'Alas, I have no wind,' said the organist, an elderly parson. 'That chuff lad has blown his hour, and no power on earth will keep him in. But I am glad you liked the organ—it is a Father Smith. A musician, sir?'
'Oh, the merest dilettante, sir; but I should be happy to blow for you, if you choose to go on. It would be a sad shame to leave Handel up in the air, for want of wind.'
'Should you, indeed? You are very good, sir. Let me show you the handle—you understand these things, I am sure. I must hurry to the loft, or these young people will be here. I have a marriage very soon.'
So Jack pumped and the music wound away and away, the separate strands following one another in baroque flights and twirls until at last they came together and ran to the final magnificence, astonishing the young couple who had come silently in, and who were sitting furtive, embarrassed, nervous and intensely clean in the shadows, with their landlady and a midwife; for they had not paid for music—only the simplest ceremony. They were absurdly young, pretty creatures, with little more than a gasp between them; and they had anticipated the rites by a hairsbreadth under full term. But the parson joined them very gravely, telling them that the purpose of their union was the getting of children, and that it was better to marry than to burn.
When it was over they came to life again, regained their colour, smiled, seemed very pleased with being married, amazed at themselves. Jack kissed the pink bride, shook the other child by the hand, wishing him all possible good fortune, and walked out into the air, smiling with pleasure. 'How happy they will be, poor young things—mutual support—no loneliness—no God-damned solitude—tell happiness and sorrows quite openly—sweet child, not the least trace of the shrew—trusting, confident—marriage a very capital thing, quite different from—by God, I am on the wrong side of Cecil Street.'
He turned to cross back, and as he turned he collided with a sharp youth who had darted after him through the traffic with a paper in his hand. 'Captain Aubrey, sir?' asked the youth. Escape to the other side was impossible. He shot a glance behind him—surely they could not hope to make the arrest with just this younker? 'They told me at the Grapes I should find you walking about the Duchy, your honour.' There was no menace in his voice, only a modest satisfaction. 'I should have hollered out, but for manners.'
'Who are you?' asked Jack, still poised to deal with him.
'Tom's nevvy, your honour, if you please, the duty-porter. Which I was to give you this,'—handing the letter.
'Thankee, boy,' said Jack, unpoising himself. 'You are a sharp lad. Tell your uncle I am obliged to him: and this is for your errand.'
A gap appeared in the traffic and he darted back into Lancaster, back to the Grapes, called for a glass of brandy, and sat down in greater flutter of spirits than he had ever known.
'No brandy, sir,' said Killick, cutting the pot-boy off at the head of the stairs and confiscating the little glass. 'No spirits of wine, the Doctor said. Swab-face, you jump to the bar and draw the Captain a quart of porter: and none of your guardo-moves with the froth.'
'Killick,' said Jack, 'God damn your eyes. Cut along to the kitchen and desire Mrs Broad to step up. Mrs Broad, what have you for dinner? I am amazing sharp-set.'
'No beef or mutton, Mr Killick says,' said Mrs Broad, 'but I have a nice loin of weal, and a nice piece of wenison, as plump as you could wish; a tender young doe, sir.'
'The wenison, if you please, Mrs Broad; and perhaps you would send me up some pens and a pot of ink. Ah dear God,' he said to the empty room, 'a tender young doe.'
The Grapes
Saturday
My dear Stephen, he wrote
Oh wish me joy—I am made post! I never thought it would be, though he received me in the kindest way; but then suddenly he popped it out, signed, sealed and delivered, with seniority from May 23rd. It was like a prodigious unexpected vast great broadside from a three-decker, but of happiness: I could not get it all aboard directly, I was so taken aback, but by the time I had smuggled myself back to the Grapes I was swelling like a rose—so happy. How I wish you had been there! I celebrated with a quart of your vile porter and a bolus, and turned in at once, quite fagged out.
This morning I was very much better, however, and in the Savoy chapel I said the finest thing in my life. The parson was playing a Handel fugue, the organ-boy deserted his post, and I said 'it would be a pity to leave Handel up in the air, for want of wind,' and blew for him. It was the wittiest thing! I did not smoke it entirely all at once, however, only after. I had been pumping for some time; and then I could hardly keep from laughing aloud. It may be that post captains are a very witty set of men, and that I am coming to it.
But then you very nearly lost your patient. Like a fool I strayed out of bounds: a little chap heaves in sight, sings out, 'Captain A!' and I say, 'This claps a stopper over all: Jack, you are brought by the lee.' But, however, it was orders to join the Lively.
She is only a temporary command, and of course as acting-captain I do not take my friends with me; but I do beg you, my dear Stephen, to sail with me as my guest. The Polychrests will be paid off—Parker is to have the Fanciulla, in compliment to me, which is as cruel a kindness as the world has seen since that fellow in the play, but I have looked after the Polychrest's people—so there will be no difficulty of any kind. Pray come. I cannot tell you what pleasure it would give me. And to be even more egotistical in what I am afraid is a sadly egotistical letter, let me say, that having had your care, I should never trust my frame to a common sawbones again—my health is far from good, Stephen.
She is a crack frigate, with a good reputation, and I believe we shall have orders for the West Indies—think of the bonitoes, the bosun birds, the turtles, the palm-trees!
I am sending Killick with this—heartily glad I am to be shot of him too, such a pragmatical brute he has grown, with his physic-spoon—and he will see our dunnage round to the Nore. I am dining with Lord Melville on Sunday; Robert will run me down in his curricle, and I shall sneak aboard that night, without touching at an inn. Then, I swear to God, I shall not set foot ashore until I can do so without this wretched fear of being taken to a sponging-house and then to a debtor's prison.
Yours most affectionately
'Killick!' he shouted.
'Sir?'
'Are you sober?'
'As a judge, sir.'
'Then pack my shore-going trunk all but my uniform and number one scraper, take it down to the Nore, aboard the Lively, and give the first lieutenant this chit: we join her on Sunday night, temporary command. Then proceed to the Downs: give this letter to the Doctor and this to Mr Parker—it has good news for him, so give it into his hands yourself. If the Doctor chooses to join the Lively, take his sea-chest and anything else he wants, no matter what—a stuffed whale or a double-headed ape got with child by the bosun. My sea-chest, of course, and what we saved from the Polychrest. Repeat your instructions. Good. Here is what you will need for the journey, and here is five shillings for a decent glazed hat: you may skim the other into the Thames. I will not have you go aboard the Lively without a Christian covering to your head. And get yourself a new jacket, while you are about it. She is a crack frigate.'
She was a crack frigate, she was indeed; and seeing that a wheel came off Robert's curricle in a remote and midnight ditch Jack was obliged to go aboard her in the glare of the risen sun, passing through the crowded streets of Chatham—a considerable trial to him after an already trying night. But this was nothing to the trial of meeting Dr Maturin on the water; for Stephen had been inspired to put off from the shore at about the same time, though from a different place, and their courses converged some three furlongs from the frigate's side. Stephen's conveyance was one of the Lively's cutters, which saluted Jack by tossing oars, and which fell under his wherry's lee, so that they pulled in close company, Stephen calling out pleasantly all the way. Jack caught a frightened glance from Killick, noticed the wooden composure of the midshipman and the cutter's crew, saw the grin
ning face of Matthew Paris, an old Polychrest, Stephen's servant, once a framework knitter and still no kind of seaman—no notion of common propriety in his myopic, friendly gaze. And as Stephen rose to wave and hoot, Jack saw that he was dressed from head to foot in a single tight dull-brown garment; it clung to him, and his pale, delighted face emerged from a woollen roll at the top, looking unnaturally large. His general appearance was something between that of an attenuated ape and a meagre heart; and he was carrying his narwhal horn. Captain Aubrey's back and shoulders went perfectly rigid: he adopted the features of one who is smiling; he even called out, 'Good morning to you—yes—no—ha, ha.' And as he recomposed them to a look of immovable gravity and unconcern, the thought darted through his mind, 'I believe the wicked old creature is drunk.'
Up and up the side—a long haul after the Polychrest—the wailing of the calls, the stamp and clash of the Marines presenting arms, and he was aboard.
Mathematical precision, rigorous exactitude fore and aft: he had rarely seen a more splendid array of blue and gold on the quarterdeck: even the midshipmen were in cocked hats and snowy breeches. The officers stood motionless, bare-headed. The naval lieutenants, the Marine lieutenants; then the master, the surgeon, the purser, and a couple of black coats, chaplain and schoolmaster, no doubt; and then the flock of young gentlemen, one of whom, three feet tall and five years of age, had his thumb in his mouth, a comfortably jarring note in all this perfection of gold lace, ivory deck, ebony seams.
Jack moved his hat to the quarterdeck, tilting it no more than an inch or so, because of his bandage. 'We got a rogue,' whispered the captain of the foretop. 'A proud son of wrath, mate,' replied the yeoman of the sheets. The first lieutenant stepped forward, a grave, severe, tall thin man. 'Welcome aboard, sir,' said he. 'My name is Simmons.'
'Thank you, Mr Simmons. Gentlemen, good morning to you. Mr Simmons, pray be so good as to name the officers.' Bows, civil mutterings. They were youngish men, except for the purser and the chaplain; a pleasant-looking set, but reserved and politely distant. 'Very well,' said Jack to the first lieutenant, 'we will muster the ship's company at six bells, if you please, and I shall read myself in then.' Leaning over the side he called, 'Dr Maturin, will you not come aboard?' Stephen was no more of a mariner now than he had been at the outset of his naval career, and it took him a long moment to clamber snorting up the frigate's side, propped by the agonized Killick, a moment that increased the attentive quarterdeck's sense of expectation. 'Mr Simmons,' said Jack, fixing him with a hard, savage eye, 'this is my friend Dr Maturin, who will be accompanying me. Dr Maturin, Mr Simmons, the first lieutenant of the Lively.'
'Your servant, sir,' said Stephen, making a leg: and this, thought Jack, was perhaps the most hideous action that a person in so subhuman a garment could perform. Hitherto the Lively's quarterdeck had taken the apparition nobly, with a vexing, remote perfection; but now, as Mr Simmons bowed stiffly, saying, 'Servant, sir,' and as Stephen, by way of being amiable, said, 'What a splendid vessel, to be sure—vast spacious decks: one might almost imagine oneself aboard an Indiaman,' there was a wild shriek of childish laughter—a quickly smothered shriek, followed by a howl that vanished sobbing down the companion-ladder.
'Perhaps you would like to come into the cabin,' said Jack, taking Stephen's elbow in an iron grip. 'Your things will be brought aboard directly, never trouble yourself'—Stephen cast a look into the boat and seemed about to break away.
'I shall see to it myself at once, sir,' said the first lieutenant.
'Oh, Mr Simmons,' cried Stephen, 'pray bid them be very tender of my bees.'
'Certainly, sir,' said the first lieutenant, with a civil inclination of his head.
Jack got him into the after-cabin at last, a finely-proportioned, bare, spacious cabin with a great gun on either side and little else but the splendid curving breadth of the stern-windows: Hamond was clearly no Sybarite. Here he sat on a locker and gazed at Stephen's garment. It had been horrible at a distance; it was worse near to—far worse. 'Stephen,' he said, 'I say, Stephen . . . Come in!'
It was Paris, with a rectangular sail-cloth parcel. Stephen ran to him, took it from his arms with infinite precaution and set it on the table, pressing his ear to its side. 'Listen, Jack,' he said, smiling. 'Put your ear firmly to the top and listen while I tap.' The parcel gave a sudden momentary hum. 'Did you hear? That shows they are queen-right—that no harm has come to their queen. But we must open it at once; they must have air. There! A glass hive. Is it not ingenious, charming? I have always wanted to keep bees.'
'But how in God's name do you expect to keep bees in a man-of-war?' cried Jack. 'Where in God's name do you expect them to find flowers, at sea? How will they eat?'
'You can see their every motion,' said Stephen, close against the glass, entranced. 'Oh, as for their feeding, never fret your anxious mind; they will feed with us upon a saucer of sugar, at stated intervals. If the ingenious Monsieur Huber can keep bees, and he blind, the poor man, surely we can manage in a great spacious xebec?'
'This is a frigate.'
'Let us never split hairs, for all love. There is the queen! Come, look at the queen!'
'How many of those reptiles might there be?' asked Jack, holding pretty much aloof.
'Oh, sixty thousand or so, I dare say,' said Stephen carelessly. 'And when it comes on to blow, we will ship gimbals for the hive. This will preserve them from undue lateral motion.'
'You think of almost everything,' said Jack. 'Well, I will wear the bees, like Damon and Pythagoras—ho, a mere sixty thousand bees in the cabin don't signify, much. But I tell you what it is, Stephen: you don't always think of quite everything.'
'You refer to the queen's being a virgin?' said Stephen.
'Not really. No. What I really meant was, that this is a crack frigate.'
'I am delighted to hear it. There she goes—she lays an egg! You need not fear for her virginity, Jack.'
'And in this frigate they are very particular. Did not you remark the show of uniforms as you came aboard—an admiral's inspection—a royal review.'
'No. I cannot truthfully say that I did. Tell me, brother, is there some uneasiness on your mind?'
'Stephen, will you for the love of God take off that thing?'
'My wool garment? You have noticed it, have you? I had forgot, or I should have pointed it out. Have you ever seen anything so deeply rational? See, I can withdraw my head entirely: the same applies to the feet and the hands. Warm, yet uncumbering; light; and above all healthy—no constriction anywhere! Paris, who was once a framework knitter, made it to my design; he is working on one for you at present.'
'Stephen, you would favour me deeply by taking it right off. It is unphilosophical of me, I know, but this is only an acting-command, and I cannot afford to be laughed at.'
'But you have often told me that it does not matter what one wears at sea. You yourself appear in nankeen trousers, a thing that I should never, never countenance. And this'—plucking at his bosom with a disappointed air—'partakes of the nature both of the Guernsey frock and of the free and easy pantaloon.'
The Lively had remained in commission throughout the peace; her people had been together many years, with few changes among the officers, and they had their own way of doing things. All ships were to some degree separate kingdoms, with different customs and a different atmosphere: this was particularly true of those that were on detached service or much by themselves, far from their admirals and the rest of the fleet, and the Lively had been in the East Indies for years on end—it was on her return during the first days of the renewed war that she had had her luck, two French Indiamen in the same day off Finisterre. When she was paid off, Captain Hamond had no difficulty in manning her again, for most of his people re-entered, and he even had the luxury of turning volunteers away. Jack had met him once or twice—a quiet, thoughtful, unhumorous, unimaginative man in his forties, prematurely grey, devoted to hydrography and the physics of sailing, somewhat old for a fri
gate-captain—and as he had met him in the company of Lord Cochrane, he had seemed rather to want colour, in comparison with that ebullient nobleman. His first impression of the Lively did not alter during the ceremonies of mustering and quarters: she was obviously a most competent ship with a highly efficient crew of right man-of-war's men; probably a happy ship in her quiet way, judging from the men's demeanour and those countless very small signs that a searching, professional eye could see—happy, yet taut; a great distance between officers and men. But as he and Stephen were sitting in the dining-cabin, waiting for their supper, he wondered how she had come by her reputation as a crack frigate. It was certainly not from her appearance, for although everything aboard was unexceptionally shipshape and man-of-war fashion, there was no extraordinary show of perfection, indeed nothing extraordinary at all, apart from her huge yards and her white manila cordage: her hull and portlids were painted dull grey, with an ochre streak for the gun-tier, her thirty-eight guns were chocolate-coloured, and the only obvious piece of brass was her bell, which shone like burnished gold. Nor was it from her fighting qualities, since from no fault of her own she had seen no action with anything approaching a match for her long eighteen-pounders. Perhaps it was from her remarkable state of readiness. She was permanently cleared for action, or very nearly so: when the drum beat for quarters she might almost have gone straight into battle, apart from a few bulkheads and a minimum of furniture; the two quarterdeck goats walked straight down the ladder by themselves, the hen-coops vanished on an ingenious slide, and the guns in his own cabins were cast loose, something he had never seen before in an exercise. She had a Spartan air: but that in itself was not enough to explain anything, although it did not arise from poverty—the Lively was well-to-do; her captain had recently bought himself a seat in Parliament, her officers were men of private means even before their fortunate stroke, and Hamond insisted upon a handsome allowance from the parents of his midshipmen.
Book 2 - Post Captain Page 40