The Golden Ocean

by Patrick O'Brian

  Then came the account of the storm: then of the strange calm and the terrible swell that had rolled Gloucester’s main and foretopmast by the board, only a few hours after twenty Centurions had been sent to help them send it up. No. He had it wrong. First, in June, the Gloucester had lost her mainmast, at the same time that the Centurion’s foremast had been sprung: that was during those seven long weeks when they were hunting for the north-east trades. It was after they had found them at last that this western hurricane came on, dismantling the Gloucester, who already had no more than a jury mainmast, and so hobbled along, keeping them back while the scurvy broke out again. And it was then that the flat calm came, with that unbelievable swell. It was then that the leak began, too. He could hear the pumps now, a noise that never stopped all round the clock. They had searched and searched, but they never could find the source of the leak, and still the water poured in at the stem, deep down. Only a dry-dock would let them come at it, and there was no dry-dock for five thousand miles. Even now, running with a strong following wind, she made a desperate amount: what would she do beating up into a big hollow sea?

  The Gloucester had been in a terrible way, unmanageable in the sea, with her people—the whole ship’s company—pumping with no rest at all for twenty-four hours. And Captain Mitchel had come over to report seven feet of water in the hold, increasing every hour, her upper works shattered and appalling damage below, with much less than half her company fit to keep afloat. Peter remembered his grey face, almost inhuman with drawn-out care.

  They had just managed to get the bullion out of her, after transferring the sick, but scarcely a barrel of stores.

  Then they had burnt her; and her guns fired one by one: the fire reached the magazine, and she went up in a crimson flash filled with black falling timbers that splashed hissing in the sea, and there was nothing of Gloucester but a dark pall of smoke that followed the Centurion as she ploughed her single furrow across the Pacific, alone now, the only ship on the enormous sea. One ship of the whole beautiful squadron, and she undermanned, sickly and leaking, with an uncharted ocean to cross.

  And there were so many other things in these four months past—the bonitos, the turtles and dolphins, the wide-winged sea-birds and the strange weed on the sea; the new faces aboard, the Tryal’s officers, Mr Saunders back again—Captain Saunders now—the Gloucester’s rigid and gloomy commander, the new hands, some with fascinating tales of the East, Paulus the Dutchman from Java, Widjoo the Malay, the cheerful black men and their songs. He would forget it all.

  Suddenly he remembered the happenings of one day with extraordinary clarity: and on reflection it seemed to him that that was the day that marked the beginning—the beginning of the time when everything had gone wrong for him.

  They had picked up the trade wind, and they were running under topsails alone, for the Gloucester delayed them: but at least they were making a steady four knots, and had been, day after day: and he felt uncommonly cheerful. On that particular day he stepped on deck at three bells in the afternoon watch, and Mr Saumarez, turning in his steady pacing on the quarter-deck, happened to ask him what it was that he carried—an ordinary question, nothing in the disciplinary line, but prompted by normal curiosity.

  ‘It is a serpent, sir,’ said Peter, ‘and I am going to ask the smith to repair this hole, if you please.’

  ‘A serpent, is it?’ said the first lieutenant, turning the spiral tube in his hands. ‘A kind of musical instrument?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Peter, in all innocence. ‘No, sir. We use it for making our whiskey.’

  ‘What is whiskey?’ asked Mr Saumarez. The drink was barely known in England, and not at all in the Channel Islands, the first lieutenant’s home.

  ‘It is a sort of Irish cordial, sir,’ said Peter.

  ‘I see. Very well, Mr Palafox,’ said Mr Saumarez. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Peter, taking back the serpent. Then in an evil moment he added, ‘We call it uishge beatha at home—the water of life.’

  ‘Eh?’ cried Mr Saumarez, when Peter had gone a few steps. ‘You do not mean aqua vitae, I trust? Not eau de vie? You are not speaking of ardent spirits, for Heaven’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t think it is the same thing at all, sir,’ said Peter, doubtfully. ‘But it is rather strong when it is very new.’

  ‘Bring the stuff to my cabin, Mr Palafox,’ said Mr Saumarez in an official voice.

  ‘Pah,’ he said, gasping. ‘This is raw spirit. Is this an ill-timed joke, Mr Palafox?’

  ‘No, sir,’ quavered Peter, aghast at the lieutenant’s angry expression. ‘It is only our morning draught.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me that you have dared to brew, to distil, this poison here in the ship?—actually aboard the Centurion?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And drink it daily?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if you please.’

  The first lieutenant stared at Peter with incredulous horror for a moment, and then, in a sterner manner than Peter had ever known, settled down to a searching enquiry.

  Peter and Sean had distilled their whiskey regularly from St Helen’s on. Finding the quality and the price equally disagreeable in Portsmouth they had laid in a stock of barley and had malted it as occasion required. It was not very good, although Sean had brought a bottle of Ballynasaggart water from Bridget’s well, which made the best whiskey in Ireland, and they always kept a little of the old to mix with the new in order that there should always be some true Irish water in the barrel; so to ameliorate their brew they had added fresh lemons at Madeira. No, he replied, they had never made any secret of their proceedings. It was thought to be medicine, he supposed. No, he had never given any to the hands, except Shaughnessy, Hanlon, Lyons, Burke and Donohue, who were the only Irishmen left. The others did not like it, although it was good for them—would not touch it.

  What had he to say for himself? Was sorry that he had done wrong—had not intended to commit a crime—was persuaded that it had recovered Keppel in the last stages of scurvy before Juan Fernandez—had fed it to him with a spoon. But Keppel was not to blame: Peter had obliged him to take it. No, he had not read all the Admiralty regulations—did not know the penalty for such an act—was amazed to hear it, and very sorry. Had no more to say in excuse—they always did it at home—drank up a cupful on rising against the damp of the air—had not been aware that he was criminally debauching the crew, undermining discipline, setting dreadful example—knew that drunkenness was a sin—begged pardon, but was never drunken himself—no, did not think that he was a degenerate sot.

  ‘You still do not seem to realise the enormity of the offence,’ said Mr Saumarez. ‘Are you not aware, Mr Palafox, that this is a court-martial business, and that I shall be obliged to report it to the Commodore?’ Mr Saumarez was not fooling: this was not the frightening noise of an angry first lieutenant blowing up an errant midshipman—noise and little more: it was very serious and Mr Saumarez was not enjoying his inquisition in the least.

  Peter had not known—would not have contravened the regulation—would never offend again—hoped that Mr Saumarez would overlook it this time.

  ‘No. I am sorry, but that is impossible. You must go to your quarters and not leave them until you are sent for.’

  Then the shattering interview with the Commodore, flanked by the first lieutenant, Mr Woodfall and the Chaplain. The Commodore as stern as Mr Saumarez—‘Are you aware, Mr Palafox, that I am in doubt whether it is not my duty to disrate you? To withdraw the officer’s privileges which you so grossly abused and turn you before the mast, where you can be more strictly supervised as an irresponsible and dangerous person?’

  Mr Walter’s anxious, kindly intervention: ‘Not an evil boy at heart, nor very dissipated—may yet be reclaimed—the fault lay more in the bibulous nation than in the individual.’

  A helpful word from the surgeon: ‘The liquor might have some medicinal value in skilled hands—should never have been administered to Ke
ppel—nonsense to pretend that it had cured him: much more likely responsible for the loss of his hair—but in a proper exhibition and dosage, might very reasonably be supposed to have some antiscorbutic powers.’

  Mr Saumarez’ just but unflattering report of Peter’s maritime value: ‘Attentive to his duty, though apt to talk far too much and boast—to advise his superiors—to frequent the fo’c’sle too much—to make too much noise—to argue. Had sometimes been found below and asleep when he should have been on deck—had never been visibly drunk—had behaved creditably on such and such occasions (some very trying)— discreditably on such and such other occasions (mostly foolish). Had some seamanlike qualities: apart from this fantastic history, had committed none but venial crimes. Witness, had he not known of the distillation, would certainly have said that Mr Palafox was worth retaining for the good of the service.’

  The Commodore’s summing-up: detestation of drunkenness—spirits abroad in a ship more dangerous than naked powder—disappointment in Peter—total lack of responsibility, discrimination, common sense—awful consequences to be expected if everybody behaved in the same manner—ship a floating Bedlam. A captain’s powers aboard—their remarkable extent—midshipmen not commissioned officers—liable to be disrated, sent into lower-deck, flogged, discharged at next port, abandoned to own devices. An awful pause: then his decision: distilling to stop for ever—implements confiscated—the illegal liquor impounded for medical use. The uncommon leniency prompted solely by Mr Saumarez’ report and Commodore’s own observation of good behaviour in certain crises: but no further indulgence to be expected. Any relapse would lead to instant application of prescribed penalties and end of naval career. Then such a wigging about responsible conduct, behaviour expected of a King’s officer and use of mother-wit: it reduced Peter to a lower state than the worst wrath of the Horn; it wrung unwilling, shameful tears out of him, which no terror or privation could have done; and when at last he was dismissed he went away with such a load of disapprobation weighing on him that he never seemed to have recovered his cheerfulness from that day to this.

  Yes. From that dreadful afternoon onwards the journal had contained many sad and despondent entries—not only the personal account of additional and onerous duties by way of punishment, nor marks of favour withdrawn; not only the grievous trouble that he had brought down on poor Sean; but accounts of contrary winds, continual pumping, steadily increasing difficulties with the over-strained, worn-out rigging; and worse still, the scurvy. Everything seemed to date from that time, as if that had been a signal for misfortune to begin.

  The scurvy. It had started within a surprisingly short time after their departure from Mexico, long before it could ordinarily have been expected. Had their deep disappointment something to do with it? It grew in spite of fresh fish caught over the side, turtles kept healthy and alive from Quibo, often-renewed rainwater, and the livestock that they still had from Paita: it was contrary to all experience, and it was even more discouraging than it had been round the Horn.

  It spread and spread; and although they were now running off their westing at a steady five knots, almost the last entry that Peter had was a calculation of the possibility of their reaching Asia before the western monsoon set in, if they went on losing men at the present rate—a calculation which had no encouraging result.

  Scurvy. Peter had seen it in all its disguises: he was dreadfully familiar with it. It was surprising, therefore, that he had not recognised it in himself, that he should not have realised the cause of his perpetual tiredness, the lethargy that oppressed him at this very moment in the foretop, the continual indwelling anxiety that made what would ordinarily have appeared a trifling risk swell into an awful, impending disaster—the same morbid timorousness that he had seen in so many men before—in Preston, for example, and many more besides. Peter was sick, and very sick: but he did not know it.

  ‘However,’ he said to himself, ‘I must tackle this business. I will do it, certainly. Perhaps at dinner, tomorrow.’

  It was a somewhat moody and silent dinner in the midshipmen’s berth: but when it was over Hill began to stir himself in quest of amusement. He nudged Wilson and said, ‘By the way, young Palafox, what is the name of your little sister?’

  Peter leant back in his seat and looked at him for a moment. ‘Listen, Hill,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not said this before, because you were new in the berth. But you will have to find another tone when you speak to me. You understand what I mean, do you not? No, no,’ he cried as Hill started up. ‘No: we don’t want any theatrical display at all. You can stop that at once.’ Into his tired voice there had sprung the authentic quarter-deck rasp, unconscious, unemphatic and convincing. Hill sat down, staring.

  ‘And I will have a word with you, Wilson,’ said Peter with contained ferocity. ‘You have been picking on O’Mara. You will find yourself in very serious trouble if you go on. You know quite well what I mean. And I am not talking about the way you make a vulgar nuisance of yourself in this berth, either.’

  Wilson’s ugly face was squinting with anger. ‘Lousy young coxcomb,’ he blurted out.

  ‘Stow that,’ whispered Ransome. ‘Stow it, I say. I am senior here, cully, and I am going to tell you something. You and your mate come it too strong, see? You can pipe down, like Palafox says. This is a good berth,’ he said, looking affectionately round the hideous, cheese-shaped, awkward enclosure, whose low beams were studded with little bits of his scalp where he had banged his head these two years past. ‘This is a good berth, and we have had some good jokes in it: but you ain’t going to come it so strong any more. Because why? Because I won’t have it, that’s why. Palafox spoke very well.’

  ‘I entirely agree with Palafox,’ said Keppel, looking from Wilson to Hill with frigid distaste. ‘You have mistaken the tone. And if you are to be here for the rest of the commission, I suggest that you should change it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bailey: and from the rest of the berth there arose a solid, unspectacular, unanimous manifestation of public opinion. But Peter did not hear it: he went slowly on deck, feeling so strange that he hardly knew where he was; and when he reached the gangway he fell down with a force that stunned the senses out of his head.

  ‘Tinian Island, September 3rd,’ wrote Peter, propping the new journal up on his knee. ‘This is a wonderful place, very like Juan Fernandez, only more so. I got up this morning—they were arming the cables—gackled 7 fathom from the service with roundings of hawser, on account of the coral. But I came out in very large interesting spots or blodges and was obliged to be carried back by Ransome and Sean. I have been much carried about (like a heathen image) for the benefit of the air; but never so grandly as coming ashore, when the Commodore took one end of my hammock and Captain Saunders the other. P. Palafox, 1st Lord of the Admiralty. I told Ransome that: Lord, how we laughed.

  ‘We came in a week ago, and it was touch and go whether we should fetch the island, they say, only I was in a sorts of stupid amazement then and did not know what was carrying on for a great while. It is a beautiful place, with melons, oranges, limes, lemons, coconuts, a curious large fruit we eat for bread, and flat squashing fruit and many others and an amazing plenty of wild cattle which the Spaniards had come to make jerked beef of when we surprised them. They had already bucanned, or jerked, a great deal and built huts, which is very delightful for us. Poor souls, they thought we were the galleon, for the Commodore was exceedingly deep, and beguiled them with the Manilla ship’s signals, and they pulled out to greet us. They had come in a bark from Guam, a pretty little thing, and none of them got off to give the alarm. I have been eating since noon, and it is now about four: but, however, I could wish that Sean would hurry with some more of the flat yellow kind of fruit.’

  ‘There, your honour, dear,’ said Sean, bending as he came loaded under the lintel, ‘and I found a new patch of melons, with an old cross-looking sow making a beast of herself, like the Lord Lieutenant in the middle of them all.’


  ‘Thank you very much, Sean,’ said Peter. ‘Why, here is a new fruit entirely,’ he said, holding up a guava.

  ‘Is it good, the creature?’ asked Sean, solicitously proffering a freshly split coconut brimming with milk. Peter nodded, speechless with guava, and reached with his free hand for more. Like the rest of the invalids, he had an almost insatiable appetite for fruit. The fit men, some seventy out of the combined crew, had an equal desire for meat; and as this beautiful island overflowed with both, the two sections of the community were equally content.

  ‘I had a strange dream, a strange dream indeed,’ said Sean, watching Peter with marked satisfaction as he attacked another guava still. Peter nodded, to show that he was attending, and Sean went on, ‘A strange dream it was, and a waking dream too. For it was before the sunrise, when I was walking alone on the shore and wondering was there ever a turtle in these parts for you to be pecking. And while I was wondering, and turning the question about, I walked by the shore: and so walking I dreamt I heard a curlew call, and there I was at home, by the lake of the Two Mists with the birds flying, heartbroken. Sure, Peter, I thought the day of my death had come.’

  ‘Sean,’ cried Peter, starting up, ‘you’ll never say that? And myself lying here with the curlew’s cry in my ears before dawn?’

  ‘God between us and evil,’ said Sean.

  ‘Let Him shield us from the dread,’ said Peter, and they fell silent. The light of the sun coming in at the open door had a sinister gleam in it now, like moonlight that had been heated. Peter set down his unfinished guava and looked into the shadows.