Chapter Four
Dr Maturin and his assistant stood in a druggist's warehouse, checking their purchases for the Surprise's medicine-chest. 'Apart from the portable soup, the double retractors and a couple of spare crowbills for musket-bullets, which we will find at Ramsden's, I believe that is everything,' said Stephen.
'You have not forgotten the laudanum?' asked Martin.
'I have not. There is still a reasonable quantity aboard: but I thank you for putting me in mind of it.' The reasonable quantity was in wicker-covered eleven-gallon carboys, each representing more than fifteen thousand ordinary hospital doses, and Stephen reflected upon them with some complacency. 'The alcoholic tincture of opium, properly exhibited, is one of the most valuable drugs we possess,' he observed, 'and I take particular care not to be without it. Sometimes, indeed, I use it myself, as a gentle sedative. And yet,' he added, having looked through his list again, holding it up to the light, 'and yet, you know, Martin, I find its effects diminish. Mr Cooper, how do you do?'
'And how do you do, sir?' replied the druggist, with unusual pleasure in his voice and on his yellow, toothless face. 'Surprisingly well, I trust, ha, ha, ha! When they told me the surgeon of the Surprise was in the shop, I said to Mrs C. "I shall just step down and wish Dr Maturin joy of his surprising prosperous voyage." "Oh, Cooper," she says to me, "you will never take the liberty of being witty with the Doctor?" "My dear," says I, "we have known each other this many a year; he will not mind my little joke." So give you joy, sir, give you joy with all my heart.'
'Thank you, Mr Cooper,' said Stephen, shaking his hand. 'I am obliged to you for your amiable congratulations.' And when they were in the street again he went on, 'Its effects diminish remarkably: I cannot account for it. Mr Cooper is reliability in person, so he is, and I have used his tincture voyage after voyage—always the same, always equal to itself, always extracted with decent brandy rather than raw alcohol. The answer must lie elsewhere, but where I cannot tell; so as I am resolved never to exceed a moderate dose, except in case of great emergency, I must resign myself to a sleepless night from time to time.'
'What would you consider a moderate dose, Maturin?' asked Martin, in a spirit of pure enquiry. He knew that the usual amount was twenty-five drops and he had seen Stephen give Padeen sixty to do away with extreme pain; but he also knew that habitual use might lead to a considerable degree of tolerance and he wished to learn how high that degree might be.
'Oh, nothing prodigious at all, for one accustomed to the substance. Not above . . . not above say a thousand drops or so.'
Martin checked his horrified exclamation and to conceal even its appearance he hailed a passing hackney-coach.
'But consider,' said Stephen, 'the rain has stopped, the sky is clear, and we have only a mile, an English mile, to walk: colleague, is not this close to extravagance?'
'My dear Maturin, if you had been so poor, and so poor for so very long a time as I, you too might revel in the pomp of high living, when your fortune was made at last. Come, it is a poor heart that never rejoices.'
'Well,' said Stephen, first putting his parcel into the coach and then climbing in after it, 'I wish you may not be growing proud.'
They stopped at Ramsden's, ordered the remaining supplies and so parted, Martin going to match a piece of watered tabby for his wife, and Stephen going to his club.
The porters at Black's were a discreet set of men, but there was no mistaking their significant smiles and becks or the pleasure with which they wished him good day and gave him a friendly note from Sir Joseph Blaine, once more the true head of naval intelligence, welcoming him to London and confirming an appointment for that evening.
'Half after six,' said Stephen, looking at the tall Tompion in the hall with one eye. 'I shall have time to ask Mrs Broad how she does.' To the hall-porter he said 'Ben, pray keep this parcel until I come back, and do not let me go to see Sir Joseph without it.' And to the hackney-coachman, 'Do you know the Grapes, in the liberties of the Savoy?'
'The public that was burnt down, and is building up again?'
'The very same place.'
Had the day been foggy, as it often was down there by the river, or had the evening been far advanced, the Grapes might indeed have been the very same place, for it had been rebuilt without the smallest change, and Stephen could have walked into his own room blindfold; but the new brick had not yet had time to acquire its coat of London grime, while the unglazed upper windows gave the place a sinister air that it most certainly did not deserve; and it was not until he walked into the snuggery that he felt really at home. Here everything always had been spotlessly clean, and apart from the smell of fresh plaster the newness made no difference. It was an inn that he knew particularly well—he had kept a room there for years—a quiet inn, convenient for the Royal Society, the Entomologists and certain other learned bodies, and one whose landlady he particularly esteemed.
At this moment however his esteem for Mrs Broad was a little shaken by the sound of her voice, some storeys up, raised in a very shrill and passionate harangue. Railing in women always made him uneasy and now he stood there with his hands behind his back, his head bowed, and an unhappy expression on his face; it also had much the same effect on the two glaziers who now came down the stairs, directing submissive words to the torrent behind and above them: 'Yes, ma'am: certainly, ma'am: directly, ma'am, without fail.' In the doorway they squared their paper hats on their heads, exchanged a haggard look, and hurried silently away.
Mrs Broad could be heard grumbling her way down: 'Wicked, idle dogs—radicals—Jacobins—pie-crusts—willains—' and as she came into the snug her voice rose to something near its former pitch: 'No, sir; you can't be served. The house ain't open yet, nor never will be, with those wicious monsters. Oh Lord, it's the Doctor! God love you, sir, pray take a seat.' Her usual good-humoured face beamed out like the sun coming from behind a dark purple cloud, and she held out her short fat arms to an elbow-chair. 'And are you in town, sir? We read about you in the papers, and there were prints and a transparency in Gosling's window—dear me, such goings-on! How I hope nobody was hurt—and the dear Captain? Oh, I could weep for wexation—that vile wretch promised the upstairs windows, the windows for your room too, three weeks ago—three weeks ago—and here you are and no windows. And the rain coming in and spoiling the girls' fine-polished floors: it is enough to make a woman cry. But there you are with nothing in your hand. What may I bring you, sir, to drink to the new Grapes's health?'
'To bless the house and the lady of the house, Mrs Broad,' said Stephen, 'I will happily drink a tint of whiskey.'
Mrs Broad came back in a calmer mind with glasses and cake on a tray—black-currant cordial for herself, her throat being a little hoarse—and a tissue-paper parcel under her arm; and as they sat there on either side of the fire, after Dr Maturin's solemn benediction, Mrs Broad asked very gently whether he had any news from the North?
She and Diana had both tried to keep Stephen healthy, properly fed, dressed in clean linen and well-brushed clothes suitable to his station, and in the course of this long-drawn-out and largely unsuccessful campaign they had become friends: indeed, they had liked one another from the beginning. Mrs Broad had a pretty clear notion of how things stood between Dr and Mrs Maturin, but the tacitly admitted fiction was that Diana had gone into the North for her health while Stephen roamed the seas.
'I have not,' said Stephen. 'Yet it may be that I shall be in those parts quite soon.'
'I heard on Lady-Day past,' said Mrs Broad. 'A gentleman from the legation brought me this'—unwrapping a Swedish doll in a fur pelisse—'and the note said I was to tell the Doctor that there was a waterproof boat-cloak ordered for him at Swainton's that she had forgot to mention. It had to be wove special, but it would be ready by now. The pelisse is real sable,' she added, smoothing the doll's clothes and bright yellow hair.
'Is that right?' said Stephen, getting up and looking out of the side-window into the street. 'Sable,
indeed?' How much wiser he would have been to make a clean break with Diana instead of walking about with her absurd great diamond in his pocket like a talisman and his whole spirit jerking at the sound of her name: he had amputated many a limb in the past, and not only literally. On the far pavement he saw his old friend the butcher's dog sitting in the doorway, scratching its ear with a fine dogged perseverance.
He took a piece of cake and walked out. The dog paused in mid-scratch, peered myopically right and left, twitching its nose, saw him, and came bowing across the street, tail waving. Stephen stroked its head, held up with a hideous grin, observed with regret the film of age over its eyes, thumped its massive brindled flanks, and offered the piece of cake. The dog took it gently by the extreme edge and they parted, the dog walking back to its shop, where, having looked carefully round, it put the untouched cake down behind a heap of filth and lay flat; while Stephen, returning to the Grapes, said to Mrs Broad, 'As for my room, never torment yourself for a minute. It is not for myself that I am come but for Padeen my servant. He is to be operated upon at Guy's tomorrow—a sad great tooth-drawing, alas—and I should not like him to lie in a common ward. You have a room downstairs, I am sure.'
'Teeth to be drawn, oh the poor soul. Of course there is the little room under yours ready this moment; or Deb can move in with Lucy, which might be better, as being more aired.'
'He is a good young man, Mrs Broad, from the County Clare in Ireland; he does not speak much English, and that little he speaks with the terrible great stutter, so it is five minutes before he gets his word out and then it is often the wrong one. But he is as biddable as a lamb and perfectly sober. Now I must leave you, I find, for I have an appointment on the far side of the park.'
His road took him along the crowded Strand to the even more crowded Charing Cross, where at the confluence of three eager streams of traffic a cart-horse had fallen, causing a stagnation of waggons, drays and coaches round which horsemen, sedan-chairs and very light vehicles made their way among the foot passengers, while the carter sat unmoved on the animal's head, waiting until his little boy should succeed in undoing the necessary buckles. It was a good-humoured crowd that Stephen slowly traversed, with those round the boy and the horse full of facetious advice, and it was made up of an extraordinarily wide variety of people, much diversified by uniforms, mostly red: an invigorating tide of life, particularly for one fresh from the sea; yet there was rather much striving and pushing, and not without relief he turned into the park and so by way of Black's for his parcel to Shepherd Market, where Sir Joseph lived in a discreet house with a green door, curious double link-extinguishers and a knocker like burnished gold, in the form of a dolphin.
He raised his hand to the splendid creature's tail, but before he could touch it the door flew open and there was Sir Joseph greeting him, his large pale face showing more pleasurable emotion than most of his colleagues would have believed possible. 'Welcome, welcome home again,' he cried. 'I had been watching for you from the drawing-room window. Come in, my dear Maturin, come in.' He led him upstairs to the library, the pleasantest room in the house, lined with books and slim-drawered insect-cabinets, and placed him an easy chair on one side of the fire while he sat on the other, gazing at him with renewed pleasure until Stephen's first question 'What news of Wray and Ledward?' wiped the expression off his face.
'They have been seen in Paris,' he replied. 'I am ashamed to say they got clean away. You may say that with all our services on the watch we must be a sad lot of boobies to let them out of the country; and I cannot deny that our very first move, at Button's itself, was most horribly mismanaged. But there you are: once it was a question of all our services, all sorts of possibilities arose, apart from mere stupidity.'
Stephen looked at Blaine for a moment: he knew his chief well enough to understand that he meant to convey not only his lack of confidence in the discretion and competence of some of the intelligence services active in the kingdom but also his conviction that Ledward and Wray had at least one very highly-placed colleague and protector somewhere in the administration. Taking this as understood between them he only said 'But, however, you are now master in your own house again, I believe?'
'I hope so, indeed,' said Sir Joseph, smiling, 'but the service was half wrecked, as you know very well, and it has to be built up afresh. And then again, although my position in the Admiralty is now stronger than it was, I am far from happy about some of our partners and correspondents and . . . I shall certainly not propose any continental mission for your consideration at present. In any event, your observations on the possibilities in South America would be far more valuable.'
'I ask these indiscreet questions partly because I am closely concerned but also because they bear directly on the reinstatement of Captain Aubrey.'
'Lucky Jack Aubrey,' said Blaine, smiling again with lively pleasure. 'By God, was such a stroke ever seen? How did you leave the dear fellow?'
'In the bosom of his family, and happy as far as his pocket is concerned: but, you know, that hardly weighs with him, in comparison with his restoration to the Navy List.'
'As for the formal processes, of course they cannot be begun until the court has condemned Wray and Ledward and Aubrey is pardoned for what he never did—until the conviction is removed. There are the informal processes as well, and with regard to them he has my full support, naturally; but even where patronage is concerned my support is of little consequence and in a matter of this kind it is of none at all. He has other supporters, some of much greater value, but some, like the Duke and a few of the more whiggish admirals, who may do him more harm than good. And there is a general feeling in the service and in the public mind that he was shockingly ill-used. The rejoicing at his present success is very clear evidence of that. By the way, did you know that the committee would not accept his resignation from the club?'
'I did not. But tell me, will not this present success have an effect—will it not help to bring about a change in the official view? It was striking enough, for all love, as you observed yourself.'
'A change? Oh dear me no. For the official mind successful privateering is of no national, no Royal Naval, consequence. No. There has been a hideous blunder; everyone knows it; and when the present generation of officials has passed away in perhaps twenty years, and of course the present Ministry, it is probable that some gesture may be made. But at present Wray cannot be brought to trial—it would be extremely embarrassing to the Ministry if he could, I may add, with this whole series of scandals ripped up—so the blame cannot be shifted, and the only way official face can be saved is an action of obviously national importance that would justify a royal pardon or revision or restoration. If for example Captain Aubrey were to engage a ship of the French or American navy that could be made to appear of equal or superior force and either take her or contrive to be badly wounded or both, he might conceivably be reinstated in a year or so, rather than let us say at the next coronation but one or two. Not otherwise, for as I said or meant to say, privateering is its own reward. And Lord above, what a reward in this case! Why, Maturin, with quicksilver at its present rate he must be one of the wealthiest sailors afloat: to say nothing of all the rest of the booty. But he that hath, to him shall be given: I hear that the West India merchants are presenting him with a dinner-service of plate, in acknowledgement of his taking the Spartan.'
'Sure he never need fear an arrest for debt again,' said Stephen. 'The more so as the minute he came home he learnt that the court of appeal had decided a grievous great case in his favour, with costs of the Dear knows how much. The case that had opposed him to the heirs and assigns of a wicked raparee for a great many years, ever since the . . .'
'Lord, what a stroke it was!' said Sir Joseph again, not attending but staring into the fire. 'It was the talk of the service, it was the talk of the town—Lucky Jack Aubrey going out for a trial cruise in a time of dearth—nothing but little coasting hoys and busses or the odd chasse-marée taken for months—and
coming back with seven great fat prizes at his tail and the precious cargo of an eighth fairly bursting his sides. Ha, ha, ha! It does my heart good to think of it.' Blaine thought of it for a while, chuckling to himself, and then he said, 'Tell me, Maturin, how did you induce the Spartan's prizes to come out of Horta?'
'I interrogated the French-speaking prisoners in the usual way,' said Stephen, 'and on finding that one of them was the Spartan's yeoman of signals I took him aside and represented to him that if he told me what arrangement of flags had been agreed—for as you know Horta is at the bottom of a deep and troublesome bay and it was certain that the parties would communicate at a great distance—that if he told me, then he should have his freedom and a reward, but that if he did not, he must bear the consequences of his refusal, which I did not specify. He laughed and said he would always be happy to oblige me at such a rate, and to earn so much for so little and with an easy conscience at that, for it was only the old blue Peter with a windward gun, which we should certainly have tried straight away. And so it was: the schooner stood in on an almost contrary wind, waved this flag, fired off a cannon, and out they came as fast as ever they could sail.'
'That must have rejoiced your heart, ha, ha, ha!'
'Rejoicing there was, sure, but it was mighty discreet, for fear of an unlucky word or look or gesture. We were on tiptoe, everything was so revocable and precarious, the ice so extremely thin: each prize had to be secured in turn and a crew of our people sent aboard, which left us with a terrible great crowd of angry, determined prisoners and precious few men to keep them down and sail the ship at the same time. And two of the prizes, the John Busby and Pretty Anne, were so damnably thick and stupid and slow they had to be towed, and at any moment the Constitution might heave in sight. Oh, it was the cruel time, though we had a fair wind most of it; we never drew an easy breath till we crossed Shelmerston bar, when we threw off the tow, fired all the great guns, and sent on shore for a feast.'
The Letter of Marque Page 12