Post Captain

by Patrick O'Brian

  At two bells in the middle watch the wind, which had been blowing fitfully from the south-west, backed suddenly into the north, hurling itself against the mountainous swell with tripled force—thunder just overhead, lightning, and such a deluge of rain that a storm-lantern on the forecastle could not be seen from the quarterdeck. The maintopimast staysail blew out of its boltrope, vanishing ghostly to leeward in pale strips of cloth jack sent more hands to the wheel, rigged relieving-tackles, and came into the cabin, where Stephen lay swinging in his cot, to tell him that it was coming on to blow.

  'How you do exaggerate, brother,' said Stephen. 'And how you drip! The best part of a quart of water has run off your person in this short space of time—see how it sweeps to and fro, defying gravity.'

  'I love a good blow,' said Jack, 'and this is one of your genuine charmers; for, do you see, it must hold the Spaniards back, and the dear knows we are very short of time. Was they to slip into Cadiz before us, what flats we should look.'

  'Jack, do you see that piece of string hanging down? Would you have the goodness to tie it to the hook over there, to reattach it? It came undone. Thank you. I pull upon it to moderate the motion of the cot, which exacerbates all my symptoms.'

  'Are you unwell? Queasy? Sick?'

  'No, no. Not at all. What a foolish suggestion. No. This may be the onset of a very serious malady. I was bitten by a tame bat a little while ago and I have reasons to doubt its sanity: it was a horseshoe bat, a female. It seems to me that I detect a likeness between my symptoms and the Ludolphus' description of his disease.'

  'Should you like a glass of grog?' asked Jack. 'Or a ham sandwich, with luscious white fat?' he added, with a grin.

  'No, no, no,' cried Stephen. 'Nothing of the kind. I tell you, this is a serious matter, calling for . . . there it goes again. Oh, this is a vile ship: the Sophie never behaved so—wild, unmeaning lurches. Would it be too much to ask you to turn down the lamp and to go away? Surely this is a situation that requires all your vigilance? Surely this is no time to stand idly smirking?'

  'Are you sure there is nothing I can fetch you? A basin?'

  'No, no, no.' Stephen's face assumed a pinched, mean expression: his beard showed black against the nacreous green. 'Does this sort of tempest last long?'

  'Oh, three or four days, no more,' said jack, staggering with the lee-lurch. 'I will send Killick with a basin.'

  'Jesus, Mary, Joseph,' said Stephen. 'There she goes again.' In the trough of the enormous waves the frigate lay becalmed, but as she rose, so the gale took her and laid her down, down and down, in a never-ending roll, while her forefoot heaved up until her bowsprit pointed at the racing clouds. 'Three days of this,' he thought. 'No human frame can withstand it.'

  Happily it was only the tail of the notorious September blow that the Lively had to deal with. The sky cleared in the morning watch; the glass rose, and although she could show no more than close-reefed topsails it was plain that she would spread more by noon. Dawn showed a sea white from horizon to horizon, a sea with nothing on it but the waterlogged wreck of a Portuguese bean-cod, and far to windward the Medusa, apparently intact. Jack was now senior captain, and he signalled her to make more sail—to make for their next rendezvous off Cape Santa Maria, the landfall for Cadiz.

  Towards noon he altered course due south, which brought the wind on the Lively's quarter, easing her motion greatly. Stephen appeared on deck, still very grave, but more humane. He and Mr Floris and Mr Floris's assistants had spent the morning dosing one another; they had all suffered more or less from the onset of diseases (orchitis, scurvy, the fell Ludolphus' palsy), but in Dr Maturin's case at least the attack had been averted by a judicious mixture of Lucatellus' balsam and powder of Algaroth.

  After dinner the Lively exercised the great guns, swell or no, rattling them in and out, but also firing broadside after broadside, so that the frigate was preceded by a cloud of her own making as she ran southwards at eleven knots, some twenty leagues off the coast of Portugal. The recent training had had effect, and although the fire was still painfully slow—three minutes and ten seconds between broadsides was the best they could do—it was more accurate by far, in spite of the roll and pitch. A palm-tree trunk, drifting by on the starboard bow three hundred yards away, was blown clear of the water on the first discharge; and they hit it again, with cheers that reached the Medusa, before it went astern. The Medusa also put in an hour's strenuous practice; and aboard the Medusa too, a good many hands were employed carefully picking over the round-shot, choosing the most spherical and chipping off flakes of rust. But most of the Medusa's time was taken up with trying to overhaul the Lively; she set topgallants before the Lively had shaken out the last reef in her topsails, and she tried studdingsails and royals as the breeze moderated, only to lose two of her booms, without the gain of half a mile. The Lively's officers and her sailmaker watched with intense satisfaction; but underlying their pleasure there was a haunting anxiety—were they going to be in time to cut the Spanish squadron off from Cadiz? And even if they were, would the Indefatigable and Amphion reach the rendezvous before the clash? The Spanish reputation for courage, if not for seamanship, stood high; and the odds were very great—a forty-gun frigate and three thirty-fours against a thirty-eight and a thirty-two; for Jack had explained the tactical situation to his officers as soon as he had opened his sealed orders—as soon as there was no danger of communication with the shore. The same anxiety, that they might be too late, was general throughout the ship: there was scarcely a man aboard who did not know what came from the River Plate, and those few—a person from Borneo and two Javanese—were told. 'It's gold, mate. That's what they ship from the River Plate: gold and silver, in chests and leather bags.'

  All through the day the wind declined, and all through the night; and whereas the log had once taken the line straight off the reel, tearing it away to show twelve and even thirteen knots, heave after heave, at dawn on the last day of September it had to be helped gently off and veered away, so that the midshipman of the watch could announce a dismal 'Two and a fathom, sir, if you please.'

  A day of light variable airs, mostly in their teeth—whistling fore and aft, and prayers that were answered by a fair breeze on Thursday, October 2. They passed Cape St Vincent later that day, under royals, with the Medusa in company, and they had been exercising the guns for some time—a very particular salute for that great headland, just visible from the masthead on the larboard beam when the bosun came aft and spoke to the first lieutenant. Mr Simmons pursed his lips, looked doubtful, hesitated, and then stepped across to Jack. 'Sir,' he said, 'the bosun represents to me, that the men, with the utmost respect, would wish you to consider whether it might be advisable not to fire the bow guns.'

  'They do, do they?' cried Jack, who had caught some odd, reproachful glances before this. 'Do they also think it advisable to double the ration of grog?'

  'Oh no, sir,' said the sweating crew of the gun nearest at hand.

  'Silence, there,' cried Mr Simmons. 'No, sir: what they mean is—that is to say, there is a general belief that firing the bow guns checks her way; and time being so short . . .'

  'Well, there may be something in what they say. The philosophers don't believe it, but we will not run the risk. Let the bow guns be run in and out, and fired in dumb show.'

  A pleased smile spread along the deck. The men wiped their faces—it was 80° in the shade of the sails—tightened the handkerchiefs round their foreheads, spat on their hands, and prepared to whip their iron monsters in and out in under two minutes and a half. After a couple of broadsides—in for a penny, in for a pound—and some independent firing, the tension, strongly present throughout the ship since Finisterre, suddenly rose to the highest pitch. Medusa was signalling a sail one point on the larboard quarter.

  'Up you go, Mr Harvey,' said Jack to a tall, light midshipman. 'Take the best glass in the ship. Mr Simmons may lend you his.'

  Up he went, up and up with the glass slung over his shou
lder, up to the royal pole and the tie; poor Cassandra could hardly have outstripped him. Presently his voice came floating down. 'On deck, there, Amphion, sir. I believe she has sent up a jury foretopmast.'

  The Amphion she was, and bringing up the breeze she joined company before the fall of night. Now they were three, and the next morning found them at their last rendezvous, with Cape Santa Maria bearing north-east, thirty miles away, visible from the fighting-tops in the brilliant light.

  The three frigates, with Sutton of the Amphion now senior captain, stood off and on all day, their mastheads thick with telescopes, perpetually sweeping the western sea, a vast blue rolling sea, with nothing between them and America except, perhaps, the Spanish squadron. In the evening the Indefatigable joined, and on the fourth day of October the frigates spread wide to cover as great an area as possible, still remaining within signalling distance: silently they beat up and down—gunnery had been laid aside since Cape St Vincent, for fear of giving the alarm. Aboard the Lively almost the only sound was the squeaking of the grindstone on the forecastle as the men sharpened their cutlasses and pikes, and the chip-chip-chip of the gunner's party scaling the shot.

  To and fro, to and fro, wearing every half hour at the first stroke of the ship's bell, men at every masthead watching the other frigates for a signal, a dozen glasses scanning the remote horizon.

  'Do you remember Anson, Stephen?' said Jack, as they paced the quarterdeck. 'He did this for weeks and weeks off Paita. Did you ever read his book?'

  'I did. How that man wasted his opportunities.'

  'He went round the world, and worried the Spaniards out of their wits, and took the Manilla galleon—what more could you ask?'

  'Some slight attention to the nature of the world round which he sailed so thoughtlessly. Apart from some very superficial remarks about the sea-elephant, there is barely a curious observation in the book. He should certainly have taken a naturalist.'

  'If he had had you aboard, he might be godfather to half a dozen birds with curious beaks; but on the other hand, you would now be ninety-six. How he and his people ever stood this standing off and on, I do not know. However, it all ended happy.'

  'Not a bird, not a plant, not a smell of geology . . . Shall we have some music after tea? I have written a piece I should like you to hear. It is a lament for the Tir nan Og.'

  'What is the Tir nan Og?'

  'The only bearable part of my country: it vanished long ago.'

  'Let us wait until the darkness falls, may we? Then I am your man: we will lament to your heart's content.'

  Darkness; a long, long night in the stifling gun-deck and the cabins, little sleep, and many a man, and officer too, taking a caulk on deck or in the tops. Before dawn on the fifth the decks were being cleaned—no trouble in getting the hands to tumble up—and the smoke from the galley fire was streaming away on the steady north-east wind, when the forward look-out, the blessed Michael Scanlon, hailed the deck with a voice that might have been heard in Cadiz—the Medusa, the last ship in the line of frigates as they stood to the north, was signalling four large sail bearing west by south.

  The eastern sky lightened, high wisps of cloud catching the golden light from below the horizon; the milky sea grew brilliant, and there they were, right aft, beating up for Cadiz, four white flecks on the rim of the world.

  'Are they Spaniards?' asked Stephen, creeping into the maintop.

  'Of course they are,' said Jack. 'Look at their stumpy topmasts. Here, take my glass. On deck, there. All hands stand by to wear ship.'

  At the same moment the signal to wear and chase broke out aboard the Indefatigable, and Stephen began his laborious descent, propped by Jack, Bonden, and a bosun's mate, clinging to his tail until tears came into the poor man's eyes. He had prepared his lines of argument for Mr Osborne, but he wished to pass them over in his mind before he conferred with him aboard the Indefatigable, whose captain was in command of the squadron as commodore. He went below, his heart beating at an unusual pace. The Spaniards were gathering together, signals passing between them: negotiations would be delicate; oh, very delicate indeed.

  Breakfast, a scrappy meal. The Commodore signalling for Dr Maturin: Stephen upon deck with a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other as the cutter was lowered away. How very much closer they were, so suddenly! The Spaniards had already formed their battle-line, standing on the starboard tack with the wind one point free, and they were so near that he could see their gun-ports—every one of them open, yawning wide.

  The British frigates, obeying the signal to chase, had broken their line, and the Medusa, the southernmost ship and therefore the foremost once they had worn, was running straight before the wind for the leading Spanish ship; a few hundred yards behind her there was the Indefatigable, steering for the second Spaniard, the Medea, with Bustamente's flag at the mizzen; then came the Amphion; and bringing up the rear, the Lively. She was closing the gap fast, and as soon as Stephen had been bundled into the cutter she spread her foretopgallant, crossed the Amphion's wake, and steered for the Clara, the last ship in the Spanish line.

  The Indefatigable yawed a trifle, backed her topsails, hoisted Stephen aboard, and plunged on. The Commodore, a dark, red-faced, choleric man, very much on edge, hurried him below, paid very little attention to his words as he ran over the heads of the argument that was to persuade the Spanish admiral to yield, but sat there drumming his fingers on the table, breathing fast with angry excitement. Mr Osborne, a quick, intelligent man, nodded, staring into Stephen's eyes: he nodded, taking each point, and nodded again, his mouth tight shut. '. . . and lastly,' said Stephen, 'induce him by all possible means to come across, so that we may concert our answer to unforeseen objections.'

  'Come, gentlemen, come,' cried the Commodore, running on deck. Closer, closer: they were well within range, all colours abroad; within musket-shot, the Spanish decks crowded with faces; within pistol-shot.

  'Hard over,' said the Commodore. The wheel spun and the big frigate turned with a roar of orders to round to and lie on the admiral's starboard beam, twenty yards to windward. The Commodore took his speaking-trumpet. 'Shorten sail,' he cried, aiming it at the Medea's quarterdeck. The Spanish officers spoke slightly to one another; one of them shrugged his shoulders. There was dead silence all along the line: wind in the rigging, the lapping of the sea.

  'Shorten sail,' he repeated, louder still. No reply: no sign. The Spaniard held his course for Cadiz, two hours away. The two squadrons ran in parallel lines, gliding silently along at five knots, so close that the low sun sent the shadow of the Spanish topgallantmasts across the English decks.

  'Fire across his bows,' said the Commodore. The shot struck the water a yard before the Medea's forefoot, the spray sweeping aft. And as though the crash had broken the spell of silence and immobility there was a quick swirl of movement aboard the Medea, a shout of orders, and her topsails were dewed up.

  'Do your best, Mr Osborne,' said the Commodore. 'But by God he shall make up his mind in five minutes.'

  'Bring him if you possibly can,' said Stephen. 'And above all, remember Godoy has betrayed the kingdom to the French.'

  The boat pulled across and hooked on. Osborne climbed aboard the Spanish frigate, took off his hat and bowed to the crucifix, the admiral and the captain, each in turn. They saw him go below with Bustamente.

  And now the time dragged slow. Stephen stood by the mainmast, his hands tight clasped behind his back: he hated Graham, the commodore: he hated what was going to happen. He tried with all his force to follow and to influence the argument that was carrying on half a pistol shot away. If only Osborne could bring Bustamente aboard there might be a fair chance of an arrangement.

  Mechanically he glanced up and down the line. Ahead of the Indefatigable the Medusa lay rocking gently beside the Fama; astern of the Medea the Amphion had now slipped round under the Mercedes's lee, and in the rear lay the Lively, close to windward of the Clara. Even to Stephen's unpr
ofessional eye, the Spaniards were in a remarkable state of readiness; there was none of that hurried flight of barrels, coops, livestock, tossed into the sea to clear the decks, that he had seen often enough in the Mediterranean. At each gun, its waiting, motionless crew; and the smoke from the slow-match in every tub wafted in a thin blue haze along the long range of cannon.

  Graham was pacing up and down with a quick uneven step. 'Is he going to be all night?' he said aloud, looking at the watch in his hand. 'All night? All night?'

  A quarter of an endless hour, and all the time the sharp smell of burning match in their nostrils. Another dozen turns and the Commodore could bear it no longer. 'A gun for the boat,' he cried, and again a shot whipped across the Medea's bows.

  Osborne appeared on the Spanish deck, clambered down into the boat, came aboard the Indefatigable, shaking his head. His face was pale and tense. 'Admiral Bustamente's compliments, sir,' he said to the Commodore, 'but he cannot entertain your proposals. He cannot consent to being detained. He nearly yielded when I spoke of Godoy,' he said to Stephen, aside. 'He hates him.'

  'Let me go across, sir,' cried Stephen. 'There is still time.'

  'No, sir,' cried the Commodore, a wild, furious glare in his face. 'He has had his time. Mr Carrol, lay me across her bows.'

  'Lee braces—' The cry was drowned by the Mercedes's crashing broadside as she fired straight into the Amphion.

  'Signal close engagement,' said the Commodore, and the vast bay roared and echoed with a hundred guns. A great pall of smoke formed at once, rising and drifting away south-west, and within the pall the flashes of the guns followed one another in a continuous blaze of lightning. An enormous din, trembling heart and spine: Stephen stood there near the mainmast, with his hands behind his back, looking up and down; there was the cruel taste of powder in his mouth, and in his bosom he felt the rising fierce emotion of a bull-fight—the furious cheering of the gun-crews was invading him. Then the cheering was cut off, drowned, annihilated by a blast so huge that it wiped out thought and almost consciousness: the Mercedes blew up in a fountain of brilliant orange light that pierced the sky.