaced the casualties in the recent action; and even of these one
had been shipmates with him in the Worcester. He had a word with most,
particularly those he had treated, calling them by name, until halfway along
the line, when he came to a face, a perfectly distinct, typical middle-aged
seaman’s face, brown, wrinkled, gold-earringed, yet one that baffled him again
and again, as the waister knew very well: he was used to it and he called out,
‘Walker, sir, if you please; and much better for the bolus.’ They both laughed:
Stephen said, ‘I must take one myself, to jog my memory.’