Book 2 - Post Captain

by Patrick O'Brian

  Jack eyed it: this was perhaps the most nauseating dose that Stephen had ever yet compounded, so vile that health itself was scarcely worth the price of swallowing it. 'I can't get it down without a drink,' he said.

  'Hold hard,' cried Killick, putting his head and shoulders out of the window. 'Post-boy, ahoy. Pull in at the next public, d'ye hear me, there? Now, sir,'—as the carriage came to a stop—I'll just step in and see if the coast is clear.' Killick had spent little of his life ashore, and most of that little in an amphibious village in the Essex mud; but he was fly; he knew a great deal about landsmen, most of whom were crimps, pickpockets, whores, or officials of the Sick and Hurt Office, and he could tell a gum a mile off. He saw them everywhere. He was the worst possible companion for a weak, reduced, anxious debtor that could well be found, the more so in that his absolute copper bottomed certainty of being a right deep file, no sort or kind of a flat, carried a certain conviction. By way of a ruse de guerre he had somehow acquired a clergyman's hat, and this, combined with his earrings, his yard of pigtail, his watchet-blue jacket with brass buttons, his white trousers and low silver-buckled shoes, succeeded so well that several customers followed him from the tap-room to gaze while he leaned in and said to Jack, 'It's no go, sir. I seen some slang coves in the tap. You'll have to drink it in the shay. What'll it be, sir? Dog's nose? Flip? Come, sir,' he said, with the authority of the well over the sick in their care, or even out of it, 'What'll it be? For down it must go, or it will miss the tide.' Jack thought he would like a little sherry. 'Oh no, sir. No wine. The Doctor said, No wine. Porter is more the mark.' He brought back sherry—had been obliged to call for wine, it being a shay—and a mug of porter; drank the sherry, gave back such change as he saw fit, and watched the bolus go gasping, retching down, helped by the porter. 'That's thundering good physic,' he said. 'Drive on, mate.'

  The next time he woke Jack it was from a deeper sleep. 'Eh? What's amiss?' cried Jack.

  'We'm alongside, sir. We'm there.'

  'Ay. Ay. So we are,' said Jack, gazing at the familiar doorway, the familiar courtyard, and suddenly coming to life. 'Very well. Killick, stand off and on, and when you see my signal, drive smartly in and pick me up again.'

  He was sure of a fairly kind reception at the Admiralty: the cutting-out of the Fanciulla had been well spoken of in the service and very well spoken of in the press—it had come at a time when there was little to fill the papers and when people were feeling nervous and low in their spirits about the invasion. The Polychrest could not have chosen a better moment for sinking; nothing could have earned her more praise. The journalists were delighted with the fact that both ships were nominally slops and that the Fanciulla carried almost twice as many men; they did not point out that eighty of the Fanciullas were peaceable Italian conscripts, and they were good enough to number the little guns borne by the transports in the general argument. One gentleman in the Post, particularly dear to Jack's heart, had spoken of 'this gallant, nay, amazing feat, carried out by a raw crew, far below its complement and consisting largely of landsmen and boys. It must show the French Emperor the fate that necessarily awaits his invasion flotilla; for if our lion-hearted tars handle it so roughly when it is skulking behind impenetrable sand-banks under the cross-fire of imposing batteries, what may they not do should it ever put to sea?' There was a good deal more about hearts of oak and honest tars, which had pleased the Fanciullas—the more literate hearts perpetually read it to the rest from the thumbed copies that circulated through the ship—and Jack knew that it would please the Admiralty too: in spite of their lordly station they were as sensitive to loud public praise as common mortals. He knew that this approval would grow after the publication of his official letter, with its grim list of casualties—seventeen dead and twenty-three wounded—for civilians liked to have sailors' blood to deplore, and the more a victory cost the more it was esteemed. If only little Parslow could have contrived to get himself knocked on the head it would have been perfect. He also knew something that the papers did not know, but that the Admiralty did: the Fanciulla's captain had not had the time or the wit to destroy his secret papers, and for the moment the French private signals were private no longer—their codes were broken.

  But as he sat there in the waiting-room thoughts of past misdeeds filled his uneasy mind; anything that Admiral Harte's malignance could do would have been done; and in fact he had not behaved irreproachably in the Downs. Stephen's warning had fallen on a raw conscience: and it could only have come through Dundas—Dundas, who was so well placed to know what they thought of his conduct here. If his logs and order-books were sent for, there would be some things he would find hard to explain away. Those strokes of profound cunning, those little stratagems that had seemed individually so impenetrable, now in the mass took on a sadly imbecile appearance. And how did the Polychrest come to be on the sand-bank in the first place? Explain that, you infernal lubber. So he was more than usually pleased when Lord Melville rose from behind his desk, shook him warmly by the hand, and cried, 'Captain Aubrey, I am delighted to see you. I said you would be sure to distinguish yourself, do you recall? I said so in this very room. And now you have done so, sir: the Board is content, pleased, eminently satisfied with its choice of you as commander of the Polychrest, and with your conduct at Chaulieu. I wish you could have done so with less cost: I am afraid you suffered terribly both in your ship's company and in your person. Tell me,' he said, looking at Jack's head, 'what is the nature of your wounds? Do they . . . do they hurt?'

  'Why, no, my lord, I cannot say they do.'

  'How were they inflicted?'

  'Well, my lord, the one was something that dropped on my head—a piece of mortar-shell, I imagine; but luckily I was in the water at the time, so it did little damage, only tearing off a handsbreadth of scalp. The other was a sword-thrust I did not notice at the moment, but it seems it nicked some vessel, and most of my blood ran out before I was aware. Dr Maturin said he did not suppose there was more than three ounces left, and that mostly in my toes.'

  'You are in good hands, I find.'

  'Oh yes, my lord. He clapped a red-hot iron to the place, brought up the bleeding with a round turn, and set me up directly.'

  'Pray what did he prescribe?' asked Lord Melville, who was intensely interested in his own body, and so in bodies in general.

  'Soup, my lord. Enormous quantities of soup, and barley-water, and fish. Physic, of course—a green physic. And porter.'

  'Porter? Is porter good for the blood? I shall try some today. Dr Maturin is a remarkable man.'

  'He is indeed, my lord. Our butcher's bill would have been far, far longer but for his devotion. The men think the world of him: they have subscribed to present him with a gold-headed cane.'

  'Good. Good. Very good. Now I have your official letter here, and I see that you mention all your officers with great approval, particularly Pullings, Babbington and Goodridge, the master. By the bye, I hope young Babbington's wound is not too grave? His father voted with us in the last two divisions, out of compliment to the service.'

  'His arm was broken by a musket-shot as we boarded, my lord, but he tucked it into his jacket and fought on in a most desperate fashion; and afterwards, as soon as it was dressed, he came on deck again and behaved extremely well.'

  'So you are truly satisfied with all your officers? With Mr Parker?'

  'More than satisfied with them all, my lord.'

  Lord Melville felt the hint of evasion, and said, 'Is he fit to command?' looking straight into Jack's eye.

  'Yes, my lord.'

  Turmoil of conscience: immediate loyalty and fellow-feeling overcoming good sense, responsibility, love of truth, love of the service, all other considerations.

  'I am glad to hear it. Prince William has been pressing us for some time on the, subject of his old shipmate.' He touched his bell, and a clerk came in with an envelope; at the sight of it Jack's heart began to beat wildly, his thin sparse blood to race about his body; yet h
is face turned extremely pale. 'This is an interesting occasion, Captain Aubrey: you must allow me the pleasure of being the first to congratulate you on your promotion. I have stretched a point, and you are made post with seniority from May 23rd.'

  'Thank you, my lord, thank you very much indeed,' cried Jack, flushing scarlet now. 'It gives me—it gives me very great pleasure to receive it from your hands—even greater pleasure from the handsome way in which it is given. I am very deeply obliged to you, my lord.'

  'Weel, weel, there we are,' said Lord Melville, quite touched. 'Sit down, sit down, Captain Aubrey. You are looking far from well. What are your plans? I dare say your health requires you to take some months of sick-leave?'

  'Oh no, my lord! Oh, very far from it. It was only a passing weakness—quite gone now—and Dr Maturin assures me that my particular constitution calls for sea air, nothing but sea air, as far from land as possible.'

  'Well, you cannot have the Fanciulla, of course, since she will not be rated a post-ship—what the gods give with one hand they take away with the other. And seeing that you cannot have her, then in compliment to you, it seems but just that she should be given to your first lieutenant.'

  'Thank you, my lord,' said Jack, with a face so dashed and glum that the other looked at him with surprise.

  'However,' he said, 'I think we may hold out some hope of a frigate. The Blackwater: she is on the stocks, and all being well she may be launched in six months. That will give you time to recover your strength, to see your friends, and to watch over her fitting-out from the very beginning.'

  'My lord,' cried Jack, 'I do not know how to thank you for your goodness to me, and indeed I am ashamed to ask for more, having had so much. But to be quite frank with you, my affairs were thrown into such a state of confusion by the breaking of my prize-agent, that something is quite necessary to me. A temporary command, or anything.'

  'You were with that villain Jackson?' asked Lord Melville, looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows. 'So was poor Robert. He lost better than two thousand pound, a ca'hoopit sum. Weel, weel. So you would accept an acting-command, however short?'

  'Most willingly, my lord. However short or however inconvenient. With both hands.'

  'There may be some slight fleeting remote possibility—I do not commit myself, mind. The Ethalion's commander is sick. There is Captain Hamond's Lively, and Lord Carlow's Immortalité; they both wish to attend parliament, I know. There are other service members too, but I have not the details in my head. I will desire Mr Bainton to look into it when he has a moment. There is no certainty in these matters, you understand. Where are you staying, since you will not be rejoining the Fanciulla?'

  'At the Grapes, in the Savoy, my lord.'

  'In the Savoy?' said Lord Melville, writing it down. 'Och aye. Just so. Now have we any more official business?'

  'If I might be permitted an observation, my lord. The Polychrest's people behaved exceedingly well; they could not have done better. But if they were left together in a body, there might be unpleasant consequences. It seems to me they would be far better drafted in small parties to ships of the line.'

  'Is this a general impression, Captain Aubrey, or can you bring forward any names, however tentatively?'

  'A general impression, my lord.'

  'It shall be attended to. So much for business. If you are not bespoke, it would give Lady Melville and me great pleasure if you would dine with us on Sunday. Robert will be there, and Heneage.'

  'Thank you, my lord; I shall be very happy indeed to wait upon Lady Melville.'

  'Then let me wish you joy once more, and bid you a very good day.'

  Joy. As he walked heavily, solemnly down the stairs, it mounted in him, a great calm flood-tide of joy. His momentary disappointment about the Fanciulla (he had counted on her—such a quick, stiff, sweet-handling, weatherly pet) entirely vanished by the third step—forgotten, overwhelmed—and by the landing he had realized his happiness almost to the full. He had been made post. He was a post-captain; and he would die an admiral at last.

  He gazed with quiet benevolence at the hall-porter in his red waistcoat, smiling and bobbing at the foot of the stairs.

  'Give you joy, sir,' said Tom. 'But oh dear me, sir, you're improperly dressed.'

  'Thankee, Tom,' said Jack, rising a little way out of his beatitude. 'Eh?' He cast a quick glance down his front.

  'No, no, sir,' said Tom, guiding him into the shelter of the hooded leather porter's chair and unfastening the epaulette on his left shoulder to transfer it to his right. 'There. You had your swab shipped like a mere commander. There: that's better. Why, bless you, I did that for Lord Viscount Nelson, when he come down them stairs, made post.'

  'Did you indeed, Tom?' said Jack, intensely pleased. The thing was materially impossible, but it delighted him and he emitted a stream of gold—a moderate stream, but enough to make Tom very affable, affectionate, and brisk in hailing the chaise and bringing it into the court.

  He woke slowly, in a state of wholly relaxed comfort, blinking with ease; he had gone to bed at nine, as soon as he had swallowed his bolus and his tankard of porter, and be had slept the clock round, a sleep full of diffused happiness and a longing to impart it—a longing too oppressed by languor to have any effect. Some exquisite dreams: the Magdalene in Queenie's picture saying, 'Why do not you tune your fiddle to orange-tawny, yellow, green and this blue, instead of those old common notes?' It was so obvious: he and Stephen set to their tuning, the 'cello brown and full crimson, and they dashed away in colour alone—such colour! But he could not seize it again; it was fading into no more than words; it no longer made evident, luminous good sense. His bandaged head, mulling about dreams, how they sometimes made sense and how sometimes they did not, suddenly shot from the pillow, all the pink happiness wiped off it. His coat, which had slipped from the back of the chair, looked exactly like the coat of yesterday. But there, exactly squared and trimmed on the chimney-piece, stood that material sail-cloth envelope, that valuable envelope or wrapper. He sprang out of bed, fetched it, returned, poised it on his chest above the sheets, and went to sleep again.

  Killick was moving about the room, making an unnecessary noise, kicking things not altogether by accident, cursing steadily. He was in a vile temper: he could be smelt from the pillow. Jack had given him a guinea to drink to his swab, and he had done so conscientiously, down to the last penny, being brought home on a shutter. 'Now sir,' he said, coughing artificially. 'Time for this ere bolus.' Jack slept on. 'It's no good coming it the Abraham, sir. I seen you twitch. Down it must go. Post-captain or no post-captain,' he added, possibly to himself, 'you'll post it down, my lord, or I'll know the reason why. And your nice porter, too.'

  About twelve Jack got up, stared at the back of his head with his shaving-mirror and the looking-glass—it seemed to be healing well, but as Stephen had shaved the whole crown, leaving the long hair at the back, he had an oddly criminal look of alopecia or the common mange—dressed in civilian clothes, and walked out to see the light of day, for none ever reached the Grapes, at any time of the year. Before leaving he asked at the bar for an exact description of the Savoy, the boundaries of the sanctuary; he was particularly interested in these old survivals, he said.

  'You may go as far as Falconer's Rents, and then cut through to Essex Street and go along as far as the fourth house from the corner, then right back to the City side of Cecil Street; but don't ever you cross it, nor don't ever you pass the posts in Sweating-house Lane, your honour, or all is up. You pee, up,' said the Grapes, who heard this piece about interesting old survivals a hundred times a year.

  He walked up and down the streets of the Duchy, stepped into a coffee-house, and idly picked up the paper. His own Gazette letter leapt straight out of the open page at him, with its absurdly familiar phrasing, and his signature, quite transmogrified by print. On the same page there was a piece about the action: it said that our gallant tars were never happier than when they were fighting against odd
s of twelve and an eighth to one, which was news to Jack. How had the man arrived at that figure? Presumably by adding up all the guns and mortars in the batteries and all the vessels afloat in the bay and dividing by the Polychrest. But apart from this odd notion of happiness, the man obviously had sense, and he obviously knew something about the Navy: Captain Aubrey, said he, was known as an officer who was very careful of his men's lives—'That's right,' said Jack—and he asked how it came about that the Polychrest, with all her notorious defects, was sent on a mission for which she was so entirely unsuited, when there were other vessels—naming them—lying idle in the Downs. A casualty-list of a third of the ship's company called for explanation: the Sophie, under the same commander, had taken the Cacafuego with a loss of no more than three men killed.

  'Parse that, you old—,' said Jack inwardly, to Admiral Harte.

  Wandering out, he came to the back of the chapel: an organ was playing inside, a sweet, light-footed organ hunting a fugue through its charming complexities. He circled the railings to come to the door, but he had scarcely found it, opened it and settled himself in a pew before the whole elaborate structure collapsed in a dying wheeze and a thick boy crept from a hole under the loft and clashed down the aisle, whistling. It was a strong disappointment, the sudden breaking of a delightful tension, like being dismasted under full sail.

  'What a disappointment, sir,' he said to the organist, who had emerged into the dim light. 'I had so hoped you would bring it to a close.'