Post Captain

by Patrick O'Brian

  Jack fell with the rest. He was trampled upon. Clearing himself from the limbs and bodies he leapt to the rail. 'Goodridge' Goodridge ahoy! Can you bring her alongside?'

  'I dare not, sir. Not on the ebb. I've only got a couple of fathoms here. No boat?'

  'No boat. Heave in quick and bend on another line. D'ye hear me, now?' He could scarcely hear himself. The gun-brigs had worked round and were firing over the bank from near the harbour. He stripped off his coat, laid down his sword and went straight in; and as he dived a jagged piece of iron caught him on the head, sending him deep under. But dazed or not his body swam on, and he found his hands scrabbling at the Fanciulla's side. 'Haul me aboard,' he cried.

  He sat, gasping and streaming, on deck. 'Is there anyone here can swim?' Not a word, no answer. 'I'll try on a grating,' said an anxious voice.

  'Give me the line,' he said, walking to the stern-ladder.

  'Won't you sit down, sir, and take a dram? You're all bloody, sir,' said Goodridge, with a beseeching look into his face. Jack shook his head impatiently, and the blood spattered the deck. Every second counted, on the ebb. Even now there was six inches less of water round the Polychrest. He went down the ladder, let himself into the water and pushed off, swimming on his back. The sky was in a state of almost continual coruscation: between the flashes the moon shone out, her face bent like a shield. Abruptly he realized that there were two moons, floating apart, turning; and Cassiopeia was the wrong way about. Water filled his throat. 'By God, I'm tiring. Wits going,' he said, and slid round in the water, straining his head up and taking his bearings. The Polychrest was far over on his left: not ahead. And hailing; yes, they were hailing. He took a turn with the line round his shoulder and concentrated his whole spirit on swimming, fixing the ship, plunging with every stroke, fixing it again: but such feeble strokes. Of course, it was against the tide: and how the line dragged.

  'Thus, very well thus,' he said, changing his direction to allow for the current. In the last twenty yards his strength seemed to revive, but he could only cling there under her stern—no force in his arms to get aboard. They were fussing about, trying to haul him in. 'Take the line, God damn you all,' he cried in a voice that he heard from a distance. 'Carry it for'ard and heave, heave . . .'

  At the foot of the stern-ladder Bonden lifted him out of the water, guided him up, and he sat on a match-tub while the capstan turned fast, then slower, slower, slower. And all the time they heaved the slow steady swell lifted the Polychrest's stern and set it down with a thump on the hard sand; and all the French artillery played upon her. The carpenter hurried past with still another wad to stop a shot-hole; they had hulled the Polychrest perhaps a dozen times since he had been back aboard, but now he was utterly indifferent to their fire—a mere background, a nuisance, a hindrance to the one thing that really mattered. 'Heave and rally, heave and rally,' he cried. The full strain was on: not a click from the capstan-pawls. He staggered to an empty place on a bar and threw his weight forward, slipping in blood, finding his feet again. Click: and the whole capstan was groaning. Click. 'She moves,' whispered the man next to him. A slow, hesitant grind, and then as the swell came along from aft she lifted clear. 'She swims! She swims!' Wild cheering, and an answering cheer from over the water.

  'Heave, heave," he said. She must be pulled full clear. Now the capstan turned, now it fairly span, faster than the cable could be passed forward, and the Polychrest surged heavily right into the deep channel. ' 'Vast heaving. All hands to make sail. Mr Parker, everything that can be set.'

  'What? I beg pardon, sir? I did not—' It did not matter. The seamen who had heard were aloft: the tattered mainsail dropped, the mainstaysail almost whole, and the Polychrest had steering-way. She was alive under him, and the life rose into his heart, quite filling him again. 'Mr Goodridge" he shouted with new strength, 'cut your cables and lead me out by the Ras du Point. Veer out a towline as soon as you are under way.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  He took the wheel, moving her over to the windward side of the channel, so that her leeway should not run her aground again. Lord, how heavy she was, and how she wallowed on the swell! How low in the water, too. A little more sail appeared—mizzen topmast staysail, a piece of driver, odd scraps; but they gave her two knots, and with the run of the tide, setting straight down the channel, he should carry her out of range in ten minutes. 'Mr Rolfe.'

  'Mr Rolfe's dead, sir.'

  'His mate, then: the guns back into their places.' It was no good asking Parker; the man was only just holding himself upright. 'Mr Pullings, take some lively hands forward and see if you can pick up the towline. What is it, Mr Gray?'

  'Six foot of water below, sir, if you please. And the Doctor says may he put the wounded into your cabin? He moved 'em from the cockpit to the gun-room, but now it's all awash.'

  'Yes. Certainly. Can you come at any more of the holes? We'll have the pumps going directly.'

  'I'll do my best, sir; but I fear it's not the shot-holes. She's opening like a flower.'

  A fury of shot drowned his words, some of it glowing red, for now they had the furnaces at work: mostly wide and astern, but three went home, jarring the water-logged ship from stem to stern and cutting the last of her starboard mizzen shrouds. Babbington came staggering aft, one sleeve hanging empty, to report the towline aboard and made fast to the knight-heads.

  'Very good, Mr Babbington. Allen, take some hands below and help Dr Maturin move the wounded into the cabin.' He realized that he was shouting with great force, and that there was no need to be shouting. Everywhere, apart from one wicked long gun in the Convention battery, there was silence: silence and dimness, for the moon was dipping low. He felt the towline tighten, plucking at the Polychrest; and she gave a little spurt. The corvette just ahead had set her courses as well as main and fore top-sails, and they were busy clearing the wreck of her mizzen topmast. What a pretty thing she was, taut and trim: great strength in her pull—she would be a fast one.

  They were running along the landward edge of the East Anvil—the bank was above the surface now, with a gentle surf breaking over it—and ahead of them was the opening of the Ras du Point, full of the transports. They too seemed unaware of the Fanciulla's changed character—sitting ducks—the chance of a lifetime.

  'Mr Goodridge, there. How are your guns?'

  'Prime, sir, prime. Brass twelve-pounders: and four eights. Plenty of cartridge filled.'

  'Then lead right through those transports, will you?'

  'Aye aye, sir.'

  'Jenkins, how is our powder?'

  'Drowned, sir. The magazine is drowned. But we got three rounds a gun, and shot a-plenty.'

  'Then double-shot 'em, Jenkins, and we'll give them a salute as we pass by.'

  It would be no stylish broadside; there were scarcely enough men even to fire both sides, let alone run the guns in and out, loading fast; but it would mark the point. And it was in his orders. He laughed aloud; and he laughed too to find that he was holding himself up by the wheel.

  The moonlight faded; the Ras du Point glided very slowly nearer. Pullings had set up some kind of a jury-rig forward, and another sail was drawing. Parslow was fast asleep under the shattered fife-rail.

  Now there was movement, agitation, among the transports. He heard a hail, and a muffled response from the Fanciulla, followed by low laughter. Sails appeared, and with them confusion.

  The Fanciulla was a hundred yards ahead. 'Mr Goodridge,' called Jack, 'back your maintops'l a trifle.' The Polychrest ploughed heavily on, closing the distance. The transports were moving in several directions: at least three had fallen foul of one another in the narrow channel. The moments passed in dreamlike procession, and then suddenly there it was, the immediate vivid action, vivid even after all this saturation of noise and violence. One transport on the port bow, two hundred yards away; three locked together, aground, to starboard. 'Fire as they bear,' said Jack, putting down the helm two points. At the same moment the Fanciulla burst in
to flame and smoke—a much shriller crash. Now they were in the middle of them, firing both sides. The grounded vessels waved lanterns, shouting something that could not be heard. Another, having missed stays, drifted down the Polychrest's side after the last carronade had shot its final charge. Her yards caught in the Polychrest's remaining shrouds; some bright spirit lashed her mainyard fast; and standing there right under the mouth of her empty guns her commander said he had struck.

  'Take possession, Mr Pullings,' said Jack. 'Keep close under my lee. You can only have five men. Mr Goodridge, Mr Goodridge! Stand on.'

  In half an hour the channel was clear of floating transports. Three had grounded. Two had run themselves ashore. One had sunk—the twenty-four pound smashers at close range—and the rest had doubled into the outer road or back to Chaulieu, where one was set ablaze by red-hot shot from St Jacques. And in half an hour, the time to run the length of the channel and to wreak all this havoc, the Polychrest was moving so heavily, keeping such a strain on the towline, that Jack hailed the Fanciulla and the transport to come alongside.

  He went below, Bonden holding him by the arm, confirmed the carpenter's desperate report, gave orders for the wounded to be moved into the corvette, the prisoners to be secured, his papers brought, and sat there as the three vessels rocked on the gentle swell of slack water, watching the tired men carry their shipmates, their belongings, all the necessaries out of the Polychrest.

  'It is time to go, sir,' said Parker, with Pullings and Rossall standing by him, ready to lift their captain over.

  'Go,' said Jack. 'I shall follow you.' They hesitated, caught the earnestness of his tone and look, crossed and stood hovering on the rail of the corvette. Now the veering breeze blew off the land; the eastern sky was lightening; they were out of the Ras du Point, beyond the shoals; and the water in the offing was a fine deep blue. He stood up, walked as straight as he could to a ruined gun-port, made a feeble spring that just carried him to the Fanciulla, staggered, and turned to look at his ship. She did not sink for a good ten minutes, and by then the blood—what little he had left—had made a pool at his feet. She went very gently, with a sigh of air rushing through the hatches, and settled on the bottom, the tips of her broken masts showing a foot above the surface.

  'Come, brother,' said Stephen in his ear, very like a dream. 'Come below. You must come below—here is too much blood altogether. Below, below. Here, Bonden, carry him with me.'

  Chapter Twelve

  Fanciulla

  The Downs

  20 September 04

  My dear Sir,

  By desire of your son William, my brave and respectable midshipman, I write a hasty line to inform you of our brush with the French last week. The claim of distinction which has been bestowed on the ship I commanded, I must entirely, after God, attribute to the zeal and fidelity of my officers, amongst whom your son stands conspicuous. He is very well, and I hope will continue so. He had the misfortune of being wounded a few minutes after boarding the Fanciulla, and his arm is so badly broken, that I fear it must suffer amputation. But as it is his left arm, and likely to do well under the great skill of Dr Maturin, I hope you will think it an honourable mark instead of a misfortune.

  We ran into Chaulieu road on the 14th instant and had the annoyance of grounding in a fog under the cross-fire of their batteries, when it became necessary to cut out a vessel to heave us off. We chose a ship moored under one of the batteries and proceeded with all dispatch in the boats. It was in taking her that your son received his wound: and she proved to be the Ligurian corvetto Fanciulla of 20 guns, with some French officers. We then proceeded to attack the transports, your son exerting himself all this time with the utmost gallantry, of which we took one, sank one, and drove five ashore. At this point the Polychrest unfortunately sank, having been hulled by upwards of 200 shot and having beaten five hours on the bank. We therefore proceeded in the prizes to the Downs, where the court-martial, sitting yesterday afternoon in the Monarch, most honourably acquitted the Polychrest's officers for the loss of their ship, not without some very obliging remarks. You will find a fuller account of this little action in my Gazette letter, which appears in tomorrow's newspaper, and in which I have the pleasure of naming your son; and since I am this moment bound for the Admiralty, I shall have the pleasure of mentioning him to the First Lord.

  My best compliments wait on Mrs Babbington, and I am, my dear Sir,

  With great truth, sincerely yours,

  Jno. Aubrey

  PS. Dr Maturin desires his compliments, and wishes me to say, that the arm may very well be saved. But, I may add, he is the best hand in the Fleet with a saw, if it comes to that; which I am sure will be a comfort to you and Mrs Babbington.

  'Killick,' he cried, folding and sealing it. 'That's for the post. Is the Doctor ready?'

  'Ready and waiting these fourteen minutes,' said Stephen in a loud, sour voice. 'What a wretched tedious slow hand you are with a pen, upon my soul. Scratch-scratch, gasp-gasp. You might have written the Iliad in half the time, and a commentary upon it, too.'

  'I am truly sorry, my dear fellow—I hate writing letters: it don't seem to come natural, somehow.'

  'Non omnia possumus omnes,' said Stephen, 'but at least we can step into a boat at a stated time, can we not? Now here is your physic, and here is your bolus; and remember, a quart of porter with your breakfast, a quart at midday . . .'

  They reached the deck, a scene of very great activity: swabs, squeegees, holystones, prayer-books, bears grinding in all directions; her twenty brass guns hot with polishing; the smell of paint; for the Fanciullas, late Polychrests, had heard that their prize was to be bought into the service, and they felt that a pretty ship would fetch a higher price than a slattern—a price that concerned them intimately, since three-eighths of it would be theirs

  'You will bear my recommendations in mind, Mr Parker,' said Jack, preparing to go down the side.

  'Oh yes, sir,' cried Parker. 'All this is voluntary.' He looked at Jack with great earnestness; apart from any other reason, the lieutenant's entire future hung on what his captain would say of him at the Admiralty that evening.

  Jack nodded, took the side-ropes with a careful grasp and lowered himself slowly into the boat: a ragged, good-natured, but very brief cheer as it pushed off, and the Fanciullas hurried back to their scouring, currying and polishing, the surveyor was due at nine o'clock

  'A little to the left—to the larboard,' said Stephen. 'Where was I? A quart of porter with your dinner: no wine, though you may take a glass or two of cold negus before retiring; no beef or mutton—fish, I say, chicken, a pair of rabbits; and, of course, Venerem omitte.'

  'Eh? Oh, her. Yes. Certainly. Quite so. Very proper. Rowed of all—run her up.' The boat ground through the shingle. They ploughed across the beach, crossed the road into the dunes. 'Here?' asked Jack.

  'Just past the gibbet—a little dell, a place I know, convenient in every way. Here we are.' They turned a dune and there was a dark-green post-chaise and its postillion eating his breakfast out of a cloth bag.

  'I wish we could have worked the hearse,' muttered Jack.

  'Stuff. Your own father would not recognize you in that bandage and in this dirty-yellow come-kiss-me-death exsanguine state: though indeed you look fitter for a hearse than many a subject I have cut up. Come, come, there is not a moment to lose. Get in. Mind the step. Preserved Killick, take good care of the Captain: his physic, well shaken, twice a day; the bolus thrice. He may offer to forget his bolus, Killick.'

  'He'll take his nice bolus, sir, or my name's not Preserved.'

  'Clap to the door. Give way, now; give way all together. Step out! Lay aloft! Tally! And belay!'

  They stood watching the dust of the post-chaise; and Bonden said, 'Oh, I do wish as we'd worked the hearse-and-coffin lark, sir: if they was to nab him now, it would break my heart.'

  'How can you be so simple, Bonden? Do but think of a hearse and four cracking on regardless all the way up the
Dover Road. It would be bound to excite comment. And you are to consider, that a recumbent posture is bad for the Captain at present.'

  'Well, sir. But, a hearse is sure: no bum ever arrested a corpse, as I know of. Howsoever, it's too late now. Shall you pull back along of us, sir, or shall we come for you again?'

  'I am obliged to you, Bonden, but I believe I shall walk into Dover and take a boat back from there.'

  The post-chaise whirled through Kent, saying little. Ever since Chaulieu Jack had been haunted by the dread of tipstaffs. His return to the Downs, with no ship and a couple of prizes, had made a good deal of noise—very favourable noise, but still noise—and he had not set foot on shore until this morning, refusing invitations even from the Lord Warden himself. He was moderately well-to-do; the Fanciulla might bring him close on a thousand pounds and the transport a hundred or two; but would the Admiralty pay head-money according to the Fanciulla's muster-roll when so many of her people had escaped on shore? And would his claim for gun-money for the destroyed transports be allowed? His new prize-agent had shaken his head, saying he could promise nothing but delay; he had advanced a fair. sum, however, and Jack's bosom had the pleasant crinkle of Bank of England notes. Yet he was nowhere near being solvent, and passing through Canterbury, Rochester and Dartford he cowered deep in his corner. Stephen's assurances had little force with him: he knew he was Jack Aubrey, and it seemed inevitable that others too should see him as Jack Aubrey, debtor to Grobian, Slendrian and Co. for £11,012 6s 8d. With better reason it seemed to him inevitable that those interested should know that he must necessarily be summoned to the Admiralty, and take their steps accordingly. He did not get out when they changed horses; he passed most of the journey keeping out of sight and dozing—he was perpetually tired these days—and he was asleep when Killick roused him with a respectful but firm 'Time for your bolus, sir.'