The Golden Ocean

by Patrick O'Brian

  Fractosque remos differat”—Let the black East, the sea having been turned upside-down, carry away her booms.’

  He skipped a little to the piece the berth had particularly relished.

  ‘“O quantos instat sudor tuis,

  Tibique pallor luteus”—Oh what a sweat bedews your crew, and oh what a tallowy colour you are yourself.

  “Et illa non virilis ejulatio,

  Preces et adversum ad Joven”—and that effeminate wailing, those prayers to unregarding Jove … extended upon the winding shore, you shall delight the cormorants, who like that kind of thing; and a libidinous he-goat together with a ewe-lamb shall be a thank-offering to the tempests.’

  ‘Unkind to the libidinous goat, however,’ said Peter, closing the book. It was unkind to the first lieutenant, too; for he had worn himself wrinkled and thin in a not unsuccessful attempt to guide the midshipmen in the way they should go—an uncommonly thankless task. Peter yawned again, curled up on the locker, and in two minutes was fast asleep, wheezing gently—whee-soo, whee-soo, in time with the long pitch and roll of the ship. He had, deeply engrained by now, the sailor’s ability to sleep at any moment of the day or night: he also had the naval habit of becoming instantly and wholly awake at the least unusual sound. The thunder of Bailey’s enormous feet coming below would never have stirred him, nor the crash of the evening gun: but a wrong note in the rigging, the sound of the way going off the ship, would pierce through all the disregarded clamour and rouse him at once.

  The sound that brought him to his feet now, however, was one that would have roused a sailor nine parts dead, if he were cruising upon the Spaniards in the Pacific. ‘Sail ho,’ came down from the mast-head, and as Peter reached the quarterdeck Keppel had already flung the signal-yeoman the flags that raced up to bid the squadron chase.

  There was no need to ask where away: telescopes at the mast-heads all converged upon some white fleck to the leeward, invisible from the deck, and the few free eyes aboard were all trained round and fixed. Few free eyes, for the Centurion was crowding on sail to the height of the crew’s desire, and one cannot shake out a reef and stare at a prize for long, however clever one may be.

  ‘We are gaining,’ said Preston. ‘She’s hull up already. Look at Tryal’s Prize; miles behind.’

  ‘She has carried away her starboard main-tops’l stuns’l boom,’ said Peter, swinging his glass back to the fleeing Spaniard. ‘If we do the same,’ he added, squinting along the yard to where the long, tapering boom bent with the thrust of the studding-sail, ‘this mast will go by the board, and we shall lose her: it is only fished in the woulding.’

  ‘I know,’ said Preston. ‘But that need not worry us, I mean about losing her, because if the mast goes, we shall certainly be killed, ha, ha.’

  ‘Lord,’ cried Peter, ‘how she runs. We are making eight knots—’

  ‘Nine,’ said Preston.

  —‘Eight,’ said Peter. ‘And she must be making seven at the least.’

  ‘That can’t be three bells?’ cried Preston aghast.

  ‘It is, though,’ said Peter, looking back at the sun. ‘One more hour of light, and no moon at all.’

  Three bells in the last dog watch. Four bells as Peter came down. The sun, with its maddening tropical habit of dipping at six, was nearly touching the sea: from the deck the Spaniard’s hull could just be seen now, but unless she carried a mast away she would still be miles ahead by the dark, and then she would certainly tack.

  The sun went down: it went suddenly down, and the night in the eastern sky swept in a huge arc towards the zenith. It was dark night on the starboard beam; a violet, momentary twilight high overboard; and on the larboard hung an orange remnant of the day. Then—you could see it move—the arc of night passed over the masts, down the bowl of the sky, to close in the uttermost west; and it was dark. Already the stars were huge and lambent: behind the Centurion’s stern the Southern Cross sprawled across blackness; and the dingy, patched, weather-worn sails had all turned ghostly white—the courses and part of the topsails: the others could no longer be seen except as spectral hints against the stars.

  The watch below was a watch below in name only: not a man moved from the deck. At the common table and in the separate gun-deck messes the rats walked slowly about, choosing the least unpleasant biscuits: in the midshipmen’s berth the burgoo steamed and grew lukewarm—it could not grow cold, for the temperature was 98° down there.

  ‘We will have the royals off her, if you please, Mr Brett, and the stuns’ls,’ said the Commodore.

  The upper-yardsmen vanished in the shrouds, vague forms in the velvet night, all muttering ‘Why?’ and ‘Eh?’ within themselves.

  ‘Sail,’ cried the mast-head. ‘Sail ho …’

  ‘Sail hee,’ whispered Keppel.

  ‘… right ahead.’ The look-out’s voice was uncertain. This was the third hail for an imaginary ship since sundown.

  ‘Mr Stapleton,’ cried the Commodore, ‘what do you find?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ came down after a long pause. ‘I see nothing from here.’

  ‘Quartermaster,’ snapped the Commodore. The Centurion had yawed, a barely perceptible yaw as the helmsman tried to keep one eye on the binnacle while the other ranged over the bowsprit.

  ‘Mr Anson, sir,’ said Colonel Cracherode, to Peter’s infinite relief, ‘will you indulge a landsman’s curiosity and allow me to ask what—to enquire whether—’

  ‘Whether the chase has tacked, sir? It is very likely, indeed. As I conceive it, the Spaniard will have borne his helm a-weather just after sunset; and just about now he will tack again to steer for the land under a strong press of sail. That is why we are holding our course, in the hope of intercepting him on the second reach. I may very well be mistaken: but if I were the Spanish captain, that is what I should do. Mr Brett, we may take a reef in the topsails, I believe. And perhaps it would be best if you were to carry a night-glass aloft yourself.’

  Mr Brett had barely reached the maintop before his voice came down, strong with excitement—surprisingly loud, ‘Sail four points on the larboard bow.’

  ‘Hands to the braces,’ cried the Commodore. ‘Port your helm. Clap on to that bowline there. Mr Ransome, the main tack: bear a hand.’

  The Centurion turned smoothly to the wind: far aloft Peter and his party waited for the order, and the second it came they let fall the fore topgallantsail and raced in off the yard; it was instantly sheeted home, and under the additional thrust the Centurion plunged her head into her bow-wave: but this interesting sight was lost on Peter, he being wholly taken up with staring at the faint loom ahead, a hint of white in the starlight.

  Twenty minutes later she was no faint hint of a half-guessed whiteness, but a ship within long gun-shot, clear and distinct.

  ‘One,’ said Mr Randall; and for the first time in his life Peter saw a gun fired in earnest. A brilliant orange tongue shot towards the chase, and for a split fragment of time the scattering of the wad could be seen in it: in the instantly succeeding darkness the yellow stab still played in his eyes, to be replaced within the second by two more blinding jets as the gunner intoned, ‘Three. And five.’ The Centurion yawed again: the starboard fo’c’sle guns beginning to bear, and they fired as they bore.

  ‘She is forereaching us,’ observed the Commodore. ‘Three of canister above her tops, Mr Randall. That will discourage her upper-yardmen, I fancy. Keep it high, Mr Randall. Do not hull her upon any account.’

  Now the guns in the waist spoke out, one, two, then three together.

  ‘She has struck, sir,’ reported the third lieutenant to Mr Brett, touching his hat.

  ‘Sir, she has struck, if you please,’ said Mr Brett, turning to the Commodore.

  ‘Very good, Mr Brett. Mr Dennis will take possession and send the prisoners aboard with the utmost dispatch,’ said the Commodore, turning and going below.

  ‘Aye-aye, sir. Cutter’s crew. Mr Palafox, the cutter away. Mr Bowles, serve out p
istols and cutlasses. Step lively.’

  Peter had never a word of Spanish, so he understood little of the submission of the Spanish captain, nor of Mr Dennis’s orders to the Spanish crew in the waist of the ship: but he knew what he was there for, and as the prisoners got under way he shepherded them into the cutter, delivered them aboard the Centurion, and returned for more. The second time he came back with his load he had gathered enough information to whisper to Bailey in the chains, ‘Only a—merchantman with coconuts and leather—no sort of a prize.’

  But the third time he came alongside the Spaniard he heard a dismal wailing and screeching aboard, an oath, and a man falling down.

  ‘Rogers, keep the boat. T’others come along of me,’ he cried and raced up with a cocked pistol tucked under his arm and a cutlass in his right hand—a tricky feat on a steep ship’s side. The din came from the great cabin, and as Peter reached the deck he saw the lieutenant stagger backwards from the cabin with a scared and anxious look on his face. Three lines of blood were trickling down his cheek.

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ cried Peter.

  ‘It’s a horrible pack of women,’ said Mr Dennis, ‘and they won’t come out. They were hidden under beds and things, and then all swarmed out. One bit me,’ he added vaguely, sucking his finger. ‘Go on, Williams,’ he commanded, ‘rouse them out into the cutter.’

  ‘Beg parding, sir,’ said Williams, coming reluctantly into the light. ‘I tried once, sir.’

  ‘A fine sight,’ cried the lieutenant, glaring round the half-circle of timid faces.

  ‘After you, sir,’ said an unseen hand in the shadow of the main-mast.

  ‘The Commodore said “with the utmost dispatch”,’ muttered the lieutenant in a desperate whisper, with a wistful look at the door.

  ‘May I have a go?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Mr Dennis.

  Peter opened the door with a masterful swing. Three seconds later he shot out again, his ideas about women quite changed.

  ‘Well, sir—’ he began, reassembling his scattered locks, but a hail from the Centurion cut him short. The Commodore wished to know the reason for the delay.

  ‘Directly, sir,’ cried the distracted lieutenant.

  ‘The fact is, sir,’ said Peter in a rapid undertone, ‘one of the women is—ahem—in a very interesting condition, sir. So I thought it would be barbarous to insist. A matter for the Commodore, perhaps, sir? Would you wish me to explain?’

  ‘Make it so, Mr Palafox,’ said Mr Dennis with profound relief. ‘My respects, and the women being in a delicate state of health cannot be moved. Request further instructions, and venture to suggest they be indulged in the use of their quarters, for the time being.’

  A splash of oars, a pause, and Peter came limping up the side again, followed by two Marines and the Spanish pilot. ‘Suggestion approved, sir, if you please,’ he said. ‘The pilot to be allowed to keep up the women’s spirits—is married to one. Sentries to stand guard together. And I am to say, sir, that the Commodore expressly orders that the women are to receive no inquietude or molestation.’

  ‘Molestation, Mr Palafox?’

  ‘That’s it, sir. No molestation whatsoever.’

  ‘Ha, ha, Mr Palafox?’

  ‘Ha, ha, it is, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Palafox. And I tell you what,’ added the lieutenant privately, clapping him warmly on the shoulder, ‘I won’t forget this, my dear fellow.’

  ‘Oh, if you please,’ cried Peter, writhing with anguish.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That is where she got home with the poker. Oh, sir,’ he exclaimed, ‘is it reasonable or just to carry a poker aboard in ten degrees south?’

  ‘Where is that—cutter?’ asked the Centurion.

  ‘Brown paper, vinegar and Venice treacle, Mr Palafox,’ called the lieutenant over the side, ‘to be applied twice every hour.’

  Dawn, sunset, dawn and another prize, a small one. The excitement subsiding, and the word passing for Peter throughout the ship.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Palafox,’ said the Commodore, as Peter hurried into the great sunlit stateroom. ‘Good Heavens, what have you been doing to your face?’

  ‘I fell down, sir,’ said Peter.

  ‘Humph,’ said the Commodore. ‘Well, be that as it may, I have sent for you to see whether you can help us with a prisoner from this new prize. Mr Blew cannot make out his Spanish, but thinks he may be an Irishman. You understand the Irish language, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I beg you will address him in that tongue. Sit down here, by me. Sergeant, bring the man forward.’

  ‘He is from the County Kerry, sir,’ said Peter, after a rapid interchange in Irish. ‘Won’t give his name nor his parish. He is afraid of being taken up for a rebel, sir, and that his people at home will be troubled.’

  ‘Ask him how he comes to be here.’

  ‘He says he was brought by a great ugly—by a Marine, sir, too big for him to fight.’

  ‘No, do not be foolish, Mr Palafox. What is the reason for his presence in these seas, the chain of events? If he was taken by the Spaniards against his will, and if he can give information about their dispositions, he will certainly not be treated as a rebel, but rewarded and carried to his own country. Will you make that clear to him?’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir.’

  ‘This is taking a long time, Mr Palafox,’ said the Commodore.

  ‘I beg pardon, sir. He had to be convinced of the right of King George to the Irish crown. But I think it was worth it, sir.’

  ‘Is he convinced of it now?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So much the better. Now what can he tell us?’

  ‘Sir, he says there are four merchant ships in the harbour of Paita and two galleys belonging to the King of Spain. He knows the town very well, having been there as a pedlar these many years: he says they are all the great thieves of the world, and they living in glory and as heavy with gold as Nebuchadnezzar.’

  ‘Never mind that, Mr Palafox. Ascertain the force of the defence, the disposition of the guns, and try to get an intelligible account of the town: draw a plan while he tells you.’

  ‘Five streets down, and five streets across: and this is the fort, and here is the landing-place. And this is the church, so?’

  ‘That is just the way of it, your honour,’ said the pedlar. ‘What an elegant picture it is, to be sure, as like to Saint Lawrence’s grid as ever could be. And when will his lordship give me the Sassenach guineas, the pulse of my heart?’

  ‘There are eight guns in the fort?’

  ‘Eight, your honour, there are; besides those that lie on their sides.’

  ‘And where is the treasure?’ asked Peter suddenly, on his own.

  ‘Why, where would it be at all but in the Customs House here on the quay?’ asked the pedlar. ‘The whole world knows that. It is the merchants’ treasure I am speaking about, of course, for the King’s treasure is in the fort, where Don Diego does be sitting counting it in the heat of the day and filing the edges off the gold pieces for his private advantage, the thief, and he the Governor of the town.’

  ‘Here in the fort, the King’s treasure?’

  ‘In the strong fort itself.’

  ‘So there we shall find it.’

  ‘You will not,’ said the pedlar, ‘for am I not telling your honour the way the Spaniards had news of your coming this blessed Wednesday itself, and were they not hurrying the treasure inland a twelve leagues out of your way when I left Paita?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Peter. ‘And the merchants’ treasure also, is it gone with it?’

  ‘It is not,’ said the pedlar. ‘Would the merchants trust Don Diego with a single morsel of coin? They would not. They are thieves, but not fools.’

  ‘Is it there, so? Does it lie yet in the great house on the quay?’

  ‘You may say that it does, your honour; and you may say it does not. For sure it is like a
bird on the spring to fly in the air, and the merchants have the swift-sailing ship ready to float it away. On Saturday they charge it into her belly, and at this minute they do be laying on tallow and grease, the way she will swim the faster: for were they not beginning as I left Paita, and that not twenty hours since? And she is the great ship of the sea, to take so much within her—for it is a huge treasure, your honour, not like the King’s at all which would be too small to wrap in a handkerchief without being lost now the Governor has had his way with it—and she is the bird of the sea for outrunning the wind so she is. Your honour will never ill-wish the poor pedlar, for saying your glorious ship will never reach the town in twenty-four hours, when the treasure takes wing.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Commodore, when Peter had relayed the news. ‘Pass the word for Mr Brett. There is no time like the present, Mr Palafox,’ he said, getting up. ‘Take this man for’ard. Take my notes with you. Run through the whole account with him twice. If there is any material discrepancy report to me at once. Twenty-four hours, he said?’

  In a matter of minutes later the Centurion was under full sail. The little crabs that lived in the long trailing mass of tropical weed on her bottom swam no more; they clung on to the barnacles and to the holes where the teredos burrowed like augers into the heart of oak and her sheathing.

  Twenty-four hours, in which they prayed for the usual Spanish delay and trimmed the sails with fanatical care. The ship was alive with rumours, for the Irish pedlar was at large, having passed the most rigorous examination, and through Sean and the other Irishmen he made known the glories of the poetic imagination. He had confined himself to the truth with Peter—he was terribly frightened then—but now he was no longer under that unnatural constraint.

  Twenty-four hours, in which the slightest variation in the wind was noted with anxious attention: for there was no man aboard who supposed that a foul ship, well over a year at sea, could catch one with a newly tallowed bottom, however great the zeal of the sailors.

  In spite of the sharks there was an eager press of volunteers to be lowered over the side with weights on their feet and an axe to cut away some of the growth. This meant being half-keel-hauled, and keel-hauling, next to death or being flogged through the fleet (which was much the same thing) was the most dreaded of punishments: yet they flocked up for it, and during a horrible hour of dead calm they actually managed to hack a certain amount of the worst and longest away. But the Commodore stopped it when Dog-faced Joe and Boscawen were both brought up unconscious, with blood in their ears—stopped it much against the will of the crew, who were quite happy to sacrifice Dog-faced Joe, and even against the faint protests of the reviving Joe himself.