Book 20 - Blue At The Mizzen

by Patrick O'Brian

  'It is the Chileans who worry me. All this—the present repair, the dillying in Madeira—all this will take a whole almanac of time: and the Chileans are in a high revolutionary fervour, eager for immediate or almost immediate results. Will they wait?'

  'They have no choice. It is not every day that Government fits out a man-of-war to chart their waters, and do little acts of kindness on the way.'

  'Well, I hope you are right, my dear. But do not forget that they are foreigners.'

  'To be sure, that is very much against them, poor souls. Yet from what you have told me, they have been very steadily set upon independence for many years now. Nothing very flighty or enthusiastic in that, I believe? When we are in London, or elsewhere for that matter, should you like me to speak to the heads of the mission and put the case to them in plain seamanlike terms? They could not fail to be convinced.'

  Chapter Two

  To a casual observer it would have seemed difficult if not impossible to carry on an affair in so small and tight-knit a community as Gibraltar; yet it was done or attempted to be done by those who did not mind mixing levity and love, done on a quite surprising scale; and when Lord Barmouth's current mistress, an exceptionally vicious woman who hated Isobel, told him that she and Jack Aubrey met daily in a hayloft or at the house of a complaisant friend, it did not surprise him very much. He by no means wholly believed it: an affectionate, easy familiarity was not at all surprising in those who had been children together. Yet he did not like having it said—where horns were concerned he far preferred giving to receiving or even appearing to receive—and although no one had ever questioned his courage in battle, domestic war was another matter entirely. Not only was his own conduct exceptionable to a very high degree, but Isobel, if angered, had a flow of language that he quite dreaded: she was an exceptionally courageous woman, and once her temper had risen beyond a certain degree she was as wholly determined and unshakeable as one of those terriers that will let itself be killed before losing hold. He was also, in his way, deeply attached to her, and very willing that she should be in a good humour with him.

  He reflected, therefore: and among other things that occurred to him was the fact that Aubrey was one of Keith's rare protégés. Keith, though resting from his labours at the moment, had very great influence and might easily return to high office. Presently, having walked up and down, Barmouth sent two discreet men to the yard. They confirmed his impression that almost all the remaining Surprises were actively engaged with caulking, painting, and rerigging her boats; and that the frigate herself was still in that improbable position, given over to her captain, carpenter, his mates and auxiliaries.

  He threw a shabby old cloak over his uniform, and making his way down to the yard, threaded through those vessels last on the list for repairs until he dropped from the mole on the Surprise's deck. A few people stared at him open-mouthed but he moved rapidly forward and below until he reached the dim, crowded forepeak. Above the sound of mallets he called, 'Captain Aubrey, there.' And in the appalled dead silence, 'How are you coming along?'

  'Admirably well, sir, I thank you. Some of my carpenter's old shipmates and friends are bearing a hand. And if I may hold this lantern, my Lord, and beg you to look at the lower breast-hooks I think you will agree that they are making a very pretty job of it indeed.'

  'Uncommon pretty,' said Barmouth, gazing with narrowed, knowing eyes. 'Uncommon pretty. Let them carry on, while we take a turn upon the mole.'

  Upon the mole, the deserted mole, he spoke quite easily: 'I am glad to see you so forward with your repairs, Cousin Jack; for there is a certain amount of uneasiness in Whitehall about your ultimate destination, and I think I must relax the rigour of my order on precedence and get Surprise to sea a good deal earlier than I had thought. The moment you think it safe to take her off the slips we will step your foremast anew, rattle down the shrouds and send you on your way with adequate stores, to say nothing of munitions. Powder and shot is by no means in short supply.'

  'You are very good, my Lord,' said Jack with lowered eyes, keeping the suspicion out of his tone and expression with tolerable success. 'I shall look forward to it exceedingly.'

  'I shall look forward to it exceedingly, I said to him, Stephen: but I do assure you, I found it quite hard to utter the words, being close on dumbfounded, reduced to silence, I was so amazed by this strange sudden turn. Yet in a flash, it occurred to me that this might be your doing, with—what shall I say?—your connexions.'

  'Never in life, my dear,' said Stephen, gazing upon him with real affection—and silently, within his own bosom, 'Did it never come into your mind that the freedoms you have taken with the gentleman's wife—these twilight rambles, this sea-bathing under the moon—however innocent, could scarcely pass unnoticed in this idle peacetime population of lechers, and that the glad news would have been conveyed to the ear most intimately concerned?' Aloud he went on, 'Though I must confess that now the peregrines have hatched, I too should be more than happy to be on the wing. Shall we steer directly for Sierra Leone?'

  'Oh dear me, no, Stephen. This is no more than a patching to allow us to reach a yard in Madeira, a professional yard that will give its full attention and allow the barky to face the high southern latitudes and their ice—you know all about that, dear Lord alive—how nearly we were crushed south of the Horn and on the Horn itself, quite apart from the wicked American. Madeira for a thorough repair and a full crew. At present we can just about handle the ship: but to fight her, to fight her both sides, and to sail her in the worst parts of the far South Atlantic, we need another forty really able seamen. Ordinarily we should be able to find them without much difficulty in Funchal.'

  'Oh,' said Stephen.

  'I fear I have disappointed you?'

  'To tell the truth, I had hoped that we should slope away for the Guinea Coast, for Sierra Leone, as soon as these admittedly dreadful leaks were staunched and the foremast replaced: that we should slope away directly.'

  'Dear Stephen, I did tell you about this necessary pause in Madeira before; and many and many a time have I warned you that in the service nothing, nothing whatsoever, takes place directly.' A pause. 'Pray tell me: where did you learn that term slope away?'

  'Is it not a nautical expression?'

  'I am sure it is; but I do not remember to have heard it.'

  'I take the words to refer to that slanting progress, with the breeze not from behind, nor even sideways, but from ahead or partially ahead, so that the vessel slopes towards its goal. Yet no doubt I mistake: and no doubt I have used the wrong term.'

  'No, no: I follow you exactly—a very good expression. Pray do not be so discouraged, Stephen.'

  'Never in life, my dear.' But going to his room and his unfinished letter he wrote, 'This is the third time I have added to these many sheets since my earlier letters in which I acknowledged your extreme kindness in sending the dear potto's bones—so beautifully prepared—to me at the Royal Society, and the others in which I applauded your resolution of staying in Sierra Leone until you had come a little nearer to completing your account of the avifauna of Benin or at least that part of it studied by our great predecessor. How I pray that they reach you safely, in the care of the present Governor. But to come at last to this often-delayed message I am most unwillingly obliged to confess that it amounts to but another dismal postponement. Perhaps I had not attended with sufficient care or understanding to Captain Aubrey's remarks—often when he speaks of sea-going matters in the sailor's jargon my mind tends to wander, to miss some vital point—but whereas I had been convinced (or had convinced myself) that on leaving this port we should steer for Freetown, and that presently I should have the happiness of seeing you, of hearing your account of the new-hatched chanting-goshawks, I now find that I was mistaken—it is no such thing. All this more or less covert hammering, disorder, even devastation is a mere preliminary to far worse in Funchal, where Captain Aubrey declares we must certainly go, to be put into truly naval order for the
southern hydrographical voyage, and to pick up some score or so of mariners to make the ship more amenable in the austral tempest.

  'And so, my dear Madam, I cut this thoroughly unsatisfactory message short, in the hope of renewing it with more definite tidings in a week or so: in the mean time I take the liberty of sending you this hermaphroditic crab, whose singularity I am sure your keen eye will appreciate, while in closing I beg you will accept the most respectful greeting of your humble, obedient servant S. Maturin.'

  Yet although S. Maturin had a perfectly good sailcloth wrapper at hand (sea-going letters could not be trusted to paper, least of all in the Bight of Benin) he did not fold the many pages directly but read carefully through the whole to check for any expressions of undue familiarity, in spite of the fact that the earlier sheets were second or even third draughts, recopied from corrected pages.

  'Come on, sir,' cried Killick. 'Ain't you finished yet? Tom Wilden says the Guineaman is fiddling about with the hoist of a Blue Peter. She will sail within the hour, and you won't get another this month or six weeks.'

  'Oh dear, oh dear,' said Stephen in an undertone, and he read faster and faster. The dread of an impropriety, of an unwarranted evidence of affection—indelicate in the last degree on the part of a man in his condition, fairly haunted him. But rather than lose the letters' carriage he thrust the whole, far too hastily and imperfectly re-read, into the wrapping, sealed and corded it.

  Dissimulation was nothing remotely new to Maturin: to it he owed his continuing existence. Yet this particular suppressio veri was by no means his province. Christine Wood had in fact dwelt in his memory, his mind, his recollection since their first meeting in Sierra Leone: not so much her striking good looks—slim, long-legged, almost androgynous—as her modesty, clarity of mind, and quite exceptional breadth of knowledge, covering most of the areas in which he took most delight.

  Stephen was of course discreet: but in spite of a discretion carried to something not far from an apparent frigidity, he had strong, even very strong male impulses and a recollection of Christine swimming in stark innocent nakedness across a clear African stream to bring back a wounded ibis—swimming under the eyes of a perfectly indifferent and almost equally naked black servant-girl—had very often inhabited and indeed tormented his mind, preventing incipient sleep. But more than her Greek or African nakedness—bare flesh, after all, being less to an anatomist than to most—was the slight but clearly perceptible pressure of her hand when they last parted years ago that dwelt with him now, abed in the Crown, when he was not rehearsing passages of that interminable letter in which he may have blundered. Just before he went to sleep much the same part of consciousness that presented careful paragraph after careful paragraph called upon him to 'State a quality common to all those women for whom, as an adult, you have felt a strong tenderness'.

  'A strong amorous tenderness?'

  'Of course, you lemon.'

  He reflected, and said: 'In all cases they have held themselves well: they have, all, without the least consciousness or affectation, taken quite long strides for a woman, placing each foot directly in the line of its fellow—a wholly natural grace.'

  All this had been a weary, anxious task, and the contemplation of his hastily, partially re-read, almost certainly over-voluble and ill-considered series of letters bounding over the ocean wave (for the breeze was favourable) so wrung his weary spirit that for the first time in a great while he turned to his old friend and enemy laudanum, the alcoholic tincture of opium, and plunged into a sleep, guilty for the first few fathoms and then pure balm.

  'Oh come on, sir,' called little Wells, his adolescent voice soaring with indignation. 'You'll miss it all, snorting there . . .'

  Stephen gazed blinking at the brilliant sun, and the boy urged him to his feet, to the window, the extreme left-hand side of the window which commanded part of the yard. 'There, sir: do you see?'

  Yes, indeed he saw: Surprise still rocking from her violent run astern, but upright, trimmer every moment, but for the ill-looking gap where the sheers had plucked out her foremast. Volubly, with a wealth of detail, Wells recounted the whole event. '. . . and if you lean a little this way, sir, you can just make out the sheer-hulk going crabwise towards her . . . she makes fast . . . hush.'

  And from over the still water far below came Harding's powerful voice: 'Silence, there. Silence fore and aft'—an urgent, imperative cry that from long habitude imposed an instant, remarkable calm, through which Jack's hurried step could be heard. 'Just in time,' he exclaimed. 'There, Stephen, do you see? The sheers raise the mast clear—they swing it over—they clap on—they lower away—handsomely, handsomely now—Harding gives the word—she is home!' All the other operations followed their natural course—shrouds, stays, top; and then the topmast itself swayed up.

  'There,' said Jack. 'As pretty as could be wished. You would not have liked to miss a moment of that, I am sure.'

  'No, indeed,' said Stephen.

  'And I am sure Mr Wells explained what little you had not seen before?'

  'With the utmost clarity: I was extremely gratified.'

  'Very good, very good. Well, cut along, Mr Wells, and tell Mr Harding that the Doctor saw it all, and was extremely gratified. I tell you what it is, Stephen,' he went on as the boy could be heard going down the stairs like a hundred of bricks, 'the Admiral has altered course most surprisingly: 180°, no less, and now he is bundling us off as though we were carrying the plague. They are busy at the ordnance wharf this very minute, and I make no doubt that as soon as the galley fires are dowsed and cold, the powder-hoy will be alongside. He spoke of some uneasiness at home about our delay in reaching Chile.'

  'I trust there was no hint of reprobation? After all, it cannot be said that we trifled away our time in thoughtless or even wanton play.'

  'No. I think it was just ordinary official impatience. His Majesty's ships are often expected to be in two places at once, whatever the difference of longitude—see, a lighter is putting off with round shot. What joy!'

  For much of the rest of the day stores and munitions came aboard, wearing the meagre crew if not to a shadow then at least to total rock-salt soberness; and the existing midshipmen's berth was strengthened by three young gentlemen, Glover, Shepherd and Store, two of them sons of Jack's former shipmates, the third imposed by Lord Barmouth. In spite of their fine new clothes they were instantly required to 'Bear a hand, there, bear a hand: and roundly, do you hear me, now?' by Mr Harding.

  A few minutes later, with the sun almost touching Africa, Jack's barge was lowered down (with a new coxswain, Latham: a capital seaman, but one who could never fill Bonden's place in his own, his captain's or his fellows' affection). 'Although it is untimely, I must pay my respects to Lord Keith,' said Jack in an undertone.

  'If I may come with you, I too have a message to leave in the town,' murmured Stephen. The message was a deeply cryptic note for Dr Jacob, begging him to send any word he had gathered on the presence or absence of Chileans: and if either was of any consequence, to come to Funchal himself.

  He left this in the discreet, capacious bosom of the woman of the house, and he was walking back to the waterside when he heard a voice cry 'Dr Maturin!' and turning he saw Lady Barmouth, accompanied by Mr Wright and followed by a maid.

  After greeting made, Mr Wright said, 'This falls very well. By your leave, Lady Barmouth, I shall resign you to Dr Maturin and hurry off to the Surveyor.' With this he did indeed literally hurry away, his handkerchief falling from his pocket.

  'Dear me, what an old savage,' said Isobel mildly. 'Pepita!' she cried in Spanish, 'the gentleman has lost his handkerchief—pick it up and catch him, for the love of God. Dear Dr Maturin, I am so happy to see you: and please may I get you to give me a sorbet at Bomba's just over there? I die of thirst.'

  'And I am happy to see you, Lady Barmouth,' said Stephen as he offered his arm, 'yours indeed was the name I was revolving in my mind.'

  'How pleasant. In what connection
, pray?'

  'I was wondering whether the shortness of our acquaintance would bar my calling to take leave: sure, it might be thought presumptuous.'

  'It would certainly never be thought presumptuous, my dear Doctor: but why in Heaven's name should you think of taking leave? I had thought we were sure of you for a great while yet.'

  'Alas, I understand that we are to sail rather late this evening, if the breeze lies as Captain Aubrey could wish. He is making his farewells to the Keiths at present, and I am sure he will have done all that is proper at headquarters.'

  'When I was not at home.' She reflected and said, 'I should be sorry not to say good-bye: Jack Aubrey and I are very old friends. Perhaps I shall meet him as he comes down. Come, Pepita. Dear Dr Maturin, thank you very much for my delicious sorbet: do not move, I beg.'

  He did move, but only to stand as she walked off, followed by her maid—walked off with just that lithe pace he had had in mind.

  It was the same, the very same step he recognized that night, when at last the breeze came true and Surprise, filling her fore and main topsails, glided along the outside of the mole, her lanterns faintly lighting the veiled figures upon it, one of them discreetly waving—a sight so usual on the quay of partings as to excite no attention among the odd, scattered, immobile fishermen.

  For the next few days they had some very sweet sailing on a warm, moderate breeze whose only fault was that it varied from west-north-west to north-north-west, so that at times they were close-hauled and at times they were fetching, but always with a fine array of headsails: very sweet sailing had they not been in a hurry. But the more or less clandestine work on the frigate's bows had not fully restored her windward qualities—quite outstanding until that vile collision—and again and again Ringle, who in any case was schooner-rigged, had to ease her sheets or even take in sail not to shoot ahead—discreet manoeuvres, but never unnoticed, never unresented by the Surprises. Yet in spite of these drawbacks and the comparative slowness, upon the whole this was a happy time, a kind of homecoming and the restoration of what even to Maturin seemed the good and natural life, with its immutable regularity (whatever the weather might say), its steady though not very appetizing nourishment, the association with men who, if not brilliant company, were almost all sound, solid, professional seamen and far more agreeable than any mere chance gathering of the same size.