The gravy came, somewhat pale and thin, but adequate: Jack ate and drank. 'Surely you will have a little more?' he said. 'The bird lies before you, or what is left of it. And another glass of wine?'
'I will not. I have done quite well; and as I said, I must be tolerably Spartan. I shall probably have a busy day tomorrow, starting early. But I will join you when the port comes on.'
Jack ate on without embarrassment—they were very old friends, differing widely in size, weight, capacity, requirements—but without much appetite either.
Stephen said, 'Will I tell you another of Plato's observations?'
'Pray do,' said Jack, his smile briefly returning.
'It should please you, since you have a very pretty hand. Hinksey quoted it when I dined with him in London and we were discussing the bill of fare: "Calligraphy," said Plato, "is the physical manifestation of an architecture of the soul." That being so, mine must be a turf-and-wattle kind of soul, since my handwriting would be disowned by a backward cat; whereas yours, particularly on your charts, has a most elegant flow and clarity, the outward form of a soul that might have conceived the Parthenon.'
Jack made a civil bow, and pudding came in: spotted dog. He silently offered a slice to Stephen, who shook his head, and ate mechanically for a while, before pushing his plate away.
Killick brought the port, with bowls of almonds, walnuts and petits fours. Jack told him that he might turn in and stood up to lock the doors of both coach and sleeping-cabin after him, taking no notice of his shocked 'What, no coffee?'
'I did not know you had dined with Hinksey,' he said, sitting down again.
'Of course you did not. It was when I ran up to London in the tender, and you were already at sea. I ran into him in the back of Clementi's shop, where he was turning over scores—pianoforte and harpsichord. I found him very knowing, conversible on the subject of your old Bach, and carried him back to Black's, where we had a moderately good dinner. It would have been better if a table of soldiers had not started roaring and bawling. Still, we ended the evening very agreeably, prating about the Bendas in the library: we might play some of their duets that I brought with me when we have finished our wine.'
'Oh, Stephen,' said Jack, 'I have no more heart for music than I have for food. I have not touched my fiddle since we put to sea. But to go back to Hinksey, what do you think of him?'
'I find him very good company: he is a scholar and a gentleman, and he was very kind to Sophie while we were away.'
'Oh, I am much obliged to him, I know,' said Jack, and in a growling undertone he added 'I only wish I may not be too deeply obliged to him—I wish I may not have to thank him for a set of horns.'
Stephen took no notice of this deep muttering: his mind was elsewhere. 'I remember,' he said at last. 'They were playing at the cricket, and someone struck or caught the ball in such a way that there was a general cry of approbation. My neighbour cried "Who was it? Who was it?" springing up and down. "It was the handsome gentleman," said her companion. "Mr Hinksey." He is generally thought good looking.'
'Handsome is as handsome does,' said Jack. 'I cannot imagine what they see in him.'
'Oh, with his athletic form—which you cannot deny—and his amiable qualities—he seems to me admirably adapted to please a young woman. Or a woman of a certain age, for that matter.'
'I cannot imagine what they see in him,' repeated Jack.
'Perhaps your imagination runs on different wheels, my dear: but, however that may be, it appears that Miss Smith, Miss Lucy Smith, sees so much that she has accepted his offer of marriage. This he told me, not without a certain modest triumph, at the end of our dinner: and before we parted he told me that the lady's father, one of the great men of the East India Company, so thoroughly approves the match that he has used all his influence to have Mr Hinksey appointed Bishop—Anglican bishop, of course—of Bombay. Perhaps Bombay—perhaps Madras or Calcutta—or possibly suffragan bishop—my mind was a little confused by the toasts we drank—but at all events a noble Indian establishment for him and his bride. Jack, we are still in the region of beer, are we not?'
'Beer? Oh yes, I dare say so . . . Stephen, I cannot tell you how glad I am you told me all this . . . So he is to be married? . . . I had been so afraid . . . Stephen, the port stands by you . . . I had been on the point of unbosoming myself . . . foolish, discreditable thoughts.'
'I rejoice you did not, brother. The closest friendship cannot stand such a strain: the results are invariably disastrous.'
'I am so happy,' observed Jack, after a moment; and indeed he could be seen swelling with it. 'But what was that about beer?'
'I asked whether we were still in the beer region, or domain, that part of the ocean in which the beer we bring from home and which we serve out daily at the absurd and criminal rate of a gallon—a gallon: eight pints!—a head, is still available. Has the beer not yet given way to the even more pernicious grog?'
'I believe we are still on beer. We do not usually run out before we raise the Peak of Tenerife. Should you like some?'
'If you please. I particularly need a light, gentle sleep tonight; and beer, a respectable ship's beer, is the most virtuous hypnotic known to man.'
In time Jack returned with a quart can, from which they took alternate draughts as they sat gazing astern at the long-running wake in the moonlight.
'But you know,' said Jack, 'I made no direct accusations.'
'Brother,' said Stephen, 'you can give a woman a great wounding kick on the bottom and then assert you never slapped her face.'
Half a pint later Jack went on, 'Still, she really should not have said "your trull" when as you know very well I was perfectly innocent in that case.'
'In that case . . . on how many others were you not as guilty as ever your feeble powers would allow? For shame to quibble so. It was unfortunate; but it gives you no moral height at all. None whatsoever. Your only course is to crawl flat on your belly, roaring out Peccavi and beating your bosom. And I will tell you something, Jack: both you and Sophie are afflicted, deeply afflicted, with that accursed blemish jealously, that most pernicious flaw, which sours all life both within and without; and if you do not heave your wind you may be hopelessly undone.'
'I have always prided myself on a perfect freedom from jealousy,' said Jack.
'For a great while I prided myself on my transcendent beauty, on much the same grounds; or even better,' said Stephen.
They finished their beer; and presently Stephen, coming back into the cabin from the quarter-gallery, said, 'But I am glad you did not open your mind: later you would have held it against me, and in any case I could not have given you the sympathy that you would have felt your right. In the morning I must almost certainly cut a man for the stone, and marital discord, above all that which is based upon misapprehensions, seems trifling in comparison with undergoing a lithotomy at sea and a probable death in extreme apprehension, inhuman suffering and distress of mind—the ultimate distress of mind.'
Chapter Seven
Mr Gray underwent the operation with the utmost fortitude. Physically he had no choice, since he was immovably attached to the dreadful chair, his legs wide apart and his bare belly open to the knife: the fortitude was on another plane altogether and although Stephen had cut many and many a patient—patient in the sense of sufferer—he had never known anything to equal Gray's steady voice, nor his perfectly coherent thanks when they cast off the leather-covered chains and his shockingly-marked pale glistening face sank back at last.
The loss of any patient grieved Stephen professionally and often personally and for a long time. He did not think he should lose Gray, although indeed the case had been almost desperate; but a sullen deep infection slowly gained in spite of all that Dr Maturin could do and they buried him in two thousand fathoms some time before the squadron picked up the north-east trades.
The wind, though steady, blew gently at first and the Commodore had an excellent proof of his ships' sailing qualities: when they
were making their best way consonant with keeping station, the Bellona could give the Stately royals and lower studdingsails; the Aurora could outsail both two-deckers; but the Thames could only just keep up. It did not seem to Jack the fault of her hull, nor a want of activity when the hands raced aloft to loose sail, but rather the absence of anyone in authority who understood the finer points of sailing—sheets hauled aft by main force, the tack hard down, and bowlines fiddle-string taut whenever the breeze came a little forward of the beam was their universal maxim, though they still outshone all the rest in the matter of gleaming brass and paint; and it had to be admitted that they now fired their guns a little quicker, if not much more accurately. The smaller ships, Smith's twenty-gun Camilla and Dick Richardson's twenty-two-gun Laurel, were his delight, however. They were both excellently well handled and they both had many of the virtues, of the dear Surprise, being good sea-boats, very weatherly, and almost as devoid of leeway as a square-rigged ship could possibly be.
'I will tell you what it is, Stephen,' said Jack, and they standing in the stern-gallery surrounded by gilt figures of a former age, the age of long waistcoats, 'the glass has shot up in a very whimsical fashion, and in these waters I have never known that happen without there followed a clock-calm or something close to it. In the last dog-watch—oh, Stephen, whenever I say that I remember your exquisitely beautiful explanation: that the short watch was so called because it was curtailed—cur-tailed—so dog—oh ha, ha, ha, ha—and I often laugh aloud. Well, if my calculations and Tom's and the master's are right, we should then cut the thirty-first parallel, and I must open my sealed orders. Our noon observation was so close that I really could have done so then, but I have a superstitious reverence for such things. How I hope there will be good news in them—orders to seek out the enemy—something like real wartime sailoring—with a squadron this size it would not be unusual—rather than skirmishing about for a parcel of miserable slavers . . .'
'Perhaps the miserable slaves may be worthy of consideration too,' observed Stephen.
'Oh, certainly; and I should very much dislike being a slave myself. But Nelson did say that if you abolished the trade . . .' He broke off, saying, 'However,' for this was one of the few points on which they wholly disagreed. 'Do you think, Stephen,' he went on after a moment during which the Ringle shot across their wake—she, being the Bellona's tender, was not required to keep to any particular station, so long as she was always within hail, and Reade made the most of her delightful powers—'Do not think that I am murmuring or discontented or ungrateful for having this splendid command. But I have thought, and reflected, and pondered . . .'
'Brother,' said Stephen, 'you grow prolix.'
'. . . and I believe it is too splendid for the work it is given. Besides, there are several things I have disliked about it almost from the beginning: it was booted abroad like any football, and the newspapers had pieces like "We learn from a gentleman very close to the Ministry that extremely strong measures against the odious traffic in Negroes have been decided to be made, and the gallant Captain Aubrey, determined that Freedom shall reign by sea as well as by land, has sailed with a powerful squadron", and the wretch names them all with complement and number of guns. And that paper, with the Post and the Courier, also pointed out, very truly, that this was the first time line-of-battle ships had ever been sent on such a mission. "A very great effort to stamp out this vile commerce in human flesh was to be made, which redounded much to the something of the Ministry." I read that in Lisbon; and then there were dozens more of the same kind. There has been a great deal of fuss and unnecessary talk, often very personal and unpleasant—flashy. How can we be expected to take them by surprise if it is shouted from the housetops? But what I really meant to say was that whether there is good news or no, I am sure as you can be of anything at sea that there will be little wind or none at all, and I mean to ask the post captains to dinner. You cannot have an even half-efficient squadron without there is reasonable good understanding.'
'If you wish to reach a good understanding with the Purple Emperor, you have but to tell him of Lord Nelson, slavery and the Royal Navy. His surgeon consulted me about the imperial health: I went across to look at the patient, and he gave me his views on our mission: it was the greatest nonsense to try to guard a great stretch of coast from north to south with a squadron of our size. And even if we were confined to the general area of Whydah for example, no ship of the line and very few frigates could catch a slaver, except in very heavy weather. They were nearly all long low schooners, very weatherly, built above all for speed and handled by capital seamen. But even if that was not the case, what would be the point? The poor creatures, coming from all sorts of tribes in the interior, with no common language between them and often deadly hatred, were, upon being rescued, put down in Sierra Leone or some other crowded well-meaning place and told to till a plot—people who had never tilled anything in their lives and who ate different kinds of food. No, no. It was far better, far kinder, to let them take the rapid and easy middle passage, be landed quickly in the West Indies and sold to men who would not only look after them—anyone with any sense of his own interest takes care of what has cost him dear—but who might also make Christians of them, which was the kindest thing of all, since the slaves would be saved, while all those left in Africa or taken back to Africa must necessarily be damned. He then repeated your piece about the abolition of the slave-trade being the destruction of the Navy, and ended by saying that slavery was approved in Holy Writ. He was, however, firmly determined to carry out his orders to the very best of his ability, that being the duty of an officer.'
'What did you say to that, Stephen?'
'Faith, I said nothing—there were few intervals into which I could have slipped a word—but from time to time I made a noncommittal movement of my head. Then I prescribed him a dose that may have a mollifying effect: it will certainly purge his more malignant humours.'
'Perhaps he will be better company. It must be a weary life, being in a permanent state of rage or at least at half-cock.' Jack's ear caught the little ping of the chiming and repeating watch in Stephen's pocket. 'The last dog,' he cried, and walking into the cabin he rang for a midshipman. 'Mr Wetherby,' he said, 'be so good as to carry my compliments to Captain Pullings and say that I should like to know the distance made good since the noon observation.'
'Aye aye, sir,' said the young gentleman, and he came back in under a minute with a slip of paper. Jack looked at it, smiled, stepped into the master's day-cabin for a last check, and hurried to the iron box in his locker—pierced iron, weighted with lead, for documents that must not be taken, that must sink on being thrown overboard, sunk at once, beyond recovery: signals, codes, official letters. His secret orders were the most voluminous he had ever received, and he saw with keen pleasure that they included the remarks and observations of those commanders who had preceded him since 1808 with the same missions, for his own acquaintance with the coast was almost entirely confined to sailing past it as far off and as quickly as possible, an extraordinarily unhealthy part of the world and, close in, with variable winds or calms, and distressing currents.
But when he had turned them over he ran his eye down the orders themselves, and half way along his face glowed bright with pleasure. With extreme rapidity his glance seized the fact that having harrassed the slavers, he was at a certain date and in a given longitude and latitude, to assemble the ships named in the margin and steer an appropriate course to intercept and destroy a French squadron that would sail from Brest at a given date, at first heading for the Azores and then in or about twenty-five degrees of west longitude changing course for Bantry Bay. All this was accompanied by a mass of qualifications, but Jack was used to them; he had grasped the essence in a moment and his eyes ran down to the paragraph that had ended so many of his orders: that in this undertaking he was to consult and advise with Dr Stephen Maturin (through whom more precise dates and positions might later be conveyed through suitable chann
els) on all points that might have a political or diplomatic significance. Disregarding the assurance (their Lordships' graceful finishing touch) that he must not fail in this or any part of it as he would answer the contrary at his peril, he called Stephen in from the great stern-gallery, the most engaging piece of naval architecture known to man, in fact. But hardly had the Doctor turned before the radiance in Jack's face, smile, eyes dropped by two or three powers: the French clearly intended another invasion of Ireland, or liberation as they put it, and he felt a little shy of broaching the matter. Stephen had never made his views vehemently, injuriously clear, but Jack knew very well that he preferred the English to stay in England and to leave the government of Ireland to the Irish.
Stephen saw the change in his face—a large essentially red face in spite of the tan in which his blue eyes shone with an uncommon brilliance, a face made for good humour—and the papers in his hand.
'You know all about this, I am sure, Stephen?' Stephen nodded. 'Anyhow, there is a paper for you'—holding it out—'Shall we take a turn on the poop?'
Privacy, even for a commodore of the first class with a post-captain under him and a rear-admiral's hat, was a rare bird in the man-of-war, that intensely curious and gossiping community, above all in a man-of-war with such more than usually inquisitive hands as Killick and his mate Grimble, whose duties took them into holy places and who were extraordinarily knowing about which grating on which deck and with which wind was likely to carry voices best.
The poop, a fine lordly sweep of about fifty feet by twenty-eight, was soon cleared of the signal yeoman and his friends and Jack and Stephen paced the deck athwartships for a while.
'You are puzzled to know how to begin, my dear,' said Stephen after half a dozen turns, 'so I will tell you how it is. The Irish question, as people are coming to call it in the newspapers, can as I see it be solved by two simple measures, Catholic emancipation and the dissolution of the Union; and it is possible, possible, that this may come about in time without violence. But were the French to be there and busily arming the discontented there would be the very Devil to pay—endless violence—and it might even tip the balance, giving that infernal Buonaparte the victory. And where would Ireland be then? In a very much worse state, under an efficient and totally unscrupulous tyranny, Catholic only in name, and remarkably avid for spoil. Think of Rome, Venice, Switzerland, Malta . . . No. Though it would grieve many of my friends, I should, with all my heart, prevent a French landing. I have served long enough in the Navy to prefer the lesser of two weevils.'