Book 7 - The Surgeon's Mate

by Patrick O'Brian

  'Why, as for that, sweetheart, you know what I think of titles—a weight round a man's neck, as often as not, particularly hereditary ones. You have to be twice as tall as everybody else, and unless you are a Nelson or a Hood or a St Vincent or even a Keith you can't be twice as tall, not four and twenty hours a day, but only when your luck is in and everything is just so. However, I did think there was just a possibility they might give me the Marines: there was a vacancy.'

  'Marines, Captain Aubrey?'

  'It would have been Colonel Aubrey if they had. Have I never told you about the Marines, sweetheart? It is a plum they give you when you have done well. They cannot promote you—there is no such thing as promotion out of turn once you are a post-captain, and even the King could not make you an admiral over the heads of the captains above you on the list—if he did, half his senior officers would resign. So since they cannot promote you, and since you cannot eat a baronetcy or the naval medal, they make you a colonel of the Royal Marines instead, and you draw a colonel's pay, without doing anything for it.'

  'But is that not corruption, Jack? You were always very much against corruption when you were young, I mean younger.'

  'So I am still: corruption in others is anathema to me. But you would scarcely credit the depths of turpitude I should descend to myself for a thousand a year; and a colonel's pay is rather better than that. Let me see: eighty pound five and fourpence multiplied by thirteen; for they go by lunar months too, you know . . . one thousand and forty-three, three and fourpence, which is better than a shove in the eye with a dry stick. No, my dear, that ain't corruption; it is an understood thing, quite above-board, a reward of merit. But I don't suppose I am meritorious enough, nor senior enough—after all, I am not much more than half way up the captain's list yet.' Then, as he turned to the other letters, he said in a much more serious voice, 'No, but real corruption, corruption in the dockyards, the dirty jobs with contractors and private ship-builders, that is the real goddam bane of the Navy . . . This one is from Stephen's man, Mr Skinner.' He read, nodding with approval at each paragraph. 'I am very pleased with him. A capital man of business, clear-headed, and as brisk as a bee. He is carrying the war into their camp, the infernal dogs: that is what I like to see. Says a writ of duces tecum will compel them to show the paper I signed, and put an end to the uncertainty; and he has already sued one out. Duces tecum: that's the stuff.'

  'What does it mean?' asked Sophie.

  'I never was much of a fist at Latin,' said Jack. 'Not like Philip Broke. But I do remember dux, a leader, an admiral as you might say: and the plural is duces. So you could construe duces tecum as the admirals are with thee; and I don't ask better than that. Excellent Mr Skinner.' He passed over the sheets and turned to the remaining letters. 'This is from Grant,' he said, frowning.

  'I hate him,' said Sophie. This was a rare, almost an unprecedented remark for her; but Mr Grant, an elderly, embittered lieutenant, had left Jack in the Leopard when that unfortunate ship struck an iceberg in the high southern latitudes and appeared to be sinking; he had reached Cape Town in the launch and England in a man-of-war; and he had written to Sophie to tell her, as he had already told his superiors, that there was no hope for Captain Aubrey—that his obstinancy in staying on board a sinking ship must have fatal consequences.

  'The man has run mad,' said Jack. 'He says I have been spreading rumours that he behaved badly. And that is completely untrue, Sophie: I distinctly told Admiral Drury that Grant left with my permission, and that I was satisfied with his conduct up to that time. I went out of my way to do it. I never liked the fellow, though he was a good seaman, but I went out of my way to make the statement, because I thought it was due to him. Now he is unemployed—I don't wonder at it: the affair caused a good deal of comment in the service—and he says it is all my fault. He says that unless I immediately retract and do him justice, stating that I ordered him to leave—which is not the case: I only gave him permission—he will consider it his duty to his own character to lay the true facts of the case before the public and the Admiralty, including a number of circumstances such as my incapacity after the action and my keeping of false musters. Poor fellow: I am afraid his intellects are very much astray. I shall not answer; you cannot properly answer a letter of that sort. He would never have wrote it in his right mind: perhaps he was drunk at the time.' He laid it aside. 'Now here is one from Tom Pullings; I know his hand. Yes. He and Mowett and Babbington and young Henry James were all dining together in Plymouth, and they join in congratulations on my return and best wishes and everything that is kind. Beg to be remembered to you and Stephen, and have drunk to us in three times three. They wish us increase . . . They mean it kindly, I am sure, but three is quite enough, with wheat at a hundred and twenty-six shillings a quarter,' he said, turning the page. 'No. I am out—they wish us increase of health and wealth and happiness. That's more the mark. Honest fellows.' These young men had all been on Jack's quarterdeck as midshipmen and officers and they had followed him from ship to ship whenever it was possible: he was thinking of them with a smile on his face as he considered the next letter, turning it in his hand. He did not know the handwriting or the seal, and even when he had opened it some seconds passed before he realized that it was for him—that it was neither a joke nor a mistake. Miss Smith embraced this opportunity of a transport going home to write to her hero—a wounded officer of the 43rd Foot would put it in the post the moment he landed, for she was sure her hero would rejoice to learn that their love was to bear fruit ere long—if it was a girl she should call it Joanna—she was sure it would be a little girl. As soon as there was a place in a packet she should fly to his arms; but perhaps he might prefer her to come home in a man-of-war—a simple note to any of his friends on the North American station would surely be enough—she hoped Mrs A would prove more understanding than Lady Nelson—he was to tell her at once whether he preferred the packet or a man-of-war—she was sure he could not wait to fold her to his bosom—that should he be prevented from flying to meet her by the requirements of the service, she would quite understand—there would be no womanly reproaches: the service must come first, even before Love—and would her hero be so good as to place say five hundred pounds in Drummond's hands? She could not move until she had paid her debts in Halifax—they had mounted surprisingly, perhaps because she had always scorned accounts—and she did not like to ask her brother. She did not in the least mind asking her hero, however; she felt no false shame, because it showed how entirely she was his—if the roles had been reversed, how delighted she would have been with this mark of confidence! He was to write immediately: she would sit on the quay every morning, scanning the horizon like Ariadne.

  Stephen Maturin stood in the light of the declining sun, holding his face so that a horizontal ray impinged upon it as he shaved; the face itself was grave, and paler than usual: in an hour or so he was to address the Institut, and some of the keenest, most distinguished minds in Europe would be there. His black coat and his satin smallclothes, brushed and newly pressed, lay by his new and spotless shirt, his neckcloth and his silk stockings, below them his gleaming silver-buckled shoes: this was to be a full-dress evening affair, and although he had attended the Royal Society in pantaloons that would not do for a foreign guest in Paris on such an occasion.

  'Come in,' he cried, in answer to a knock.

  'Monsieur Fauvet asks if Dr Maturin can receive him,' said the servant.

  'Dr Maturin infinitely regrets that he is unable to do so at the moment,' said Stephen, shaving on. 'But hopes to have the pleasure of seeing him at the reception.'

  Fauvet was not the most outstanding of literary men in Paris, but he was one of the most fashionable and certainly the most persistent and indiscreet. This was the fourth time he had profited by Dupuytren's introduction to call on Stephen, asking him to take a letter back to England, a letter to the Comte de Blacas. Since Blacas was the exiled French king's chief adviser, it did not call for much penetration to be sure th
at the letter would contain protestations of unfailing loyalty to Louis XVIII, total devotion to the Bourbon cause, and utter rejection of the present tyranny: indeed, Fauvet had practically said as much at their second interview. And Fauvet was not the only one, by any means. During these last weeks he had been approached by several others who wished to ensure their position in the event of Napoleon's downfall and the return of the king. Most had been more cautious or more subtle than Fauvet, and some had sent their wives, as being more gifted for this kind of thing; but subtle or brutally direct, male or female, Stephen would have nothing to do with them. There was always the strong likelihood of an agent provocateur and in any case this was no part of his business in Paris: he had left intelligence, in the restricted meaning of the word, on the quay at Dover. He had listened politely, regretting his entire ignorance of political affairs and his total lack of acquaintance among the French emigres in England, and pointing out the obligation under which he lay—the obligation of a guest to behave with perfect propriety. And he had behaved with perfect propriety: it is true that his mind sometimes wandered to Ponsich in the Baltic, and he read the Moniteur with particular eagerness, looking for news from those parts, but in all deliberate acts he remained the purely philosophical visitor. He had performed three dissections of the calcified palmar aponeurosis with Dupuytren; Corvisart had told him a great deal about his new method of auscultation; and he had attended three splendid concerts at the Hôtel de La Mothe. He had done what he intended to do. Yet from time to time, and as a matter of general rather than specific interest, he wondered how much these people represented. Perhaps not very much, although there were some exceptionally able, well-informed men among them. In spite of these gratifying signs of apprehension at the centre of things he had come to the conclusion that Blaine was in the right—that although the Empire had received some very heavy blows it was not crumbling yet—that one of Buonaparte's shattering victories or even dissensions among the allies could restore it to something like its full strength again—that in any case a great deal of hard fighting would be needed to bring it down—and that given the tyrant's skill in dividing his enemies, the least delay might be fatal: new armies were being raised with extraordinary speed. And as for those who suddenly found that they loved the Bourbons, it was surely natural that men who had lived through such remarkable changes of regime should provide themselves with life-lines at the least threat of still another upheaval. 'I shall know more this evening,' he reflected, folding his neckcloth with peculiar care. There had been rumours of a great engagement, of a three days' battle in Moravia, and the gathering was sure to be well attended: these functions were as much social as philosophic—perhaps even more so—and they brought together people of the political, artistic, and fashionable worlds as well as the learned: they were admirably designed for taking the pulse of the capital.

  He put on his coat, felt in his pocket to make sure that his notes were there, thrust his green spectacles into their case, and walked to the door, endeavouring to quell an odd flutter of spirits. 'I must begin in a loud, determined, self-assured voice, so pitched as to carry to the farthest seats,' he reflected as he asked the porter to fetch him a hackney-coach. 'A hackney-coach, my friend,' he said again, seeing that the man looked at him in a questioning kind of way. 'And pray tell him to drive to the Hôtel de La Mothe.'

  'At once, Monsieur,' said the porter, recovering his usual poise.

  While the carriage was being brought Stephen studied the tall clock in the hall. It had an ornate pendulum, an ingenious affair of rods whose expansion compensated for the variations in temperature, guaranteeing a very close approximation to the right time. There was plenty to spare, but as he had never known Diana to be ready at the appointed hour he meant to be there early, so as to harry her with repeated messages from below.

  Early he was, but to his astonishment he found her there in the drawing-room before him, an exquisite sight in filmy blue and a blaze of diamonds, those in her hair making her look taller and slimmer than he had ever known her—the new French fashion suited her extremely well. 'Upon my word, Villiers,' he cried, 'you look very fine.'

  'So do you, my dear,' she replied, laughing with a whole-hearted merriment rare in her, a pure and kindly merriment that gave her face a far sweeter expression than it usually wore. 'So are you—a beautiful, beautiful coat, and such undeniable breeches. But Stephen,' she said, leading him to a mirror, 'pray look in the glass.'

  He did so, and a grim reflection peered back at him, a small round close-cropped head, its sparse hair standing straight up like the bristles on an old worn-out scrubbing-brush. 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' he said in a low inward tone, 'I have forgot my wig. What shall I do?'

  She said, 'Never mind, never mind. It will be here in a moment. Sit down: there is plenty of time.' She rang, and said to the footman, 'Run round to Beauvilliers' as fast as ever you can: the gentleman has forgotten his wig,' and then to Stephen, 'Never be so dismayed, love; it will be here with half an hour to spare. Sit down and praise my dress.' She kissed him as fondly as a sister: indeed, as he sat on the more or less Egyptian day-bed the same thought occurred to his agitated mind: 'My sister, my spouse. Oh Lord.'

  'I was so afraid it would not be ready,' she went on, parading about and showing the dress from all sides, 'but it came not an hour ago. La Mothe likes it extremely, he has the purest taste in women's clothes. But he made me shorten the rivière so that the big stone came just here,' pointing to her almost naked bosom, where the Blue Peter shimmered among the gauze, a fountain of light in that dim drawing-room—'so I put the other diamonds in my hair—they unscrew, you know—and he quite approved: I place the utmost reliance on La Mothe. I have never known anyone with a surer eye. And he was ravished with the dress.'

  'So am I, Villiers. The general effect is quite superb—ethereal. A slim wisp of blue smoke rising.'

  'I thought I should go the whole hog, le pore inentamé, for your great day. And after all it is just about the last time I shall be able to look ethereal, or tolerably ethereal, for a long, long while.' Once more the thought was unwelcome and her face clouded, but as she stood there gazing down at the big stone it lightened again—a naive, unconscious delight that was singularly touching.

  'You are much attached to those diamonds, Villiers,' he said kindly.

  'Yes, I am. I truly love them,' she said. 'Above all the Blue Peter.' She detached the pendant stone and put it into his hand, where it lay, strangely heavy, sending out countless prismatic flashes at the slightest movement. 'I don't give a damn where they come from,' she went on, raising her chin. 'I love them passionately. I should not part with them for anything on earth and I shall certainly be buried in them. You will remember that, Stephen? If things do not go well this autumn, I am to be buried in them. I may rely on you?'

  'Certainly you may.'

  'I liked my pearls,' she went on, after a pause. 'You remember the pearls the Nawab gave me? But that was quite different: I let some of them go for the dressmaker without a qualm, almost. La Mothe took me to Charon's, and they gave me a very honest price. He is coming with the Clermonts, and then we are all to come back here for supper. Oh, and they valued those unmounted rubies I showed you, the ones I never really cared for, like great drops of blood: I was absolutely amazed . . . ' Stephen's attention wandered; his anxious eyes were fixed on the clock, and he heard the footman's hurrying feet even before the wig appeared.

  He clapped it on at once, fitted his spectacles under the side-curls, and said, 'We must be away.'

  'There is plenty of time yet,' said Diana. 'This clock is half an hour fast. It would never do to be early. Sit down again, Stephen. Lord, my dear, how those blue spectacles do change your face! I should never have recognized you.'

  'They are green.'

  'Blue or green, pray take them off. They make me feel quite uneasy, as though you were a stranger.'

  'Never,' said Stephen. 'Once I have them on, fairly fixed under my wig, I cannot take them off
without disturbing its symmetry.'

  'Why do you wear them? They make you look dreadfully old, and even, my dear, quite horribly plain. You can see perfectly well without.'

  'Not always, when I have to read notes under a powerful reading-lamp. But the main reason I wear them is that I am nervous, and they give me countenance.'

  'Nervous, Stephen?' cried she. 'I should never have thought it possible. Though now I come to think of it, you have been sitting on the edge of your chair this last age, glaring at the clock like a man due to be hanged. Pray do not be so absurd; you are a very distinguished creature. Everybody here says you have a most prodigious mind, and I have known it for ever. Come, drink a small glass of brandy; that will calm your spirits. Let us both drink a small glass of brandy.'

  'You are very good, dear Diana: but the truth of the matter is, I am not at all used to addressing so large a gathering. And such a gathering! The Cuviers will be there, Argenson, Saint-Hilaire . . . or at least, I hope they will.'

  'I am sure they will. I know the Cardinal is coming; La Mothe told me so.'

  'Oh, him,' said Stephen.

  'I thought you would be pleased. Surely a cardinal is next door to the Pope; and you are a Catholic, my dear.'

  'There are cardinals and cardinals; and even some Popes have not always been exactly what one might wish. However, thank you for telling me, Villiers: I must begin with a Your Eminence. For although he is related to those vile Buonapartes I understand he is on bad terms with the chief malefactor; and in any case he is a prince of the Church. Come, Villiers, we must go.'

  The great room was full, even fuller than he had expected: full of people and full of eager talk about the reported engagement in Moravia, or perhaps just in Bohemia—the Russian right wing had been entirely destroyed—the Prussians had fallen back on Polobsk—Vandamme's corps had suffered terribly—not at all, Vandamme was a day's march away, and the Prussians had held their ground—the Emperor had not been present—the Emperor had directed all. The noise died away as the Perpetual Secretary led him to the rostrum: here he laid his notes by the water-carafe, drew a deep breath, glared round the assembly in the expectant silence and began, 'Your Eminence,' in a voice so loud and aggressive that its returning echo shocked him extremely—shocked him almost fatally.