Yet there were still some miles to go, and any shot that touched her mainyard or her sheets would cripple her. Now her guns were going overboard to win back that hundred yards. Jack shook his head—it would do her little good, with the wind right aft and only headsails left.
'On deck, there,' hailed the look-out. 'A sail on the starboard bow.'
She was a Spanish frigate, rounding Cape Peñas and bearing up for Gijon: she should have been sighted long ago, if every eye had not been fixed upon the flying privateer. 'Damn her,' said Jack, with the fleeting thought that it was strange to see such perfection of canvas, pyramids of white, after all this time staring at tattered rags: and how fast she moved!
An explosion forward—not the right crash of the carronade. Shouts, a high dog-like howling of agony. The over-heated gun had burst, killing the gunner stone dead and wounding three more—one man jerking clear of the deck as he screamed, leaping so that twice he escaped from his mates' arms, carrying him below. They slid the gunner over the side, cleared the wreckage, worked furiously to shift the other carronade into its place, but it was a slow job—ring-bolts and all had gone; and all the while the Bellone's muskets played on them in the bows.
Now they ran silently, with eager, inveterate malice; the coast drew nearer—the savage cliffs and the white water on the reefs were in view; and without a pause the animal screaming came, up from the cockpit far below.
A gun from the Spanish frigate, a hoist of signals. 'Damn her,' said Jack again. The Bellone was veering out her cable again to turn to port, to turn for the entrance to Gijon—Dumanoir must haul up a good two points, or he would be on the rocks.
'No you don't, God damn you,' cried Jack. 'Stand to your guns, there. Train 'em sharp for'ard. Three degrees' elevation. Fire as they bear on her main mast. Mr Goodridge, bring her up.'
The Polychrest swerved violently to larboard, bringing her side slanting to the privateer. Her guns went off in succession, three, six and three. Great gaps appeared in the Bellone's mainsail, the yard tilted, held only by the preventerlift; but still she ran.
'The Spaniard is firing, sir,' said Parker. And indeed a shot whipped across the Polychrest's stem. The frigate had altered course to run between them: she was very close.
'Damn him,' said Jack, and taking the wheel he put the ship before the wind, straight for the privateer. He might have time for one more broadside more before the Spaniard crossed his hawse—one chance to cripple the Bellone before she cleared the reef and reached the open channel for the port.
'Stand to your guns,' he said in the silence. 'Steady, steady now. Three degrees. For her mainmast. Make sure of every ball.'
He glanced over his shoulder, saw the Spaniard—a magnificent spread of sail—heard her hail loud and clear, clenched his mouth, and spun the wheel. If the Spaniard caught his broadside, that was his affair.
Round, round she came, the helm hard over. The guns went off in one great rolling deliberate thunder. The Bellone's mainmast came slowly down, down, right over her side, all her canvas with it. The next moment she was in the surf. He saw the copper of her hull: she drove farther on to the reef in two great heaves and there lay on her side, the waves making a clean breach over her.
'And so, sir, I drove her on to the rock before Gijon. I wished to send in the boats to burn her at low tide, but the Spaniards represented to me that she was in territorial waters, and that they should oppose any such measure. They added, however, that she was hopelessly bilged, her back broken.'
Admiral Harte stared at him with sincere dislike. 'So as I understand it,' he said, 'you left these valuable merchantmen when you could have tossed a biscuit on to their deck, to chase a blackguardly privateer, which you did not take either.'
'I destroyed her, sir.'
'Oh, I dare say. We have all heard of these ships driven on the rocks and bilged and so on and so forth, and then next month they reappear as good as new. It is easy enough to say "I drove her on the rocks". Anyone can say that, but no one has yet got any head-money or gun-money out of it—not a brass farthing. No, no, it is all the fault of this damn-fool sail-plan of yours: if you could have spread your topgallants you would have had plenty of time to pick up the merchants and then have really knocked hell out of the bugger you claim to have destroyed. These bentincks, in anything but a gale wind—I have no notion of them.'
'I could never have worked to windward of the convoy without them, sir; and I do assure you that with the Polychrest a greater spread of canvas would only have pressed her down.'
'So we are to understand that the less sail you spread the faster you go?' said Harte, with a look at his secretary, who tittered. 'No, no: an admiral is generally reckoned to know more about these things than a commander—let us hear no more of this fancy rig. Your sloop is peculiar enough, without making her look like a poxed cocked hat, the laughing-stock of the fleet, creeping about at five knots because you don't choose to set more sail. Anyhow, what have you to say about this Dutch galliot?'
'I must confess she ran clean away from me, sir.'
'And who picked her up the next day, with her gold dust and elephant's teeth? Amethyst, of course. Amethyst again, and you were not even in sight. I don't touch a—that is to say, you don't share. Seymour is the lucky man: ten thousand guineas at the lowest mark. I am deeply disappointed in you, Captain Aubrey. I give you what amounts to a cruise in a brand-new sloop, and what do you do with it? You come back empty-handed—you bring her in looking like I don't know what, pumping night and day, half her spars and cordage gone, five men dead and seven wounded, with a tale about driving a little privateer on to some more or less imaginary rocks and clamouring for a refit. Don't tell me about bolts and twice-laid stuff,' he said, holding up his hand. 'I've heard it all before. And I've heard about your carrying on ashore, before I came in. Let me remind you that a captain is not allowed to sleep out of his ship without permission.'
'Indeed, sir?' asked Jack, leaning forward. 'May I beg you to be more particular? Am I reproached with sleeping out of my ship?'
'I never said you slept out of it, did I?' said Harte.
'Then may I ask what I am to understand by your remark?'
'Never mind,' said Harte, fiddling with his paper-knife: and then in an unconquerable jet of waspishness, 'but I will tell you this—your topsails are a disgrace to the service. Why can't you furl them in a body?'
The malignance was too obvious to bite. Crack frigates with a full, expert crew might furl their sails in a body rather than in the bunt, but only in harbour or for a Spithead review. 'Well,' said Harte, aware of this, 'I am disappointed in you, as I say. You will go on the Baltic convoys, and the rest of the time I dare say the sloop will be employed up and down the Channel. That's more your mark. The Baltic convoy should be complete in a few days' time. And that reminds me: I have had a very extraordinary communication from the Admiralty. Your surgeon, a fellow by the name of Maturin, is to be given this sealed envelope; he is to have leave of absence, and they have sent down an assistant to take his place while he is away and to help him when he sees fit to return to his duty. I wish he may not give himself airs—a sealed envelope, forsooth.'
Chapter Ten
The post-chaise drove briskly forward over the Sussex downs, with Stephen Maturin and Diana Villiers sitting in it with the glasses down, very companionably eating bread and butter.
'So now you have seen your dew-pond,' she said comfortably. 'How did you like it?'
'It came up to my highest expectations,' said Stephen. 'And I had looked forward to it extremely.'
'And I look forward to Brighton extremely, too: I hope I may be as pleased as you are. Oh, I cannot fail to be delighted, can I, Maturin? A whole week's holiday from the Teapot! And even if it rains all the time, there is the Pavilion—how I long to see the Pavilion.'
'Was not candour the soul of friendship, I should say, "Why Villiers, I am sure it will delight you," affecting not to know that you were there last week.'
'Who
told you?' she asked, her bread and butter poised.
'Babbington was there with his parents.'
'Well, I never said I had not been—it was just a flying visit—I did not see the Pavilion. That is what I meant. Do not be disagreeable, Maturin: we have been so pleasant all the way. Did he mention it in public?'
'He did. Jack was much concerned. He thinks Brighton a very dissolute town, full of male and female rakes—a great deal of temptation. He does not like the Prince of Wales, either. There is an ill-looking smear of butter on your chin.'
'Poor Jack,' said Diana, wiping it off. 'Do you remember—oh how long ago it seems—I told you he was little more than a huge boy? I was pretty severe about it: I preferred something more mature, a fully-grown man. But how I miss all that fun and laughter! What has happened to his gaiety? He is growing quite a bore. Preaching and moralizing. Maturin, could you not tell him to be less prosy? He would listen to you.'
'I could not. Men are perhaps less free with such recommendations than you imagine. In any case I am very sorry to say we are no longer on such terms that I could venture anything of the kind—if indeed we ever were. Certainly not since last Sunday's dinner. We still play a little music together now and then, but it is damnably out of tune.'
'It was not a very successful dinner: though I took such care with the pudding. Did he say anything?'
'In my direction? No. But he made some illiberal flings at Jews in general.'
'That was why he was so glum, then. I see.'
'Of course you see. You are not a fool, Villiers. The preference was very marked.'
'Oh no, no, Stephen. It was only common civility. Canning was the stranger, and you two were old friends of the house; he had to sit beside me, and be attended to. Oh, what is that bird?'
'It is a wheatear. We have seen between two and three hundred since we set out, and I have told your their name twice, nay, three times.'
The postillion reined in, twisted about and asked whether the gentleman would like to see another dew-pond? There was one not a furlong off.
'I cannot make it out,' said Stephen, climbing back into the chaise. 'The dew, per se, is inconsiderable; and yet they are full. They are always full, as the frog bears witness. She does not spawn in your uncertain, fugitive ponds; her tadpoles do not reach maturity in your mere temporary puddle; and yet here they are—' holding out a perfect frog the size of his little finger nail—'by the hundred, after three weeks of drought.'
'He is entrancing,' said Diana. 'Pray put him out, on the grass. Do you think I may ask what this delightful smell is, without being abused?'
'Thyme,' said Stephen absently. 'Mother of thyme, crushed by our carriage-wheels.'
'So Aubrey is bound for the Baltic,' said Diana, after a while. 'He will not have this charming weather. I hate the cold.'
'The Baltic and northwards: just so,' said Stephen, recollecting himself. 'Lord, I wish I were going with him. The eider-duck, the phalarope, the narwhal! Ever since I was breeched I have pined to see a narwhal.'
'What will happen to your patients when you are gone?'
'Oh, they have sent me a cheerful brisk noisy good-natured foolish young man with scrofulous ears—a vicious habit of body—to be my assistant. Those who are not dead will survive him.'
'And where are you going now? Lord, Stephen, how prying and inquisitive I am. Just like my aunt Williams. I trust I have not been indiscreet.'
'Oh,' cried Stephen, suddenly filled with a strong temptation to tell her that he was going to be landed on the Spanish coast at the dark of the moon—the classical temptation of the secret agent in his loneliness, but one that he had never felt before. 'Oh, 'tis only a dismal piece of law-business. I shall go to town first, then to Plymouth, and so perhaps to Ireland for a while.'
'To town? But Brighton is quite out of your way—I had imagined you had to go to Portsmouth, when you offered me a lift. Why have you come so far out of your way?'
'The dew-ponds, the wheatears, the pleasure of driving over grass.'
'What a dogged brute you are, Maturin, upon my honour,' said Diana. 'I shall lay out for no more compliments.'
'No, but in all sadness,' said Stephen, 'I like sitting in a chaise with you; above all when you are like this. I could wish this road might go on for ever.'
There was a pause; the chaise was filled with waiting; but he did not go on, and after a moment she said with a forced laugh, 'Well done, Maturin. You are quite a courtier. But I am afraid I can see its end already. There is the sea, and this must be the beginning of the Devil's Punchbowl. And will you really drive me up to the door in style? I thought I should have to arrive in a pair of pattens—I brought them in that little basket with the flap. I am so grateful; and you shall certainly have your narwhal. Pray, where are they to be had? At the poulterer's, I suppose.'
'You are too good, my dear. Would you be prepared to reveal the address at which you are to be set down?'
'Lady Jersey's, in the Parade.'
'Lady Jersey's?' She was the Prince of Wales's mistress: and Canning was a member of that set.
'She is a Villiers cousin by marriage, you know,' said Diana quickly. 'And there is nothing in those vulgar newspaper reports. They like one another: that is all. Why, Mrs Fitzherbert is devoted to her.'
'Ay? Sure, I know nothing of these things. Will I tell you about poor Macdonald's arm, now?'
'Oh, do,' cried Diana. 'I have been longing to ask, ever since we left Dover.'
They parted at Lady Jersey's door, having said nothing more, amidst the flurry of servants and baggage: tension, artificial smiles.
'A gentlemen to see Miss Williams,' said Admiral Haddock's butler.
'Who is it, Rowley?' asked Sophia.
'The gentleman did not mention his name, ma'am. A sea-officer, ma'am. He asked for my master, and then for Miss Williams, so I showed him into the library.'
'Is he a tall, very good-looking midshipman?' asked Cecilia. 'Are you sure he did not ask for me?'
'Is he a commander?' asked Sophia, dropping her roses.
'The gentleman is in a cloak, ma'am: I could not see his rank. He might be a commander, though—not a midshipman, oh no, dear me. He come in a four-horse shay.'
From the library window Stephen saw Sophia running across the lawn, holding up her skirt and trailing rose-petals. She took the steps up to the terrace three at a time: 'A deer might have taken them with such sweet grace,' he observed. He saw her stop dead and close her eyes for a second when she understood that the gentleman in the library was Dr Maturin; but she opened the door with hardly a pause and cried, 'What a delightful surprise! How kind to come to see us. Are you in Plymouth? I thought you were ordered for the Baltic.'
'The Polychrest is in the Baltic,' he said, kissing her heartily. 'I am on leave of absence.' He turned her to the light and observed, 'You are looking well—very well—quite a remarkable pink.'
'Dear, dear Dr Maturin,' she said, 'you really must not salute young ladies like that. Not in England. Of course I am pink—scarlet, I dare say. You kissed me!'
'Did I, my dear? Well, no great harm. Do you take your porter?'
'Most religiously, in a silver tankard: I almost like it, now. What may I offer you? The admiral always takes his grog about this time. Are you in Plymouth for long? I do hope you will stay.'
'If you could give me a cup of coffee, you would do me a most essential service. I lay at Exeter, and they gave me the vilest brew . . . No, I am on the wing—I sail with this tide—but I did not like to pass without paying my respects. I have been travelling since Friday, and to sit with my friends for half an hour is a charming respite.
'Since Friday? Then perhaps you have not heard the splendid news?'
'Never a word, at all.'
'The Patriotic Fund have voted Captain Aubrey a sword of a hundred guineas, and the merchants a piece of plate, for destroying the Bellone. Is it not splendid news? Though no more than he deserves, I am sure—indeed, not nearly enough. Will he be pro
moted, do you think?'
'For a letter of marque, a privateer? No. And he does not look for it. Promotion is the very devil these days. There are not enough ships to go round. Old Jarvie did not build them, but he did make men post. So we have herds of unemployed captains; shoals of unpromoted commanders.'
'But none so deserving as Captain Aubrey,' said Sophia, dismissing the rest of the Navy List. 'You have not told me how he is.'
'Nor have you asked after your cousin Diana.'
'How shocking of me; I beg your pardon. I hope she is quite well.'
'Very well. In charming spirits. We drove from Dover to Brighton together some days ago: she is to spend a week with Lady Jersey.'
It was clear that Sophia had never heard of Lady Jersey. She said, 'I am so glad. No one can be better company than Diana when she is in—' she quickly changed 'a good temper' to a weak 'in charming spirits.'
'As for Jack, I am sorry to say I cannot congratulate him upon charming spirits; nor indeed upon any spirits at all. He is unhappy. His ship is a very miserable vessel; his admiral is a scrub; he has a great many worries ashore and afloat. And I tell you bluntly, my dear, he is jealous of me and I of him. I love him as much as I have loved any man, but often these last months I have wondered whether we can stay in the same ship without fighting. I am no longer what small comfort I was to him, but a present irritation and a constraint—our friendship is constrained. And the tension, cooped up in a little small ship day after day, is very great—covert words, the risk of misunderstanding, watching the things we say or even sing. It is well enough when we are far out in the ocean. But with Channel service, in and out of the Downs—no, it cannot last.'
Book 2 - Post Captain Page 32