Book 17 - The Commodore

by Patrick O'Brian

  'I honour you for it.'

  'I am glad of that: some would say it was sad stuff. Yet I do not think you will be so pleased when I tell you I said that if he wished I should go and ask the man in question to give him satisfaction.'

  'But surely, Jack, there is a contradiction here? Decency—I will not say Christian charity—but at least decency on the one hand, and barbarous heathen revenge on the other?'

  'Stephen, you have nothing whatsoever to say about barbarous heathen revenge: we both have bloody hands. We have both been out. And if there is an apparent contradiction, I can account for it like this: I feel—I deeply know—I am right in the first case; and I am almost as certain of it in the second. Did your mathematical studies ever reach to the quadratic equation, Stephen?'

  'They did not reach to the far end of the multiplication table.'

  'The quadratic equation involves the second power of the unknown quantity, but nothing greater. The square.'

  'Oh, indeed?'

  'And my point is this: a quadratic equation has two solutions, and each is right, demonstrably and provably right. There is an apparent but no real contradiction between the answers.'

  Stephen felt that he was on dangerous ground; even if he had not been afraid of giving pain, his mind was so weary that although it teemed with objections it could barely formulate them. 'Jack,' he said in an entirely different voice, having reflected for a while, 'you mentioned the Berlings. Will you tell me about them, now?'

  'Why,' said Jack, who understood him perfectly well, 'they are that group of rocks, or you might say islands, that rise up sheer out of the sea like mountain-tops a little south of the Farilhoes, some two leagues west-north-west of Cape Carveiro, in Portugal. They are quite dangerous in thick weather and many a ship on the Lisbon run has come to grief through not keeping a good offing and a good look-out by night. But they make a capital rendezvous if you don't choose to go over the infernal Tagus bar, hanging about for high water; and in moderate weather you can lie easy in their lee, fishing over the side for codlings.' He reflected, seeing the Berlings rising high from a warm calm Maytime sea. 'When I was a mid in Bellerophon,' he said, 'the Captain sent Mr Stevens the master to survey them, and he took me with him, knowing how I loved that kind of job. He was always very kind to me, or to any young fellow that had a bent for surveying. There is a great satisfaction in triangulation and taking bearing, Stephen.'

  'I am sure of it.'

  'I remember some very pretty cross-checks we made, all agreeing exactly. And I remember the enormous clouds of sea-birds.'

  'What sort?'

  'Oh, every conceivable sort. You would know their names. The master said that a great many were petrels, I recall; but being startled, they did not fly as petrels usually do. And some had much more white about them than the common kind. They were startled because we pulled into an enormous cave that went on and on, and in the half-darkness they came flying out almost like black snow. And the cave went on and on, most uncommon tall overhead, and at last we saw light gleaming round a corner at the other end, for the cave went right through. At the far end the light came more slanting and we could make out innumerable bats . . .'

  'Bats, Jack? You amaze me. Bats, so far from land? You did not take notice of them, I suppose?'

  'We were busy taking soundings all the time, but I did notice that some were as big as partridges—well, quails—and some were small. I am quite certain that one had long ears. I saw it outlined against the mouth of the cave before it flew off.'

  'How I long to spend an hour or two among them. Will you tell me about the surface of the rocks, the vegetation, the places where the birds were sitting, for I presume they had made their nests?'

  'Certainly they had, and right on top of one another almost like the people in Seven Dials; but the petrels, as far as I could see, came mostly from the cave. It was full of crevices and ledges and holes.'

  'What joy. But the vegetation, now; and a very rough description of the fowls themselves?'

  They talked on until well after the evening gun, supping together and going back over that voyage to Portugal in the Surprise during which Stephen would dimly have perceived the Berlings had he been on deck, and in which, after their going ashore at Lisbon, they heard of Sam's being ordained—Sam Panda, Jack's black love-child, begotten at the Cape—and they were still discussing his chances of a prelacy when the tender came alongside. Jack Aubrey was as solid a Protestant as ever abjured the Pope and the Pretender, but he was deeply attached to Sam, as well he might be, and he was now as expert in the intricacies of the Catholic hierarchy as he was in the succession of admirals. He was speaking eagerly of the Prothonotaries Apostolic and their varying rows of little violet buttons when Reade came in, took off his hat, and said, 'Tender hooked on, sir, if you please, and all is laid along,' this last, with a significant look at Stephen, meant that Killick had carried over a small valise holding all that he thought proper for Dr Maturin to wear during this absence, and a supply of shirts.

  'Thank you, Mr Reade,' said Stephen: he hurried into the sleeping-cabin that he shared with Jack, put a considerable sum of money into his pocket, and a llama-skin pouch holding his coca-leaves and their necessary phial of vegetable ash into his bosom, together with the revolving pistol. 'Farewell, Jack,' he said, coming out, fastening his coat. 'Pray watch your bowels. There is something a trifle more liverish in your visage than I could wish for: should nothing occur this evening, desire Mr Smith to give you rhubarb tomorrow. My dear love to Sophie, of course. I shall be as quick as ever I can, so I shall. God bless, now.'

  The sense of hurried urgency that had been with him ever since he received Sir Joseph's message, at some point now removed by a vast extent of space rather than of time, had revived as he groped his way down the Bellona's side in the darkness; and now its long-frustrated desire was fulfilled, even beyond his hopes.

  The wind, a strong reefed-topsail breeze in the south-west, was kicking up an odd little cross-sea in the harbour, and as Reade, who had brought the Ringle round to face Southsea Castle, filled his forestaysail, leaving the Bellona's towering side and getting under way, the long low schooner took on a curious fidgeting motion like a horse held in, dancing on his toes, cager to be off.

  The gaff rose, the foresail shivering and fluttering like an enormous washing-day; the sheet came hard aft, and at once the deck leaned sharply, the whole motion changing to a long, slightly pitching glide. She ran straight out of the harbour—Reade and Bonden had spent every spare hour they could and they handled her beautifully, with love—set her full mainsail and jib, and with Bonden at the helm and Reade at the con she raced for the ships moored off St Helens.

  When Stephen came on deck—he had been desired to go below during these manoeuvres and to stow his belongings as well as he could with so little headroom—she had brought the wind on her starboard quarter: both great fore-and-aft sails were drum-tight, she had set her square foretopsail as well as everything the forward stays could bear, and now Reade, Bonden and two elderly Shelmerstonians were wondering whether they might venture upon a weather studdingsail.

  The Shelmerstonians, Mould and Vaggers, were fine examples of what might be called nautical relativity: they were both Sethians and respected members of their congregation, yet neither had ever found any difficulty in reconciling the importation of uncustomed goods with the strictest probity in all personal dealings; and now one was saying that if the studdingsail in question had been the King's he would have risked it without hesitation, but since the clipper was Captain Aubrey's private property, why . . . and he shook his head. This kind of discussion was neither usual nor encouraged in the Royal Navy, but the present occasion was quite exceptional. Mould and Vaggers, not to put too fine a point upon it, were smugglers, and both their living and their freedom depended on their outsailing the Revenue cutters or the faster men-of-war that tried to detain them. They were the most successful smugglers in Shelmerston, and although they usually sailed in a lugger
called the Flying Childers they had also had great success in a topsail-schooner, not indeed as sharp-built as the Ringle but the fastest in home waters; their opinion on the studdingsail was therefore the opinion of eminent practitioners, and its authority was increased by the fact that they were not sailing again with Captain Aubrey because they needed wages. Far from it, indeed: all those who had shipped with him in the Surprise so long ago, and who had survived, had done so well in prize-money that if they wished they could set up as their own masters. Some preferred wild spending followed by extreme penury; but this was not the case with the serious men of the town, elders, deacons, presbyters of the many sects and chapels; and the reason for the continued presence of Mould, Vaggers and several of their friends was a revelation, perhaps illusory, certainly ill-timed, to the effect that polygamy was now allowed and indeed recommended to the Sethians of Shelmerston, a revelation so very ill-received by Mrs Mould and Mrs Vaggers (to speak only of them) that the Bellona, though a man-of-war, seemed a haven of peace.

  Stephen had been aboard the clipper from time to time during their homeward voyage, but in calm weather, and in daylight. Now, as he came up the companion-ladder on to the dark, steep-sloping deck, he could not recognize his surroundings. Little could he see, and that little was unfamiliar—the great boom of the mainsail, the haze of white low to leeward meant nothing to him, and although on consideration he would almost certainly have made out the fundamental difference between fore-and-aft and square rig, he had no leisure to do so. His groping foot came up against a cleat, a chance caper of the deck flung him off his balance, and he trundled along until he came firmly against one of the Ringle's carronades, to which he clung.

  They picked him up with the usual sea-going questions—'Was he hurt? Did he not know he must always keep one hand for himself and the other for the ship? Why had he not asked one of them to help him?'

  For once he answered rather shortly, which made them stare, the Doctor being the meekest of landlubbers, always attentive to good advice and admonition, always grateful for being set on his feet again and if necessary helped below; but they were forgiving creatures, and when they understood that their old shipmate wished to stand there, near to what little prow the Ringle could be said to possess, where those sails did not obscure his view, stand there in the dark and the cold, they kindly told him that it would never do, not in this sort of a barky, which was more what might be called a racing-craft than a Christian schooner, with no more of a bulwark than would keep a kitten aboard—it would never do, without he was made fast to this here stanchion.

  And so, fast to that there stanchion, he stood, hour after hour: and while one part of his being lived in this great rushing stream of air, with the dead-white bow-wave flying out, flung wide on his right hand and the black, pale-flecked sea racing close below him, the whole in a vast and all-embracing medley of sound, the rest of him peered into the immediate future with all the acuity and concentration that he could bring to bear. Very early his hand had of itself reached for the pouch of coca-leaves, but he had deliberately checked the movement. 'This I justify on the grounds that although the present crisis seems to call for all possible clarity of thought and foresight, the leaves should be reserved in case another, even more exigent crisis, should arise; but I fear it may be mere superstition, the passionate desire to succeed overwhelming reason entirely, leaving mere sophistry behind.'

  From time to time Reade or a seaman would come and ask him how he did, or tell him that that was Selsey Bill, or that the breeze was freshening a little—those were the lights of Worthing, New Shoreham . . .

  Well on in the middle watch the stream of tide came more southward, so that great quantities of spindrift, spray and even green water swept across the low deck. Reade came forward with a cloak over his shoulder and begged Stephen to put it on. 'And don't you think, sir,' he said, 'that you should turn in? On the leeward bow that is Beachy, and round Beachy it will cut up rough. It worries the people to think of you getting soaked.'

  'To tell you the truth, William, I do not mind it at all. Nothing could be more agreeable to my spirit than this all-pervading sense of speed—speed of air, sea, and rushing water. It is so very much more present in a boat like this than in a stolid great ship.'

  'Why, sir, we have been clipping along at a very fair pace: ten knots most of the time, with points of twelve; and if the breeze don't die or box the compass we should have quite a tolerable run. But sir, will you not step below and take a little something?'

  The little something was a dish of lobscouse, salt beef, biscuit, onions, potatoes, all pounded or cut up small, stewed close with a good deal of pepper and kept warm between hot bricks covered with a blanket for the graveyard watch: it went down extraordinarily well with a quart of beer, which they shared in the sea-going manner, passing the pot to and fro without ceremony.

  'I do not like to tempt fate, sir,' said Reade, 'but I sometimes think that if only we could catch the early flood, we might make a truly extraordinary run, with never a check between the North Foreland and Sheerness, meeting the first of flood at the Nore and so straight up to London River, ha, ha. Old Mould did it once, in the Flying Childers, from off St Catherine's Point.'

  'That would be very fine, sure.'

  'And it would absolutely delight the Captain. He thinks the world of this craft, and he means to give her a fine-weather suit of the best Riga poldavy, including a square running course. Now if you will excuse me, sir, I believe I must go on deck. Your berth is behind that hanging. Pray try to close an eye.'

  Stephen did so, swimming presently into that series of inconsequential thoughts and half-memories that so often preceded sleep; and he woke from it again in a grey dimness to the sound of a fairly discreet cough, the clink of china, and the smell of coffee. 'God be with you, William,' he said, 'would that be coffee, at all?'

  'Which it is Vaggers, sir,' said the seaman with the tray. 'The Captain is on deck, looking at the convoys. You never seen so many windbound ships. We are in the Downs.'

  'How is the breeze, Vaggers? And shall we catch our tide?'

  'Breeze holds true, sir. But as for the tide . . . nip and tuck, sir, nip and tuck. Though it will not be Mr Reade's fault if we miss it. He has been driving the clipper most zealous all night.'

  He was driving it still when Stephen found him calling for a bonnet to the forestays, but he came over at once with civil enquiries and the assurance that this was not a real lull in the wind, only a slight blanketing from the South Foreland—'we are well in with Deal, as you see'—and it would pick up again directly. 'And all those poor souls,' he said, waving out to sea, to the crowded anchorage of the Downs, 'are praying it may drop entirely and come round into the north-east. Some have been windbound for a fortnight and more: it often happens here. That is the West Indies convoy just this side the Gull Stream; and there, stretching right up to the North Foreland, those are the Mediterranean ships, a hundred sail of merchantmen at the very least. And towards the south Goodwin you can make out a group of Indiamen, all praying, no doubt.'

  'It is not the number that pray, William, but the intensity of the prayer that is offered up, and of course its quality,' said Stephen. 'Purely mercantile considerations cannot expect to receive much notice in Heaven.'

  'I am sure you are right, sir,' said Reade, and he rehearsed the names of the guardian men-of-war, studding the glum-grey sea with its white horses and intermittent showers from the low racing sky. 'Amethyst, Orion, Hercules, Dreadnought . . .' unconsciously using a tone of voice more usual at the altar.

  The North Foreland, and the Ringle hauled her wind, heading westward. 'Do you think,' asked Stephen at dinner, 'that we could be said to be within the estuary of the Thames?'

  'I believe we may, sir,' said Reade, happy though red-eyed from want of sleep. 'And I believe we may almost say—though I touch wood—that we are not very likely to miss our tide.'

  The Nore, and presently it became apparent even to Dr Maturin that the schoone
r's motion had changed, that she had in fact caught her tide, and that the first hint of the making flood was carrying her on a living stream. The remote shore, visible now on either side, drew somewhat closer; and after a while Reade handed over to Mould, disappointed as a polygamous patriarch, but the best Thames pilot among them. Mould told Stephen a great deal about the official men, all to their discredit, and presently he pointed out Muck Flat, on the northern shore, where a Trinity House branch pilot had run him aground in the year ninety-two. 'Well might you have called it Muck Flat by the time we had served him out.'

  Although the breeze, the river and even those that used the river, including the heavy slow awkward and inclined to be abusive Thames barges, that felt they had priority over all the other craft in the stream, behaved well through that long winding day, Mould was in a sombre mood. Towards evening, when between showers the sky cleared beautifully, showing Greenwich in all its splendour, shining white and green on the river-bank, he jerked his chin in that direction and said, 'Greenwich. You would not believe, sir, the amount of money they screw out of poor hardworking seafaring men for that old chest of theirs. And who ever seen a penny piece out of it? Not Old Mould, any gate.'

  'Lo, Greenwich, where many a shrew is in,' said Stephen, unthinking.

  'Greenwich is bad enough, bad enough; there are some very disagreeable females in Greenwich. But it is nothing at all,' said Mould, his voice rising passionately as he caused the stout tiller to tremble under his hand, 'nothing at all, set against Shelmerston, for shrews. Take Mrs Mould, for instance . . .' He took Mrs Mould and handled her most severely, not only for her ignorant, illiberal, worldly rejection of the plurality of wives—'Think of Abraham, sir: think of Solomon: remember Gideon—threescore and ten sons, and many wives!'—but also for a variety of shortcomings that it would scarcely be decent to name, all denounced with such vehemence that it would have been necessary to check him if a lighter more or less guided by an idiot boy with a single enormous oar had not drifted across the Ringle's bows, so that her topsail was obliged to be backed at once, to take the way off her, and all sheets let fly, while every soul that could seize a spar fended off in an uproar of reprobation.