Book 17 - The Commodore

by Patrick O'Brian

  'Oh Captain Aubrey, I am afraid I have sad news for you,' cried Selina Morris, 'but I think you ought to know. I think it only right to tell you: it is only too easy to nourish a viper in one's bosom. Just now, on information received from our man Frederick Briggs, I caught Preserved Killick making off by the back lane to the servants' quarters with a hamper of wine. "Where did you get that hamper of wine, Killick?" I asked him, and in his rough, bold way, without so much as a ma'am he replied, "Which the Captain gave it me," and walked doggedly on. I called out that I should report him this minute and hurried to be here before the hamper could be concealed or huddled back into the cellar. I am quite out of breath, I declare.'

  'That was kind of you, Mrs Morris,' said Jack, 'but in fact I did give him the hamper.'

  'Oh indeed? Well, my intention was good, I am sure: and I ran all the way. My father had no notion of giving . . .' But feeling that the notions of her father were of no great consequence in this case, although he was a peer, she withdrew, making discontented motions with her shoulders, arms, buttocks.

  'But as I was saying before dear Selina came on her mistaken but very well-meant errand, the greatest cause for general comment and disapproval was Diana's almost open—what shall I call it?—liaison with Mr Wilson, who managed her stud—a most improper occupation for a woman, even a married woman, by the way—a fine upstanding man with red whiskers—though not to compare with Selina's Briggs—who lived if not in the same house then at least very close and in an isolated part of the country. When last I saw her, which is now some time ago, since I never fail to speak my mind to my niece, which instead of attending to admonition she resents—she always was a most undutiful girl . . .'

  'But you told me yourself that she provided the capital for your present concern.'

  'Perhaps she did. But the money meant nothing to her—quite apart from her enormous winnings, Dr M left her far, far too much at her own uncontrolled, unsupervised disposal—and in any case Selina and I will pay it back presently. However, last time we saw her, Mrs Morris was certain that she was with child; and now we hear that the horses are all sent up to London, that the grooms are turned away, and that she has gone off herself, no doubt with her handsome manager. You must break it gently to your poor friend, or he will run mad.'

  'I shall certainly do nothing of the kind.'

  Jack's silence had quite persuaded Mrs Williams that he was in full agreement. 'Upon my word,' she cried in her indignation, 'then I shall do it myself.'

  'If you presume to speak to him on this subject,' said Jack in a low tone that nevertheless carried full conviction, 'you and Mrs Morris and your servant Briggs will leave this house within the hour.'

  Mrs Williams had changed much during his absence, but not so much that she could bring herself to renounce free board and lodging in a comfortable house whenever she chose to claim it. She closed her lips tight, and pale with anger left the room with much the same gestures as her friend.

  Jack lay back. He was far too happy to be angry for long: he had already heard a good deal of what she said about Diana; during the voyage Sophie's letters, far spaced-out though they were, had kept him aware of the general situation; and although he knew that Diana's views on sexual morality were rather like his own, he did not believe a tenth part of this gossip—particularly he did not believe that she had run off with the man who managed her stud. And although he did very much regret Stephen's inevitable heavy, heavy disappointment over the daughter he had so looked forward to, he felt that the marriage itself would hold together. It had always done so hitherto, in spite of being subjected to extraordinary strains.

  Happiness and grief were both active in his mind, and partly to escape the confusion, as well as the guilt of joy at such a time, he deliberately reflected on the change in Mrs Williams. Diana, like many of her friends, had always been willing to back her judgment of a horse with a bet, and having staked a large sum at thirty-five to one on the animal that won the St Leger two years ago she found herself with several thousand to spare. Part of her stake had been made up of small amounts, like the cook's half-guinea, rising to twenty-five for old Lady West whose husband, like Diana's father, had been a cavalry officer, but most had been the five-guinea bets laid by tolerably well-to-do widow ladies in Bath who delighted in gambling—sums that the big, reliable London offices would not trouble with, while the small local men—sad riff-raff—could not be trusted. When she had paid all these happy creatures, she suggested that her aunt, at that time penniless and oh so meek, should take over the whole undertaking, but for a profit, being her own betting office—here was the connexion, ready at hand, and Diana would show her, how to keep a book. Just where the Hon. Mrs Morris came in he could not recollect, but she added much to the respectability of the concern; while her servant, a tall man in a black coat who looked like a dissenting minister and who expected other servants to call him Mr Briggs, had been employed by a race-horse owner and was very well acquainted with the subject. The two ladies' conversation could never have recommended them anywhere, but they were accepted members of that world, and their respectability, combined with reliability, discretion and convenience, caused their undertaking to prosper. How Mrs Williams reconciled her occupation with her former rigid principles Jack could not tell: but the principles had never prevented her, in the days of her wealth, from making an eager search for investments that would give her a very high yield—an attorney who offered her a certain thirty-one per cent return had been her undoing—and perhaps it was all part of the same thing. At all events she now grew steadily richer, and steadily more unpleasant. Jack was revolving this in his mind, an aphorism just out of reach, when he heard the sound of wheels on the drive, the opening and closing of carriage doors, steps on the gravel, more voices raised quite high, steps in the corridor, and Stephen opened the door of the room in which Jack's bed had been set up. 'Why, my poor Jack,' he exclaimed, but in little more than a whisper, 'how sorry I am to see you brought so low, my dear. Do your ears and eyes hurt you, now? Can you bear talking at all?'

  'To be sure I can, Stephen,' said Jack, quite loud. 'It is much better today; and I am so glad to see you. But as for my being brought low, it is only my head; my heart is bounding about like a lamb. I had such a signal on Wednesday morning, brought up post-haste from the port-admiral, that valuable man. Such a signal . . . but tell me, how did your journey go? Was all well in town?'

  'Very well, I thank you. Sir Joseph asked me to bring a statue down for a friend at Weymouth, so I came back with Tom in the Ringle, picking Sarah and Emily up at Shelmerston and coming on by chaise. Tom came along with us, for orders. You can hear him roaring on the terrace. I mean to take the girls on to Barham to see Diana for a while, and then to carry them up to the Grapes, to live with Mrs Broad. But Jack, your house is in a strange turmoil, I find. Will I go and bid Tom bring up all standing?'

  'Never in life. I am sorry for the din—that screeching is Sophie from upstairs, I think, talking to him—but the fact of the matter is, the children have reported sick, the three of 'em, and with me laid up, the place is all ahoo. Would you like to hear about my signal, Stephen?'

  'If you, please.'

  'Well, I am to have Bellona, seventy-four, with a broad pennant and Tom as captain under me; Terrible, another seventy-four; and three frigates, one of which is sure to be the Pyramus; and perhaps half a dozen slops, for the cruise off Africa that Heneage Dundas told me of. Ain't you amazed? I was, I promise you. I thought it was just one of those things people throw out, far too good to be true.'

  'I give you all the joy in the world of your command, my dear: long, long may it prosper.'

  'You will come with me, Stephen, will you not? It is mostly for putting down the slave-trade, you remember; and by the twenty-fifth of next month all should be assembled, manned and equipped.

  'I should be very happy. But now, my dear Commodore, I must go and look at your children. I promised poor distracted Sophie so to do while your medical man was t
here, so that we might lay our physical heads together. I also promised not to tire you. Then I must hurry on to Barham: if I am not there by dark Diana will think we have been overturned in some remote, ill-favoured ditch.'

  Jack's spirits fell at once. He hesitated, and said 'It is quite a while since Sophie has seen her—some disagreement with Diana's aunt, I believe. But Stephen, do not be disappointed if she is away. Nobody knew we were coming back, you know.'

  Stephen smiled and said 'Diana and I will come and see you on your feet in a few days' time, I hope; but in the meanwhile I shall desire Dr Gowers to prescribe a little hellebore to calm the turbulence of your spirits and procure a healing equanimity. God bless, now.'

  In the hall he found Tom Pullings, entirely alone, leaping and making antic gestures: on hearing Stephen he span round, showing a face of such laughing delight that the Devil himself could not have failed to smile. 'Can I see the Captain now, do you think?' he asked.

  'You may; but do not speak loud, do not agitate his mind.' Pullings took his elbow in an iron grip and whispered, 'He is to hoist a broad pennant in Bellona, and he has named me to be captain under him—he has made me post! I am a post-captain! I never thought it could happen.'

  Stephen shook his hand and said, 'I am so happy. At this rate, Tom, I shall live to congratulate you on your flag.'

  'Thank you, thank you, sir,' called Tom after him as he hurried up the stairs. 'I have never heard a sentiment so well expressed; nor with such elegance and wit, neither.'

  'Sophie, my love,' said Stephen, kissing her on both cheeks, 'you are in the most charming bloom, joy: but there is some degree of nervous tension, even a hint of febrility. I believe, Dr Gowers, that we might profitably exhibit a modest dose of hellebore for Mrs Aubrey as well as for the Commodore.'

  'The Commodore,' murmured Sophie, squeezing his arm.

  They looked at the children, all struck dumb for the moment, and presently Stephen said, 'I quite agree with my colleague. This is an advanced state of the commencement of measles: look at the swollen, bloated appearance of poor Charlotte's face.'

  'I am not Charlotte. I am Fanny; and my face is neither swollen nor bloated.'

  'Oh Fanny, for shame,' cried her mother, in great distress, tears starting from her eyes.

  'So bloated and so swollen that the eruption cannot be long delayed: but I am sorry that it should be the measles, since I cannot bring my little girls up to see the invalids. Like many other black people they have no protection against the disease, and frequently succumb. And now, dear Sophie, I must go and collect them: do not move, I beg.' And privately in her ear 'I am so very happy about Jack.'

  On the stairs he murmured to himself, 'Presently I shall see a little face that is neither swollen nor bloated; one that is incapable of such a gross reply.'

  In the drawing-room he found no one but Mrs Williams, still simmering with ill-temper.

  'Where are Sarah and Emily?' he asked.

  'The little niggers? I sent them to the kitchen, where they belong,' said Mrs Williams. When I came in they neither curtseyed nor called me ma'am. And when I said, "Don't you know you must not just say good day and no more as if you was addressing the cat and don't you know you must curtsey to a gentlewoman?" they only looked at one another and shook their heads.'

  'You are to consider, ma'am,' said Stephen, 'that they have spent much of their life aboard a man-of-war, where there are no gentlewomen to be addressed, and where curtseys, if they exist, are reserved for officers.'

  Mrs Williams sniffed, and then said, 'They are your property, I collect; and if so, I must inform you that no slaves can be countenanced in England, so that you are likely to lose your price. In the colonies, yes: but we must always remember that England is a free country and that as soon as slaves set foot on English soil they to are free: as a foreigner you cannot of course understand our love of liberty. But we must never forget to look closely at all sides of a bargain, or we may find ourselves buying a mare's nest.' Ill nature and ill temper urged her to add something about charity beginning at home, since a moment's reflection on their clothes and uncowed manners suggested that they might be protégées rather than bond-servants, but angry though she was she did not dare go farther, and after contemplating her for a moment with his pale eyes Stephen took up his hat, bowed, said 'Servant, ma'am,' and hurried off to the kitchen, where he found the little girls telling two superannuated ship's cooks about the glories of the green ice they had seen off the Horn.

  For the rest of the journey they were very quiet, gazing at the wonderfully unfamiliar English countryside in the gentle evening light. So was Stephen. His mind, like Jack's, was confused by a variety of strong emotions—intense anticipation and a dread he did not choose to name—and like Jack he took refuge in reflecting upon Mrs Williams. There was not only the change from the broken-spirited poor relation, perpetually aware of her dependence, back to her former degree of assurance—though not indeed of dominance: Sophie had grown much stronger—and of indignant self-righteousness; there was also a change in that earlier being, with a barely definable raffishness superadded, an ease in throwing herself into a comfortable chair, an occasional absurdly inappropriate gross or at least ungenteel and totally incongruous expression, as though by handling bets she had absorbed some of the coarse side of the turf. 'It would not surprise me if she has taken to putting gin in her tea,' he said, 'and to the use of snuff.'

  Shortly after this the rain began to fall; the landscape vanished, and Emily went to sleep on Padeen's knee. The postilion drew up to light his lamps inside the carriage, begged pardon, asked the direction again, and drove on slowly, clop, clop, clop. After a mile or so and a shouted exchange with a farm-cart the postilion stopped again, came to the door, begged pardon and feared they had taken the wrong lane. He would have to turn when he found a gate into a field. This happened once or twice, but not long after sunset they found themselves in the familiar high bare country rising to Barham Down.

  The carriage drew up before the great middle door; no lights to be seen within. The little girls woke, anxious, dismayed; Padeen began unstrapping the baggage; Stephen rang the bell and knocked, his heart beating high.

  No answer, but somewhere in the back of the house, perhaps the kitchen, a dog began to bark. He knocked again, the queer feeling in his bosom: pulled the bell-wire; and the bell itself could be heard ringing far inside.

  A light through the cracks of the door; it opened on the chain and Clarissa's voice asked, 'Who is there?'

  'Stephen Maturin, my dear. I am sorry we are so late.'

  The chain came off with a rattle and the door swung wide, showing Clarissa with a lantern on a table by her side and a horse-pistol in her hand. 'Oh how very glad I am to see you,' she cried, yet with a certain embarrassment in her joy. She carefully uncocked the pistol—evidently loaded and for use—laid it on the table and held out her hand. 'Nonsense,' he cried, 'we embrace' and kissed her.

  'You have not changed,' she said, smiling, and stood back, motioning him in.

  'You are alone, I doubt?' said he, not moving but with his eyes searching the long dark hall and his ears on the strain.

  'Yes . . . yes,' she answered hesitantly. 'Well, but for Brigid.'

  He went out, settled with the post-boy and came back with the little girls, Padeen following with the baggage. 'Here are some old shipmates, Clarissa,' he said, leading them forward. 'Sarah and Emily, you must make your bobs to Mrs Oakes, and ask her how she does.'

  'How do you do, ma'am?' they said in unison.

  'Very well indeed, my dears,' she replied, kissing them. She shook Padeen's hand, and although they had not agreed very well when they sailed together in the Nutmeg the travellers now felt much drawn to a well-known face and a familiar voice in these utterly strange and foreign surroundings. Not only was the country strange—nothing of shipboard about it, nothing of the pleasures of a port, filled with unknown people who might fly out at you—but this particular house was quite outside their e
xperience. It was in fact an unusual building, tall, gaunt and cold, one of the few large old houses that had not been altered in the last two centuries, so that the great hall ran right up the whole height to the roof, sombre indeed on such an evening and by the light of a single lantern.

  Clarissa led them slowly, almost as it were reluctantly, quite through its length and then turned right-handed into a carpeted room with candles and a fire. A small girl was building card-houses on a table near the grate.

  Clarissa murmured, 'Do not mind if she does not speak,' and Stephen could feel the controlled anguish in her voice.

  The girl at the table was lit by the fire and two candles: she was three-quarters turned towards Stephen and he saw a slim fair-haired child, quite extraordinarily beautiful: but with a disquieting, elfin, changeling beauty. Her movements as she handled the cards were perfectly coordinated; she glanced at Stephen and the others for a moment without the least interest, almost without ceasing to place her cards, and then carried on with the fifth storey.

  'Come, my dear, and pay your duty to your father,' said Clarissa, taking her gently by the hand and leading her, unresisting, to Stephen. There she made her bob, standing as straight as a wand, and with only a slight shrinking away she allowed her face to be kissed. Then she was led to the others; their names were clearly stated; they too made their bobs and Brigid walked easily back to her card-house, unconscious of their smiling black faces, though she did look straight up into Padeen's for a moment.

  'Padeen,' said Clarissa, 'will you go down that long corridor, now? The first door on your right hand'—she held up her right hand—'is the kitchen, and there you will find Mrs Warren and Nellie. Please give them this note.'

  Stephen sat in an elbow-chair away from the light, watching his daughter. Clarissa asked Sarah and Emily about their journey, about Ashgrove and about their clothes. They all sat on a sofa, talking away readily enough as their shyness wore off; but their eyes were fixed on the slight, wholly self-possessed, self-absorbed figure by the hearth.