'I would, too.'
'We both thought so, and Lawrence prepared the paper: here is a pocket inkhorn and a pen. The bank will need some little time to get everything ready; and, you know, there is not a moment to lose.'
Chapter Five
'Why am I so nervous?' asked Stephen as he rode back towards Portsmouth. 'My mind is in a silly flutter—pursues no clear line—flies off. Why, oh why did I leave my pouch of leaves behind?' This was the perfect opportunity for them to show their powers, so very much superior to those of the poppy, which provided little more than a stupid tranquillity. 'Though there is something to be said for a stupid tranquillity at times,' he reflected, remembering that Petersfield possessed an apothecary's shop where, before now, he had purchased laudanum. 'Vade retro, Satanas,' he cried, dismissing the thought.
Clouds were piling high in the south-west; the evening was well advanced and night would fall earlier than usual, almost certainly bringing rain. He had abandoned his lanes long since and he was now steering for the main London to Portsmouth road, which he would strike a little above Petersfield: the broad, even verges would make his journey much quicker; he could not easily miss his way; and as Sir Joseph had said, with his pale smile, there was not indeed a moment to lose.
Since mood is so freely conveyed not only from person to person but from person to dog, cat, horse and the other way about, some part of his present state of mind derived from Lalla, though her unusual and nervous volatility arose from a cause that could not possibly have been more remote. The season of the year, her temperament, and a variety of other factors had inspired her with a notion that it would be delightful to meet with a fine upstanding stallion. She skipped as she went, sometimes dancing sideways, sometimes tossing her head: her views were evident to other members of her race, and poor rueful geldings rolled their eyes, while the only stone-horse they passed raced madly round and round his paddock, neighing; while a pretentious jack-ass uttered a huge sobbing cry that followed them beyond the cultivated land to the edge of a barren common where a broad lane joined their present road, the two running on to join the highway by a gallows. Pleased with her success, Lalla whinnied, arched her neck and curvetted to such a degree that Stephen cried, 'Avast, avast there. Belay. Why, Lalla, for shame,' and reined in hard to bring her to a halt at the foot of the gallows, always a point of interest for an anatomist, even one as deeply harassed as Maturin.
This ill-omened place at the junction of the lanes, with scrub on either hand, perfect for an ambush, had been chosen for the exhibition of awful examples; but they did not seem to have much deterrent effect, since they had to be renewed with such regularity that the two pairs of ravens from Selborne Hanger came over at least twice a week for fresh supplies. By now the light was too poor for Stephen to make any worthwhile observations; but at the edge of his field of vision he did catch a movement in the furze. It might have been a goat—there were several at large—but at the same moment he regretted a long, accurate revolving pistol, the gift of a French intelligence-agent, that he usually carried when he travelled by night.
He pushed Lalla forward, but she was hardly beyond the point where the two roads joined when there was a thunder of hoofs behind them. When he was riding Lalla, Stephen wore no spurs, he carried no whip: now he urged her on with knees, heels and all the moral force he could exert, yet she took shockingly little notice, barely reaching a hand-gallop. The hoofs came closer, closer: they were abreast on either side: a band of foolish unmounted ogling geldings, colts and farm horses from the common, as Lalla had obviously known from the beginning.
'Yet even so,' said Stephen, when the gateway was closed behind them and they were trotting along the Portsmouth road, 'there is a gunsmith in Petersfield, and I believe I shall buy a pair of little pocket pistols.'
They baited at the Royal Oak: here Stephen found that he had forgotten not only Duhamel's weapon but his own money too, and it was only on the chance discovery of a seven-shilling piece that he had put in a side pocket as a curiosity that he was spared an embarrassing and perhaps thoroughly disagreeable experience. 'Joseph's message carried its shadow before it,' he reflected. 'Of course it did: I have rarely let my wits go so far astray.'
Riding on through the steady rain, he let his mind return to Duhamel, an agent who, ill-used and perhaps about to be sacrificed by his government, had changed sides, providing Stephen with proof of the treachery of Wray and Ledward. From Duhamel, whom he had thoroughly liked, he moved on to other agents, dwelling on the man they called McAnon, a well-placed Norman from Vauville who used to slip across to Alderney to see an unofficial wife, and who, like others in the same fragile posture, had been turned, all the more easily because he hated Buonaparte with a strong personal hatred both as a vulgar Italian upstart and as one who had refused his scheme for an improved system of telegraphic signals. McAnon, high in the communications department, had provided them with some very fine long-range forecasts, and it was he who lay behind the secret orders that Jack Aubrey would open when he reached a stated latitude and longitude, orders telling him that a French squadron of roughly equivalent strength, but accompanied by transports, would assemble at Lorient at a given date, and that with the help of three separate diversions it would sail as nearly as possible to a stated full moon. The intention of the French commander was to steer across as though for the West Indies, by way of deluding any possible observers, and then to head for the south-west coast of Ireland, there to land his troops on the shore of the Kenmare river or Bantry Bay, as time and weather and the movements of the Royal Navy served.
McAnon: a valuable man, though as Blaine had said, their hold on him was weaker now that the unofficial wife had taken to wearing hair-curlers in the daytime and to talking in a little girl's voice. Yet even so, it was probable that his loathing of the imperial régime, his enjoyment of the perilous game and his friendship for the man who dealt with him would keep him active and reliable. But how difficult it was to tell. There were some very intelligent men on the other side, wonderfully adept at poisoning the springs of intelligence: he remembered Abel, a devoted and wholly disinterested ally in Paris whose chiefs had by accident allowed him to see Admiral Duclerc's plan of an attack on a Baltic convoy, and shortly before his death he had sent it over in all good faith. Knowing the agent so well, Blaine's deputy—Blaine was in Portugal at the time—had acted at once: but to their astonishment the additional ships sent to guard the merchantmen found themselves heavily outnumbered. The convoy was terribly mauled, a gun-brig was taken, a sloop destroyed, and HMS Melampus was only saved by the descent of a providential fog, though with very heavy casualties, including Jack's friend her captain, the loss of two topmasts and grievous damage to her hull.
Difficult situations: difficult situations. And if Jack was still aboard there would be another within the hour. Commodore Aubrey was of course much overworked, as any man ordered to sea in so short a time, with such indifferent preparation and so many sudden changes must necessarily be: yet he was better equipped than most for a situation of this kind. Like many big men he was not easily put out of temper; he did not use up much of his energy in expostulation; upon the whole he despised those who complained; and the entire course of his professional career had fitted him for his present role. On the other hand he was quite remarkably defenceless when it came to dealing with jealousy. It was an emotion he had apparently never known, at least not in its present consuming state, and it was one whose nature and development he scarcely seemed to recognize at all, so that he was unable to call upon intelligence for what help it can bring in these cases.
Stephen was well acquainted with this blindness where health was concerned—'It is only a lump: it will soon go away'—and affections—'She has certainly not received my letter. The posts are so slow these days, and very far from sure'—yet even so it surprised him in Jack Aubrey, a much more intelligent man than he seemed to those who did not know him well. With great concern he had watched the progress of the disease, the c
hanges in the atmosphere at Ashgrove Cottage, where Mr Hinksey continued to call with the most unlucky regularity, often appearing a few moments before Jack left, and the beginning of a change in the Bellona. Jack was still very kind to him, and in matters to do with the squadron he was perfectly agreeable to those around him; but every now and then a sudden rigour, a peremptory tone startled those who had served with him before and made his new subordinates look at him rather uneasily. Were they to sail with another St Vincent, otherwise known as Old Jarvey or even as Old Nick for his ferociously taut discipline?
Clearly, this particular and in Stephen's opinion totally unnecessary trial was telling on Jack Aubrey's temper most severely. Stephen regretted the whole foolish matter extremely, the suffering of the two chiefly concerned and of those around them, the utter impossibility of playing the kind intervening friend who puts everything right with a few quiet, understanding words, perhaps conveyed parabolically; and at this juncture his regret was singularly immediate—a personal, directly interested regret—since he was going to ask a favour that even an uncommonly well-disposed, unhurried, and benevolent naval commander would hesitate to grant, let alone a man in the throes of readying a squadron for the sea with a half-acknowledged monster at the same time devouring him within.
Lalla stopped and looked round at him: was she to go into Portsmouth or carry on by the back lane home? 'To the left, hussy,' he said, pushing his knee into her side. He had not yet quite forgiven her for making such a fool of him by the gallows; but by the time they reached the Keppel's Head he relented, and he ordered her bran-mash with treacle in it, her favourite indulgence, before going out on the Hard in search of a boat, since the ostler had told him that Jack's horse was still in the stable.
'Bellona's a great way over, sir,' said the boatman, 'and you will have a long, wet pull. Would you like this here piece of sailcloth, since you have forgot your cloak?'
In spite of the sailcloth Stephen was wet to the skin well before they reached the ship. As they approached her busy, well-lit side the boatman observed that Thames's barge was at her starboard chains. 'Look at 'em, like a parcel of popinjays,' he said, nodding at Captain Thomas's bargemen, all dressed in the same showy garments like a band of damp Merry Andrews. 'I dare say it's larboard for you, sir?'
'Certainly,' said Stephen. 'And were you to call out that I should like a small convenient ladder, if it is available, I should be obliged.'
'The boat ahoy,' called the Bellona.
'Ho,' replied the boat.
'Coming here?' asked the Bellona.
'No, no,' said the boatman, meaning thereby that he was coming there, but that he had grasped, without much difficulty, that his passenger was not a commissioned officer; and then, raising his voice, 'The gentleman would be obliged for a small convenient ladder, if available.'
This was received with a startled silence for an even longer moment than the boatman had hoped, and he was filling his lungs, suppressing his mirth, for a repetition, when a number of familiar voices called out that the Doctor was not to move—he would slip in the rain—he was to stay there—they would bring him aboard.
This they did, Surprises to a man: on deck they plucked at his clothing and told him he was wet, wet through—why had he not put on his cloak? With the wind in the south-west, he ought always to put on his cloak.
He was making his way aft when Captain Pullings intercepted him. 'Oh Doctor,' said he, 'the Commodore is engaged at the moment—will not you shift your coat, at least? You will catch your death, else. Mr Somers'—this to the officer of the watch—'stand by: any minute now.'
'Mr Dove,' said Somers to the bosun, 'stand by. Any minute now.'
A bosun's mate leant over the rail, looking down into the barge; be caught the coxswain's eye and gave an unofficial nod, full of significance.
A door right aft opened: a deep voice, now no longer muffled, said in a tone of strong displeasure, 'That is all I have to say: this will not occur again. Good day to you, sir.'
Captain Thomas came out, pale with emotion, carrying the Thames's punishment register under his arm: he gave the officers on the quarterdeck little more than a nod he was piped over the side with full ceremony.
With a knowing look, Tom Pullings said to Stephen, 'The cabin is clear now, Doctor, if you choose to go along.'
'There you are, Stephen,' cried Jack, looking up from his desk, a more natural smile doing away with the severity of his expression. 'Have you come back? God's my life, you are soaked quite through. Should you not change your shoes and stockings? It is always said that the feet are the weakest part. Take Achilles' heel—but you know all about Achilles' heel.'
'Presently. But for the moment, Jack . . .'
'Well, in any case take a dram to keep the wet out. Sea-water does no harm, but rain is deadly stuff once it gets right in.' He swung round, took a case-bottle from the locker and poured them each a tot of rum, a glorious rum he had drawn from the wood in Trafalgar year. 'Lord, I needed that,' he said, putting down his glass. 'How I do loathe a steady indiscriminate flogger.' He glanced down at his papers, and the stony look returned.
'Jack', said Stephen, 'I have not chosen my moment well. I have a request. I have a favour to ask, and I could have wished to find you with a mind reposed. But you have clearly had a trying day.'
'Ask away, Stephen. I shall be no better-tempered tomorrow: ill-humour seems to have settled in my bosom'—striking it—'much as the wind used to settle in the south-east and stay there when we were trying to claw out of Port Mahon, week after week.'
A silence: and in a harsh voice Stephen said 'I should like to borrow the Ringle, if you please, with a proper crew, for a private voyage to London, as early as can be.'
Jack fixed him with a piercing stare that Stephen had never seen before. 'You know we sail on Wednesday's ebb?' he asked, having looked at Stephen's face in an objective manner.
'I do. But may I say that if the wind does not serve, I should certainly join you at the Groyne or off Finisterre.' Jack nodded. Stephen went on, 'I must add that this is an entirely personal need—a private emergency.'
'So I had gathered,' said Jack. 'Very well: you shall have her. But with the weather that promises, I doubt you can come down in time. Do you mean to spend long in town?'
'Only long enough to load some chests near the Tower.'
'How many tides do you reckon?'
'Tides? To tell you the truth, Jack, I had not thought of tides . . . and then,' he said in a low, diffident voice, 'I had hoped to put in to Shelmerston for perhaps a night.'
'I see.' Jack rang a bell. 'Could Captain Pullings spare him a minute?'
'Tom,' he said, 'the Doctor has occasion for the tender, to run up the London river directly. Let him have Bonden and Reade and as discreet a set of old shipmates as you can think of, enough for watch and watch with two to spare. He may not be able to rejoin before the Groyne or Finisterre. Let her be victualled for the Berlings with the utmost dispatch.'
'The utmost dispatch it is, sir,' said Tom, smiling.
'I am very deeply obliged to you, Jack, my dear,' said Stephen.
'There is no such thing as obligation between you and me, brother,' said Jack. And in another tone, 'It will take some little time—she is over by Gilkicker—but you should clear at the height of flood. I am sorry I was a trifle chuff to begin with. I have had an uncommon wearing day. So have you, by your look, if I may be so God-damned personal. What do you say to a pot of coffee?' Without waiting for an answer he rang the bell and said, 'Killick, large pot: and the Doctor will need half a dozen shirts put up, as well as a dry coat and stockings this minute.'
They drank their coffee and Jack said, 'Let me tell you about my rough day, apart from my battle with the Victualling Yard and that ass Thomas—he will end up like Pigot or Corbett if he goes on like this: food for the less particular fishes. I had gone ashore to see how my second chronometer was coming along, the Arnold, that needed cleaning, when I ran into Robert Morley of the Blan
che. She lies at St Helens, fresh from Jamaica. I literally ran into him—he did not see where he was going—and knocked him into the kennel. I picked him up and dusted him, and carried him into the Keppel's Nob, where I called for a glass of shrub, which I knew Bob Morley had always liked. But he still looked horrid pale and I asked him was he hurt? Should I send for a surgeon? No, he said, he was perfectly well; and he leant on the table with the tears running down his face. His ship had come in before daylight and he had pulled ashore, hurrying up to their house for breakfast. Well, he found his wife six months gone with child: he had been away for two years. She was terrified. His father-in-law was there, an elderly parson, and he told Bob he was not to abuse her or be unkind. He was not to throw a stone unless he was sinless himself; and not even then if he was a good man. Now as you know very well, Bob Morley, though excellent company and a tolerable good seaman, has never set up for chastity any more than I have, though he carried things much farther. In the West Indies he always cruised with a miss aboard, and he allowed his officers and even mids so much liberty when he had the Semiramis that she was a floating bawdy-house—that the Admiral himself took notice of.'
'Her surgeon died of the pox.'
'Well, I tried to put this to Bob—I tried to say he could not decently blame anyone for doing what he so notoriously did himself. Of course he came out with the parrot-cry "Oh it is different for women." '
'What did you say to that?'
'I did not say I thought it was a mere scrub's reply, which I do, because he was in a very sad way, so I just suggested that it was the general cant—great nonsense—the act was the same for both—the only difference that a woman could bring a cuckoo into the nest and cheat the rightful chicks: but that could be dealt with by leaving the cuckoo out of your will.'
'Is that your considered view, brother?'
'Yes, it is,' said Jack, with a look of anguish, 'my deepest considered view. I have thought it over again and again. Fair is fair, you know,' he said with an attempt at a smile. 'I have always felt that very strongly.'