Book 18 - The Yellow Admiral

by Patrick O'Brian

  'So I did, sir.'

  'And you are quite happy about your tompions, with all this wet about?'

  'If any misses fire, sir,' said the gunner, his rain-soaked old face grinning with delighted anticipation, 'you may call me Jack Pudding.' Then the full horror of this remark striking home, he looked perfectly blank, his lips framing unspoken words. All conversation, all possible explanations, were cut off by a freakish sea flooding green over the quarterdeck rail and surging aft; and before it had cleared an even more freakish carronade ball from the Deux Frères struck and shattered the Bellona's wheel, flinging the helmsmen right and left, unhurt. She put straight before the wind and offered to come up the other side, taken all aback; but she had right seamen aboard and they, brailing up the mizzen-topsail and starting the main sheet, quickly brought her under control until the usual purchases to the tiller had been shipped, allowed the ship to be steered by orders called down to the hands on either side of the sweep.

  In the few minutes that all this took the Deux Frères forged ahead; but when they saw the Bellona fill and square away with her upper-deck ports open and the guns run out, their hearts died within them. They abandoned the notion of crossing the Bellona's bows and raking her with all they could throw: abandoned it entirely, came up into the wind, struck her colours and lay to.

  Jack edged the Bellona over to make something of a lee, sent the Ringle and the blue cutter with a well-armed prize-crew aboard under Miller, telling him to make for Falmouth and send the frigate's master back with his officers and papers. 'And be uncommon brisk, Mr Miller. It will be nip and tuck getting the boat aboard.'

  Nip and tuck it was, with the wind increasing to such a shocking degree, and it took the whole of the afternoon to heave the cutter in. But at last it was done and the boat made triply fast. Well before that however the Frenchmen had been taken disconsolate below—Harding was tolerably fluent in French—and Jack, still on deck, said to the master, 'Mr Woodbine, it is time to steer for Keller's Island.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You do not seem happy, Mr Woodbine.'

  'I am happy about the prize, and I give you joy, sir: but was I in command I should follow her into Falmouth. The bosun is just going to report that the mainyard is probably sprung in the slings: the mizzen doubtful in the woulding: the beakhead bulkhead is stove. We have not had an observation these last three watches; and I do not believe the blow has reached its full strength, no sir, not by a very long chalk. It will be a great while before Chips and his mates can give us a right wheel and although steering with sheet and purchase is very well for a pleasant Saturday afternoon it is bloody awkward pardon me the expression all night long in a howling tempest bearing dead on Ushant and its cruel reefs—imagine trying to avoid a wreck with such a wind and with such a helm! And wrecks there will be by wholesale before daylight.'

  Woodbine had obviously been drinking. 'We must do our best,' said Jack, not unkindly.

  Their best they did, but it was not enough. Very late that night the blow turned out to be one of those notorious turning winds. It headed them when they were no great way from Ushant, and there was no beating into it even if the Bellona had had a full suit of storm canvas, intact masts, spars and rigging, and a fresh, full-fed crew. She had none of these things. The galley had been flooded in the graveyard watch. It had been All Hands right round the clock and not a man had eaten anything but wet ship's bread since yesterday's dinner: the people were utterly exhausted and the ship was making more water than the pumps could expel.

  A certain lightening in the east, and it was first day at last. And they had their bearings, Vega some time before, through the tearing clouds, and old Saturn. The sea however was no less; the wind even more contrary. Jack bore up at last and sailed for Cawsand Bay.

  As he had expected there were two other ships from the offshore squadron already there and one—with only a single lower mast still standing—from the inner: and they had taken up all the available places. 'I am sorry, Aubrey,' said the Commissioner, an old friend, 'but there it is. However, Alexandria won't take long—only a few ribs gone and an ugly hole plugged with a great piece of rock—wonderful how often that happens, ain't it? Almost makes you believe in guardian angels, ha, ha, ha! And as soon as she is done you shall have her place. But dear me Bellona does call for a lot of patching up. So do you yourself, Aubrey. You look dead beat. Believe me, what you want is a hot body bath. The whole body immersed in hot, hot water and kept there for five or even ten minutes. It opens the pores amazingly. They have one at the George, and will bring up boiling buckets in a trice. And after that a thundering good breakfast and sleep for twelve hours.'

  'Certainly, sir,' said Jack. 'The moment I have written my necessary letter to the Admiral. Fortunately I have my tender to take it out to Ushant.'

  'That pretty little Chesapeake schooner that came in with you? I have been admiring her: not a hair out of place. But of course, your letter to the Admiral must come first, as you say. And a note to dear Mrs Aubrey as well, I dare say. Pray remember me very kindly to her.' The Commissioner kissed his hand and walked off, chuckling.

  Jack sat at his table:

  Bellona,

  Cawsand Bay

  November 17th

  My Lord,

  I beg to acquaint you that his Majesty's ship Bellona suffered much in the severe gale of last night and this morning. The mizzen mast received a violent wrench, and is sprung at the partners and elsewhere: the main-yard is also sprung. The mainsail, main topsail, the mizzen and fore storm staysail were blown to pieces; one of the starboard main-chainplates drew; and the ship laboured so excessively in the trough of the sea, and shipped so much more water than the pumps could carry off, that it became absolutely necessary for her safety to bear away for this port, where I arrived in the forenoon.

  I have the honour to inclose the ship's defects, and a copy of the log since receiving your last signal.

  I have the honour to be, my Lord, &c.

  Log of the Bellona

  16th p.m. Strong breeze with heavy swell. Tacked ship as per signal. Lost sight of squadron in heavy and almost continuous squalls. Sighted strange sail in pursuit of British brig SW by S 2 leagues: pursued and took same, when she proved to be Les Deux Frères of Lorient, privateer frigate of 28 twelve-pounders and 2 39-pound carronades, 174 men: Dumanoir master. Sent her into Falmouth (a valuable prize, having taken two homeward-bound Guineamen laden with gold-dust and ivory, and an outward-bound snow carrying ship's stores to Lisbon). At half-past ten strong gales with heavy squalls: carried away starboard main-brace and larboard main topsail sheet; sail blew to pieces; set a storm main and fore staysail.

  17th a.m. At half-past six the storm mizzen and fore staysail blew from the yard: strong gales veering and backing irregularly. At eight obliged to scuttle lower deck; ship labouring very much, and gained six inches on the pumps. At quarter-past eight the carpenter reported the mizzen-mast was sprung, in consequence of the vangs of the gaff giving way. At half-past eight was struck with a sea on the larboard quarter, stove in eleven of the main-deck ports, half filled the main-deck, and carried away the bulkheads of the wardroom.

  At eight hard gales with violent squalls. Carried away the chain-plate of the foremost main shroud. Bore up under a reefed foresail. Saw a line-of-battle ship lying to, with her head to the southward, and her sails split and blowing from the yards.

  Jno. Aubrey

  Jack re-read his letter, realized that the two parts did not exactly coincide; but he was too stupid and heavy to deal with this, so he sanded, folded, addressed and sealed it. He and Harding had already seen to the transfer of the Bellona's hands to receiving-ships and the few officers and midshipmen who did not cling to what was left of their cabins and berth where they could at least get some sleep had found themselves lodgings. All he had to do now was to carry this letter to Reade or Callow (they alternated aboard the Ringle) and ask for it to be taken out to Ushant. But no sooner was the seal well in place but he clap
ped his hand to his forehead and whipped the letter open again, adding

  My Lord,

  I am sending you this letter by my tender: but at the present moment I am so stupid after the night's blow that I forgot to beg that you would be so good as to send her back as soon as you may find convenient. I have, as your Lordship knows, a rendezvous at the dark of the moon; and if the repairs to Bellona cannot be carried out by then, I should wish to keep the engagement in Ringle: no other craft would serve the purpose.

  He sealed the letter again, burnt his fingers on the wax, and a certain pettishness at last breaking through, he cried, 'Hell, death and damnation.'

  'Is that you, sir?' asked Harding, looking through the door. 'I thought you was fast asleep at the George—gone ashore long ago.'

  'No, I had to write to the Admiral first, and now I must take it to the Ringle, to carry across. But then I shall sleep, by God: sleep like a crew of hedgepigs in an ivy-tuft: then in the afternoon I shall go to Woolcombe for a few days—urgent family affairs. The yard will not start any important repairs till Monday: and even if they do, you know as much about the barky's needs as I do.'

  'Give me the letter, sir: I will see to it. The sooner you are abed the better, if you are to make a journey. Sleep—God help us—nothing like it. I shall turn in myself in twenty minutes. Good-bye, sir; sleep very well, and you will wake a new man.'

  Jack slept in his bath, slept in his bed at the George until noon, slept in the post-chaise that carried him towards Woolcombe at so handsome a pace that it would have been the fastest run he had ever made from Plymouth but for a linch-pin that slipped from its place, liberating the corresponding wheel, which bowled away at a great pace down the road, whilst the chaise plunged into a ditch, a harmless plunge into a soft, well-filled ditch. This took place just outside Alton, a village not five miles from home; but by the time wheel, horse, baggage and postillion were reassembled and the chaise hoisted upright it was dark and Jack decided to spend the night at the Cross Keys, an inn kept by a former bosun. Here he supped nobly and slept again, a deep, deep sleep, perfectly limp and relaxed until the first dawn woke him. He rose up, a new man indeed, not exactly cheerful but curiously sanguine. The chaise was not ready—the wheel needed a few more hours—but there was a respectable horse, and having snatched an early breakfast he mounted and set out, the sun just over Alton hill.

  Quite what was in his mind as he rode into the stable-yard he hardly recalled, but a first cold, cold shock was the sight of his daughter Charlotte, a leggier child than when last he saw her. She was in the kitchen doorway, staring: her face expressed no sort of pleasure: she shouted back into the house, presumably to her sister, 'It's Papa,' and vanished.

  George came running out however, as Jack gave the horse over to Harding, and bade him a perfectly unaffected friendly 'Good morning, sir, how do you do?'

  'And a very good morning to you too, George my dear. Where is your Mama?'

  'They ain't down yet, sir. I believe they are drinking tea upstairs. But, sir, if only you had come five minutes earlier you would have seen Cousin Diana's new coach. Oh such a beauty! She is gone to Lyme with Mrs Oakes and Brigid. I love them much.'

  Up the stairs, and they creaking with his weight and haste. The room opened to the east and the cool morning light fell full on Sophie and her mother as they sat side by side copying letters. Neither had dressed: Sophie had not yet done up her hair; she was wearing the sort of gown that women clutch about their throat. She was not looking at all her best; yet it was neither a lack of bloom nor of colour that struck him but rather the presence of some quality he had never seen in her at any time. Both women started, sitting upright from their papers as he came in. Mrs Williams continued the movement and clapping a hand to her head, rose up and ran out: she could no more be seen without a cap than without any upper garment at all.

  'What are you doing here?' asked Sophie, and her voice, like her expression, might have been her mother's.

  'Bellona is in dock for repairs,' said Jack, 'and I have come to spend a few days at home.'

  'Not with my good will,' she replied.

  'But above all I have come to ask your pardon, to say I am very sorry indeed, and to beg you will forgive me.'

  The door behind Sophie opened a little. 'Not with my good will,' she repeated mechanically. 'I should not have been here, but the Admiral will not leave before his term.' She put her hand to a falling swag of hair and speaking in a hurried voice she said, 'Here—look here—all these are her letters—your mistress's letters—and here is the ring you gave me before God's altar, before God's altar—and you come here to this house . . .'

  'Oh, Sophie, my dear,' he said gently, coming a little nearer and looking her in the face.

  Mrs Williams opened the door. He clapped it to and shot the bolt. She could be heard scrabbling the other side.

  'Oh, come, Sophie,' he said again. But she cried out that he should never have come here—it was most improper, most indelicate—and that he must go away at once. Some of this was less than coherent, but there was no mistaking the vehemence of resentment.

  He fell back and said, 'Is that indeed all you have to say to me, Sophie?'

  'Yes it is,' she cried, 'and I never want to see you again.'

  'Then be damned to you for a hard ill-natured and pitiless unforgiving shrew,' he said, anger rising at last, and he walked out, leaving her bowed over the miserable letters, utterly appalled by his words and by her own.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days after the dark of the moon Jack Aubrey, worn thin with his ceaseless efforts to make the dockyard work double tides, brought his ship with her sullen crew, bloated, blotch-faced, dissipated and bleary-eyed after so long in port, within sight of the offshore squadron.

  He made his number and he was called aboard the flagship at once. The Captain of the Fleet received him with the words, 'Well, you have had a fine run ashore, Aubrey, upon my word: and I see the yard did you proud in the article of spars. But I am sorry to tell you that the Admiral is far from well, very far from well; and I understand you are to see his secretary.'

  Mr Craddock, like most secretaries to admirals with an important command, was a discreet, capable, middle-aged man, thoroughly used to dealing with diplomatic and official correspondence and with matters to do with intelligence. He said that although Lord Stranraer had indeed received Captain Aubrey's letter and report sent by the Ringle, he had seen fit, because of confidential information received, to detain the tender for a certain period and to send her to the place of rendezvous some time earlier than the appointed date. The Ringle had not yet reported back to the squadron and it was not impossible that Dr Maturin, perhaps carrying important. dispatches or information, might have directed Mr Reade to take advantage of the very favourable breeze to carry him to the Downs.

  Captain Aubrey bowed, hoped that the Admiral was at least tolerably comfortable, and wondered whether he had made any observation on the Bellona's parting company or on the taking of a prize.

  'Those are matters quite outside my province,' said the secretary in an impersonal tone. 'But I am sure that Captain Calvert will have directions for your immediate proceedings.'

  He had, of course, and although he too declined to be drawn about the Bellona's inability to make out the signal to tack, he did say, 'As far as the prize is concerned—and I give you joy of her, I am sure: she sounds a genuine stunner—he is perhaps the only flag-officer in the service who would have been totally unmoved. He is not interested in money.'

  Jack had heard this before: it formed part of the Admiral's reputation. Certainly he had an ample fortune, and at sea he lived very quietly, entertaining no more than was strictly necessary: yet this did not square with his passion for inclosing larger and larger tracts of common land, fens, and open pasture.

  Pending Lord Stranraer's recovery—and as Craddock said, they longed for the return of Dr Maturin, in whom the Admiral had so much confidence—Jack was returned to the inshore squadron
. Even at this late stage of the war, with Wellington well north of the Pyrenees, established on the Garonne and ready to push north, there was always the possibility of the French fleet, seizing the opportunity of a brisk north-east wind, breaking out of Brest, conceivably defeating Stranraer's divided force in two separate battles, and, if this coincided with one of Buonaparte's astonishing recoveries by land, reversing the whole course of the war: or at any rate of ending it for themselves in a blaze of glory.

  In the meanwhile Captain Aubrey was to resume his patrolling under Captain Fanshawe's orders, but at the same time he was to pay particular attention to the surveying of stated parts of the coast and above all to the fixing of the position and depth of a number of submerged rocks, such as that upon which the Magnificent was lost, totally lost, in 1804.

  A man could scarcely have been much lower in the spirits than Jack Aubrey: yet it was striking to see how he plunged back into life at sea, a hard life particularly at this season and in Brest Bay, but one with a set pattern he had known from boyhood, and one in which he had a task that gave him deep satisfaction. He had always liked surveying, and now he gave himself up to his submarine rocks with a conviction that settling their bearings was an absolute good. 'Perhaps Stranraer feels the same about inclosure,' he reflected, squaring himself in the boat and peering through the rain-misted sights of his azimuth compass at the buoys tossing five fathoms above the top of that cruel rock the Buffalo. 'Mr Mannering, note 137°E.'

  In most commissions the midshipmen's berth yielded a boy or two who really liked navigation, sea-mathematics, and who began, with unconcealed delight, to seize the underlying principles: Mannering was the most recent, with the same zeal, earnestness and growing enthusiasm.