Post Captain

by Patrick O'Brian

  In the afternoon Pullings came on deck, pale Pullings, supported by a Miss Lamb on either side. Jack had already seen Pullings (grape-shot in the thigh, a sword-cut on the shoulder and two ribs stove in), just as he had seen Major Hill (down with the influenza) and all the other men under Stephen's hands, but this was the first time he had seen the girls. 'My dear Miss Lamb,' he cried, taking her free hand, 'I hope I see you well. Quite well?' he said earnestly, meaning 'not too much raped?'

  'Thank you, sir,' said Miss Lamb, looking conscious and strange—quite another girl, 'my sister and I are perfectly well.'

  'Miss Lambs, your most devoted,' said Captain Azéma, coming from the starboard side and bowing. He was a big dark loose-built man, tough, capable, a sailor—a man after jack's own heart. 'Misses are under my particular protection, sir,' he said. 'I have persuaded them to carry robes, to resume the form divine,'—kissing his fingers 'They do not risk the least impertinence. Some of my men are villain buggers indeed, impetuous like one says, but quite apart from my protection, not one, not one, would want of respect for such heroines.'

  'Eh?' said Jack.

  'That's right, sir,' cried Pullings, squeezing them. 'Copper-bottomed heroines, trundling shot, running about like mad, powder, match when my flint flew off, wads!! Joan of Arcs.'

  'Did they carry powder?' cried Jack. 'Dr Maturin said trousers, or something of that kind, but I—'

  'Oh, you horrid two-faced thing!' cried Miss Susan. 'You saw her! You shouted out the most dreadful things to Lucy, the most dreadful things I ever heard in my life. You swore at my sister, sir; you know you did. Oh, Captain Aubrey, fie!'

  'Captain Aubrey?' observed Azéma, adding the head-money for an English officer to his share of the prize—a very handsome sum.

  'She's blown the gaff—I'm brought by the lee,' thought Jack. 'They carried powder—What an amazing spirited thing to do.' 'Dear Miss Lambs,' he said most humbly, 'I beg you to forgive me. The last half-hour of the action—a damned warm action too—is a perfect blank to me. I fell on my head; and it is a perfect blank. But to carry powder was the most amazing spirited thing to do: I honour you, my dears. Please forgive me. The smoke—the trousers—what did I say, so that I may unsay it at once?'

  'You said,' began Miss Susan, and paused. 'Well, I forget; but it was monstrous . . .'

  The sound of a gun made the whole group jerk, an absurd, simultaneous, galvanic leap: they had all been speaking very loud, being still half deafened from the roar of battle, but a gun touched their innermost ears and they all pivoted at once, mechanical toys pointing directly at the Bellone.

  She had been under double-reefed topsails all this time, to allow the Lord Nelson to keep company, but now men were already laying out on the yard to shake out the reefs, and Captain Dumanoir hailed loud and clear, telling his second to make straight for Corunna, 'all sails outside'. He added a good deal that neither Jack nor Pullings could understand, but the general upshot was plain: his look-out had seen a sail to windward; he was not going to take the slightest risk with so valuable a prize; and he meant to beat up to reconnoitre, and as the case fell out, to salute a friend or neutral, to fight an enemy, or, trusting to the Bellone's magnificent sailing qualities, to lead the strange sail astray.

  The Lord Nelson, trailing a curtain of dark-brown weed, leaking steadily (her pumps had never stopped since the action), and still short of sails, spars and rigging, could only make four knots, even with her topgallantsails set; but the Bellone, now a triple pyramid of white, was at her best close-hauled, and in ten minutes they were two miles away from one another. Jack asked permission to go into the top; Captain Azéma not only entreated him to go anywhere he chose, but lent him Stephen's telescope as well.

  'Good day,' said the privateersman in the top. Jack had given him a terrible blow with his bar, but he bore no grudge. 'That is one of thy frigates down there.'

  'Oh wee?' said Jack, settling his back against the mast. The distant ship sprang close in his objective-glass. Thirty-six guns; no, thirty-eight. Red pendant. Naiad? Minerve? She had been going large under easy sail when first she sighted the Bellone; then studdingsails had appeared—the last were being sheeted home when first jack had her steadily under view—as she altered course to close the privateer; then she saw the Indiaman and altered course again to know more about her. Upon this the Bellone tacked, tacked clumsily, taking an age over what jack had seen her do in five minutes from 'helm's a-lee' to 'let go and haul'; he heard them laughing, clowning down there on deck. She stood on this tack until she was within a mile of the frigate, steadily beating up against the swell, white water sweeping across her forecastle. A white puff showed at the frigate's bows, and shifting his gaze he saw the red ensign break out at her mizzen-peak: he frowned: he would at least have tried the tricolour or, with the big American frigates in those waters, the Stars and Stripes; it might not have worked, but it was worth the attempt. For her part, the Bellone was perfectly capable of showing French colours without any distinction, to pass for a national ship and lead the frigate away.

  She had done so. She had done just that thing; and the seaman, who had borrowed the glass, licking it with his garlic tongue, chuckled to himself. Jack knew what was passing through the frigate-captain's head; far to leeward a ship, probably a merchantship, possibly a prize, but what sort of prize he could not tell: crossing his bows three-quarters of a mile away there was a French corvette, not very well handled, not very fast, peppering him at random-shot. A simple mind would find no great difficulty about this decision and soon Jack saw the frigate haul her wind. Her studdingsails disappeared, and she turned to pursue the Bellone, setting a press of staysails. She would deal with the Frenchman and then come back to see about this hypothetical prize.

  'Surely to God you must see she's spilling her wind,' cried Jack within himself. 'Surely to God you've seen that old trick before?' They slipped away and away across the distant sea, the frigate with a fine bold bow-wave at her stern and the Bellone keeping just beyond the reach of her chasers; and when they were no more than flecks of white, hull down to the north-north-east, Jack climbed heavily out of the top. The seaman gave him a compassionate yet philosophic nod; this had happened to him before; it was happening to jack now; it was one of the little miseries of life.

  After dark Captain Azéma altered course according to his instructions, and the Indiaman headed into a lonely sea, drawing her slow furrow a hundred miles in the four and twenty hours, never to be seen by the frigate again.

  At the far end of that furrow lay Corunna; he had no doubt of Captain Azéma's making his landfall to within a mile or so, for not only was Azéma a thorough-going seaman, but this clear weather continued day after day—perfect weather for observation, for fixing his position. Corunna: Spain. But now that jack was known for an officer they would never let him ashore. Unless he gave his parole, Azéma would put him in irons, there to lie until the Bellone or some chasse-marée carried him to France—his was a valuable carcass.

  The next day was a total void: the unbroken round of the sea, the dome of the sky, thin cloud lightening to blue above. And the next was the same, distinguished only by what Jack thought to be the beginnings of the influenza, and a certain skittishness observed in the Misses Lamb, pursued by Azéma's lieutenant and a sixteen-year old volunteer with flashing eyes.

  But Friday's sea was all alive with sails—the ocean was speckled with the sober drab of a fleet of bankers, coming home with codfish from Newfoundland; they could be smelt a mile downwind. And among the bankers a bean-cod, a double-lateen with a host of odd, haphazard-looking sails, a strange vessel with an archaic prow; and a disagreeable reminder that the coast was near—your bean-cod was no ocean crosser. But though the bean-cod was of absorbing interest to a sailor, the plain cutter far down to leeward wiped it entirely from their attention.

  'You see the cutter, sir?' said Pullings.

  Jack nodded. The cutter was a rig more favoured by the English than the French; it was used by t
he Navy and by privateers, by smugglers and by those who pursued smugglers, being fast, nimble and weatherly, lying very close to the wind; it was of no great use to merchants. And this particular little vessel was no merchantman: what merchantman would steer that erratic course among the bankers? She did not belong to the Navy, either, for as soon as she sighted the Lord Nelson a gaff-topsail appeared above her mainsail, a modern sail not countenanced in the service. She was a privateer.

  This was Captain Azéma's opinion too. He had the guns drawn, reloaded and run out on both sides; he was in no particular hurry, because the cutter had to work straight up into the eye of the wind. Furthermore, as she came nearer, tacking and tacking again, it was clear that she had had a rough time of it not long ago—her mainsail was double-reefed, presumably from some recent damage; there were strangely-patched holes all over it and more in her foresail and ragged jib; her upper works had a chewed appearance; and one of her seven little gun-ports on the starboard side had been hastily repaired. There was not much danger to be feared from her, but still he was going to take no risks: he had new boarding-netting rigged out, a great deal of cartridge filled, and shot brought up; and his acting-bosun, helped by all the Lascars who were capable of work, secured the yards.

  The Lord Nelson was ready long before the cutter fired a gun and hoisted English colours; but she did not reply at once. Azéma looked at Jack and Pullings. 'I will not ask you to go downstairs,' he said, 'but if you will to hail or to signal, I shall be compelled to shoot you.' He smiled, but he had two pistols in his belt and he meant what he said.

  Jack said, 'Just so,' and bowed. Pullings smiled diffidently.

  The cutter was lying on the Indiaman's bow, her mainsail shivering; Azéma nodded to the man at the wheel. The Lord Nelson turned gently, and Azéma said, 'Fire.' The broadside, the eighteen-pounders alone, parted on the downward roll; beautifully grouped, the shots struck the sea just short of the cutter's larboard bow and beam, ricocheting over her, adding new holes to her sails and knocking away the outer third of her bowsprit. Startled by this reception, the cutter tried to fill and come about, but with so little way on her and with her jib flying in the breeze she would not stay. She fell off, giving the Lord Nelson her seven six-pounders as she did so, and wore round on the other tack.

  The cutter knew she had come up against a tough'un, a difficult article—half a broadside like this would send her to the bottom; but gathering way she crossed the Lord Nelson's stern, fired again, gybed like a dancer and crossed back to lie upon her starboard bow. At two hundred yards her six-pounders did the Indiaman's thick sides no harm, but they did Cut up her rigging, and it was clearly in the cutter's mind to carry on with this manoeuvre.

  Azéma was having none of it. The cutter had gone to and fro in spite of his yawing to fire, and now he brought the wind right abeam, swinging the ship through 90°. He ran down the line of guns, speaking to each crew, and sent a deliberate broadside to the space of sea the cutter had filled two seconds earlier—as though by magic, intuition, telepathy, the cutter's master put his helm a-lee the instant of the call to fire, coming about in a flash and heading for the Lord Nelson. He did so again two minutes later, less by magic than by a calculation of the time it would take these gunners to have him in their sights again. He was going to board, and he had only one more short tack to bring him up against the Lord Nelson's bows. Jack could see the men there, cutlasses and boarding-axes ready, twenty-five or thirty of them, the master at the tiller, a long sword in his other hand: in a moment now they would start their cheer.

  'Fire,' said Azéma again, and as the smoke cleared there was the cutter with her topsail gone, hanging drunkenly over her side, no captain at the tiller, a heap of men struggling or motionless upon her deck. Her way carried her on past the Lord Nelson's bows, out of reach of the next discharge; and now she was racing away, fleeing to gain a hundred yards or so before the Lord Nelson's ponderous turn should bring her starboard broadside to bear.

  She survived it, though it was difficult to see how she did so, with so much white water kicked up all round her; and Azéma, who did not feel passionately about either taking or sinking her, sent only a few more shots after her before returning to his course. Ten minutes later she had sent up a new jib and foresail and she was dwindling, smaller and smaller among the distant bankers. Jack felt for his watch; he liked to note the beginning and the end of all engagements—it was gone, of course.

  'I think it was temerarious, immoral,' said Azéma. 'Suppose he had killed some of my people! He should be broken on the wheel. I should have sunk him. I am too magnanimous. That is not courage, but hardfooliness.'

  'I would agree,' said Jack, 'if it had been the other way around. A sloop that does not strike to a ship of the line is a fool.'

  'We see things differently,' said Azéma, still cross over the time lost and the damage to his rigging. 'We have different proportions. But at least'—his good humour returning—'I hope your countrymen will give us a day of rest tomorrow.'

  He had his day of rest, and another morning too; but shortly after he had taken his noon observation—45° 23' N., 10° 30' W.—and had promised his prisoners Spanish bread and real coffee for breakfast, there was the cry of a sail to windward.

  Gradually the white blur resolved itself into a brig; and the brig was clearly giving chase. The hours passed: Captain Azéma was thoughtful and preoccupied during dinner—pecked at his food, and from time to time going up on deck. The Lord Nelson was under topgallants, with upper and lower studdingsails, which urged her towards Corunna at five or even six knots as the breeze freshened. He set his royals a little after four, anxiously watching to see how the wounded masts would stand the strain; and for a while it seemed that the brig was falling behind.

  'Sir,' said Pullings secretly, coming from those airy heights after a long examination of the brig, 'I am almost sure she is the Seagull. My uncle was master of her in ninety-nine, and many's the time I have been aboard.'

  'Seagull?' said Jack, frowning. 'Did she not change to carronades?'

  'That's right, sir. Sixteen twenty-four-pounders, very tight in the bridle-ports: and two long sixes. She can hit hard, if only she gets near enough, but she is amazing slow.'

  'Slower than this?'

  'Much of a muchness, sir. She's just set her skysails. It may make a difference.'

  The difference was small, very small—perhaps a tablecloth or two—but in five hours of steady unchanging weather it was enough to bring the Seagull within reach of the Lord Nelson's aftermost starboard eighteen-pounder and of a long eight that Captain Azéma had shifted to fire through the stateroom gallery.

  For ten sea miles the brig—and now they were sure she was the Seagull—could reply only with her bow six-pounder, which did nothing but make a smoke and encourage her crew; but slowly the Lord Nelson neared and then crossed a dark band in the sea, where the wind, backed up by the Spanish Cordillera, combined with the ebbing tide to produce a distinct frontier, a sullen, choppy zone haunted by gulls and other inshore birds.

  Within five minutes the Lord Nelson's way fell off perceptibly; the song of her rigging dropped tone by tone; and the Seagull ranged up to her starboard quarter. Before the brig crossed the dark water in her turn, she fired the first full broadside of her close-range carronades: it fell short, and so did the next, but a ricocheting twenty-four-pound ball tore through the hammocks and dropped weakly against the mainmast. Captain Azéma looked thoughtfully from the heavy shot to the brig: she still had a quarter of a mile to run before she would lose the full fair breeze. A gain of fifty yards would bring these twenty-four-pounders rattling about his ears, piercing the Indiaman's costly sides and endangering her already damaged masts. His chief feeling was irritation rather than any dread for the outcome: the Seagull's rate of fire and accuracy left much to be desired, whereas he had eight master-gunners aboard; the brig's power of manoeuvring was no greater than his, and he only had to knock away a spar or two to leave her behind and gain the co
ast. Nevertheless, he was going to need all his concentration.

  'She is scarcely commodious, your brig,' he said to Jack. 'We may have serious difficulty with her. I must ask you to go below. Messiers les prisonniers into the hold, if you please—I invite the prisoners to go into the hold.'

  There was no denying his authoritative tone. They went below with many a reluctant glance at the evening sea, down hatchway after hatchway to the final grating, which closed over them with a thump and the rattle of a chain. And it was in the crammed bowels of the Indiaman, shut firmly down in the smell of tea, cinnamon and bilgewater that Jack, Pullings, the Company's Europeans and all the passengers witnessed the action. Aural witnesses, of course, no more, since they were below the water-line, with nothing but a swinging lantern and the vague shape of bales to see, but what they heard they heard well. The Lord Nelson resonated like a sounding-box to the crash of her eighteen-pounders, transposing the roar an octave lower; and the sea transmitted the Seagull's broadsides—a curious dead thump, like a padded hammer a great way off, a sound devoid of overtones and so distinct that it was sometimes possible to distinguish each of the eight carronades, whose fire would have seemed simultaneous in the open air.

  They listened, tried to calculate the direction, worked out the weight of metal—four hundred and thirty-two pounds for the Lord Nelson, three hundred and ninety-two for the brig—and the possibility of bringing it into play. 'Azéma is using his big guns alone,' observed Jack. 'Concentrating on her masts, I make no doubt.' Sometimes the Seagull hit them, and they cheered, full of speculation as to the place of the strike; once a sudden rush in the well and a renewed activity of the pump made it clear that the Lord Nelson had been holed between wind and water, probably in the forepeak; and once a great metallic clang made them think that a gun had been struck; perhaps dismounted.