The Letter of Marque

by Patrick O'Brian

  The sail was already visible from the deck, some five miles to leeward, yet with the Surprise having so much canvas spread and with the forecastle so regularly swept by green water, it was not easy to get a clear view of her, even from the tops; but perched high on the main jack-crosstrees above the top-gallantsail—a post familiar to him from his youth, when he was a midshipman in this same ship—Jack had the whole ring of the horizon at his command. The stranger, though ship-rigged, was quite certainly not the Spartan: apart from anything else she was much too far north. In spite of her Spanish colours she was most probably British, square-sterned and British-built: most probably a West-Indiaman. She had been crowding on sail ever since they caught sight of one another, and now, as he watched, her mizzen topmast carried away and she was brought by the lee in a horrible flurry of canvas.

  If she chose, the Surprise could bear up and be alongside her in half an hour; but even if there had been an equal chance of her being lawful prize, that half-hour was too precious to be spared. He shook his head, swivelled about on the jacks and trained his glass northwards. The Merlin had been in sight in the forenoon watch; at present there was not so much as a nick in the horizon.

  He returned to the deck, the slender topgallant shrouds bending under his weight, and as he stepped from the hammock-cloth to a carronade and so to the quarterdeck, the ship's company gazed silently at his face. He walked over to the binnacle, looked at the compass, and said 'Very well thus. Dyce and no higher.' The course was not to be altered. There was a certain sigh, a sort of rueful acquiescence—a general sound not unlike the expiration of two or three whales fairly close at hand—but nowhere a hint of disagreement or discontent.

  As the afternoon wore on the wind lost rather more of its strength, but it also veered still farther, steadying at north-west by west, almost on her quarter; and as it moderated so the Surprise spread more canvas: studdingsails alow and aloft, royals, the rarely-seen but useful spritsail topsail, all the jibs that would set and a cloud of staysails. It was a noble spectacle, filling all hands with pleasure as something excellent in itself, not only as a means to an end. Jack was contemplating skysails when the sun, slanting westwards to a deep cloudbank away to starboard, made it clear that this would never do. Far from it: a great deal must be taken in before the watch was set, so that no sudden force of wind should oblige him to call all hands in the middle of the night; for although the breeze seemed firmly settled in the north-west, it might very well change in strength. A quiet night was of the first importance. All hands had been hard at it ever since last week's thundering blow began, and although in general their spirits were still high this was by no means the same thing as a three-day chase with the enemy in sight, which could keep men going without food or rest; and he saw evident signs of exhaustion. His own coxswain, for example, looked grey and old. The foremast jacks had little enough sleep as it was, without having that little broken during their watch below; and this was more than ever true before an engagement.

  The likelihood of an engagement tomorrow had never been anything but small and now it was smaller still; yet only a fool would reduce it even more, reduce it to the vanishing-point, after so much pains and such a glorious run. But then again there was such a thing as being too cautious by half: for the chance to have any existence at all the Surprise must be present somewhere to windward between St Michael's and St Mary. 'All these things have to be balanced against one another,' he said inwardly as he paced fore and aft; and the result of his balancing was that the Surprise sailed into the night with her topgallants abroad, whereas ordinarily she would have furled them and would have taken a reef in her topsails. She had done remarkably well today, and if she made no more than a steady five knots during the night she would still run off her two hundred miles from noon to noon: by daylight he should have his landfall on the starboard bow, the high rocky eastward tip of St Michael's.

  'Jack,' said Stephen, looking up from his ruled paper as the cabin door opened, 'I have just finished transposing a Sammartini duo for violin and 'cello. Should you like to try it after supper? Killick promises us pease pudding from the galley, followed by his own toasted cheese.'

  'Is it long?'

  'It is not.'

  'Then I should be very happy. But I mean to turn in early. Since Tom is away in the schooner, I shall take the middle watch.'

  Like many sailors Jack Aubrey had early acquired the habit of going to sleep almost as he put his head on his pillow; but this night he remained at least in part awake. It was not that his mind was torturing itself again with detailed memories of his disgrace, nor with the long-lasting and potentially ruinous law-suits that hung over him, but rather that, physically and mentally very tired indeed, he skimmed along the surface of the immediate present; he listened to the sound of the water against the ship's side and that composite, omnipresent voice that came from the wind in the taut rigging and from the play of the hull, while at the same time, and more consciously, he traced the pattern of the music they had played, occasionally drifting away but always hearing the bells in due succession and always aware of the state of the wind. It was a strange state, very rare for him, almost as restful as sleep and much nearer quiet happiness than anything he had known since his trial.

  He was up and dressed when Bonden came to call him and he went straight up on deck. 'Good morning, Mr West,' he said, looking at the gibbous moon, clear in a small-flecked sky.

  'Good morning, sir,' said West. 'All's well, though the breeze slackens a little. You are an uncommon good relief, sir.'

  'Turn the glass,' said the quartermaster at the con; and Plaice, recognizable from his wheeze, padded forward and struck eight bells.

  While the watches changed Jack studied the log-board. The wind had not varied a single point in direction, though as he knew very well it had decreased and readings of under six knots were more usual than those over.

  It was a warm night, though the breeze was north of west, and walking aft to the taffrail he saw with pleasure that the wake was luminous, a long phosphorescent trail, the first he had seen this year.

  He heard the usual reports: six inches of water in the well—very moderate indeed after such a blow; but she had always been a dry ship. And the latest heave of the log: almost seven knots. Perhaps the wind was picking up.

  The watch could scarcely have been more peaceful: no call to touch sheet or brace, no movement but the helmsmen, the quartermasters and the lookouts spelling one another, the heaving of the log, the striking of the bell. Now and then a man might go forward to the head, but most remained gathered there in the waist, a few talking in low tones but most choosing a soft plank for a doze.

  Jack spent the greater part of it gazing at the hypnotic wake as it spun out mile after mile, or watching the familiar stars in their course. The breeze did freshen from time to time and once he was able to chalk seven knots two fathoms on the board, but it was never enough for any change of sail, nor did it alter this faintly moonlit, starlit, dreamlike sailing over the dark sea except by adding a certain deep satisfaction.

  He handed over to Davidge and the starboard watch at four in the morning, gave orders that he was to be called with the idlers, went below and plunged straight into his usual profound sleep.

  At first light he was on deck again. The breeze was much as he had left it, though somewhat more westerly, the sky clear, except for cloud and haze to starboard. The idlers had already gathered round the pumps—a frowsty, squalid group, not yet washed or brushed—and well clear of the horizon to larboard the newly-risen Venus in her pale blue heaven looked all the purer by contrast. Having bade the quarterdeck good day, Jack said 'Mr Davidge, let us merely swab the decks this morning, and flog them dry. Then, with the idlers at hand—for pumping will not take them ten minutes—I believe we may start making sail.'

  That was one of the advantages of a crew of this kind: with the emphatic exception of the surgeon and his mate all the idlers, the men who did not stand a watch, were very able sea
men as well as being highly skilled in their particular line—the sailmaker and his mates, the armourer, the gunner's mates, the carpenter's crew, the cooper and all the rest of the specialists. Another advantage, reflected Jack Aubrey as he made his way up the weather rigging to the maintop and beyond, climbing easily, without hurry, scarcely thinking of his lofty path any more than a man going upstairs to the attic at home—another advantage was the hands' singular eagerness to please, not out of imposed discipline, but to avoid being turned away—something quite unknown in his life at sea. In an hour or so hammocks would be piped up, and they would be stowed in the nettings, properly rolled, in five or six minutes, without driving, oaths or rope's ends: not many King's ships could say as much.

  'Good morning, Webster,' he said to the lookout at the topgallant-crosstrees.

  'Good morning, sir,' said Webster, moving a few steps down the lee shrouds, leaving the crosstrees free. 'Nothing to westwards that I can make out, but maybe with your glass . . .'

  It was a very good glass, a Dolland achromatic; and sitting upon the crosstrees Jack focussed it carefully on the western horizon, sweeping the half-circle. But where St Michael's should have been was cloudbank, dark, sullen, purplish-grey and impenetrable. After a while he pushed the telescope shut, slung it over his shoulder, nodded to the lookout and returned to the deck.

  There, while his mind checked and rechecked the figures for the night's run, he began to spread more canvas. Well before hammocks were piped up the Surprise was making just over eight knots, and as he went below to work out his calculations once more on paper and transfer them to the chart, with various allowances for leeway and error he said, 'It is absurd to be so anxious. I am become a perfect old woman.'

  'On deck, there,' called Webster from the masthead. 'Land three points on the starboard bow.'

  His shrill voice pierced the general noise of both watches moving about and talking much more than was usual in a King's ship: it came clear through the open cabin door, and Jack, with the chart in front of him and a tell-tale compass in the beam over his head, saw that Ribeira Point in St Michael's should in fact bear south-west by south, exactly three points on the starboard bow.

  A knock on the door-jamb, and West came in. 'Land, sir,' he reported. 'Three points on the starboard bow. I caught sight of it from the deck for a moment—the haze is lifting—and it seemed to me about ten leagues off.'

  'Thank you, Mr West,' said Jack. 'I shall come and look at it by and by.'

  A moment later the bosun's call piped all hands to breakfast, and as though he had been waiting for the sound Stephen hurried in. 'God love you, Jack, he said, talking rather loud over the muffled thunder of feet, 'what land is this? Not our old friend Cape Fly-Away, I trust?'

  'Unless Cape Fly-Away bears exactly south-west by south about ten leagues, this should be the north-east point of St Michael's,' said Jack, showing the chart, with his parallel rulers along the line of bearing.

  'Yet you do not seem elated?'

  'I am pleased, certainly. But no, I am not as who should say elated. Feelings are curious: they come and go. And in any case this is only one small step; there is still a great way to go.'

  'If you please, gents,' said Killick, 'there is a couple of fresh flying-fish, just come aboard, that should be ate hot.'

  'There is a charming unction in a really fresh flying-fish,' said Stephen, setting to his plate. 'May I trouble you for the bread-barge? Tell, Jack, did I understand you to say the north-east point of the island?'

  'Yes. Ribeira it is called. There is a tall cross on top of the headland, as I hope we shall see in an hour or two.'

  'Yet I had supposed that if we were lucky enough to find St Michael's at all, a mere speck in the vast breadth of ocean, that we should run down its western side, so as to reach a point midway between St Michael's and St Mary, though somewhat to windward.'

  'That is the point we aim at, to be sure. But we must reach it from the east, as though we were sailing from Cadiz. My idea is to run down to 37°30'N or a little beyond, and then, avoiding the Formigas, to turn westwards, slowly beating up as though we were going to touch at Horta, in the hope that the Spartan will be waiting for us. Or rather for the Azul.'

  'How do you estimate our chances at present?'

  'Almost everything depends on the south wind that headed us on Tuesday. If it was blowing down here, and not so hard as to make Azul lie to, then it would have hurried her westward and we shall be too late. If it did not blow here, or if it had a great deal of west in it, coming off the islands, then we may still find the Spartan waiting. But whether or no, you will still see St Michael's, and if we skirt the little low islands and reefs of the Formigas, you may find some prodigious curious seaweeds and creatures. Tell me, Stephen,' he began after a pause, and he was going to continue 'do you ever feel that what you are doing is not quite real—that you are playing a part—and that what seems to be the present don't really signify? Is it quite usual? Or is it something unhealthy, the beginning of losing your mind?' But it occurred to him that this might be too nearly related to complaint and he substituted 'How is your Padeen coming along?'

  'His face is pitifully swollen still, but he has a power of fortitude.'

  'Could you do with another flying-fish, sir?' asked Killick. 'They are coming aboard in coveys.'

  Throughout the forenoon watch, when they were not trimming sails or going through the great-gun exercise in dumb-show, the greater part of the ship's company gazed at St Michael's, steadily coming nearer, clearer, and now by noon, right on the beam, the tall cross on the headland stood sharp against the sky.

  The breeze had backed into the west; at the same time it had slackened, so that the last heave of the log gave only five knots. But this caused no despondency, because the midday observation—and the report was openly listened to, without the least disguise—showed that they had run 210 miles between noon and noon. Once again the general cheer; and once again Padeen did not hear it, being right down in the orlop, locking away the laudanum, topped up to an even greater extent than before.

  'After dinner we must think of rigging the mizzenmast barque-fashion,' said Jack to the officer of the watch. 'Mr Bulkeley has been turning it over in his mind and he has laid the cordage aside, together with the blocks: I do not believe it will take very long.'

  There was also the maintopgallantmast to be changed, and as soon as dinner was over the work of rousing out the necessary spars began, a tedious business, since the boats, which were stowed upon them, first had to be got over the side, slung from the main and the fore yards. Stephen and Martin, who had a singular genius for getting in the way during manoeuvres of this kind but who were unwilling to go below on such a day, particularly with so many cliff-nesting birds about, took their mats and fishing-lines into the forecastle. 'How very much slower we are going,' observed Martin.

  'I made the same remark to the Captain,' said Stephen, 'but he urged me not to fret—it was only because we were in the lee of the island. In an hour or so we shall be spinning along as merrily as ever.'

  By the time the gig, pinnace and jolly-boat were towing astern the Surprise had rounded Madrugada Point, and there, running before the wind in a course that would soon cross hers, was a gaily-painted St Michael's tunny-boat.

  'Back the foretopsail,' called Jack, and the Surprise lost most of her way. The tunny-boat altered course in answer to this obvious invitation. 'Pass the word for the Doctor.' And when he came, 'Doctor, I am sure you can speak the Portuguese.'

  'I am moderately fluent,' said Stephen.

  'Then be pleased to buy some fish if they have any,' said Jack, 'and then to ask them just what winds they have had here this week: you might ask for news of the Spartan, if you think proper. But it is the wind that really matters, above all the wind on Tuesday. Was it southerly? Was it strong?'

  The boat came alongside: baskets of fish were handed up—silvery bonitoes about three feet long—and pieces of money, counted loud and plain so that there
should be no mistake, were handed down. Then followed a rambling conversation between Maturin and the boat, while West and Davidge had the launch and both cutters hoisted out and lowered down.

  Jack went below, and it was here that Stephen told him the bad news: the wind had blown hard from the south on Tuesday, and the tunny-boat's uncle had seen a barque pass westwards yesterday, as though from Cadiz for Fayal. Though it was true that the old gentleman had neither named nor described the vessel apart from remarking that she wore Spanish colours.

  'Well, well,' said Jack. 'It was but a very long shot at the best. Still, let us have a can of small beer to celebrate the fishes: there is nothing better than a steak of bonito, grilled. Killick. Killick, there: let us have two cans of beer and a biscuit to help it down with.'

  The cool beer was not unpleasant at this time of day, and as they drank it Jack observed, 'If I were a superstitious man, I should say that I had brought this on my own head by crowing so loud and hearty about yesterday's run—about making my landfall so exactly and in such uncommon good time.'

  'I never heard you crowing.'

  'No. but fate did. Believe me, Stephen, there is more in these feelings than old wives' tales and not walking under ladders. It seems to me that you have to treat destiny or fortune or whatever is the right word with a proper respect. A man must not bounce or presume, but he must not despair neither, for that is ill-bred; so although you may laugh in your sleeve I mean to go through the motions of changing our rig and cruising between St Michael's and St Mary for the rest of the day. Then tomorrow, having done the thing handsomely, we can go home; and if you choose, we will go by the Formigas and land you there for half a tide.'