The Letter of Marque

by Patrick O'Brian

  'The men must have been pleased with Captain Aubrey.'

  'So they were too: they dressed ship and cheered him all the way to the strand; and except for those few he turned away for pillaging or misconduct they fairly worship him in Shelmerston.'

  'He would have been cheered in the streets here too, if he had come up,' said Blaine. 'There were prints and broadsheets by the dozen: I kept some for you. He went over to a heap of papers on a low table, and as he sorted through them Stephen noticed that he let fall a coloured handbill with the picture of a balloon on it. Balloons had been in Stephen's mind since he crossed Pall Mall on his way: workmen were repairing the conduits that led the coal-gas to the street-lamps there and he had wondered whether the smelly stuff might not be used in place of the even more dangerous hydrogen. He would have made the remark if Sir Joseph had not quickly covered the print and pushed it under the table: instead he reached for his parcel and said 'Aubrey did not choose to come to town himself, but he desired me to give you this, with his compliments. It is the Spartan's log-book, and I think you will find it yield some quite valuable intelligence about French and American agents: she often carried both. And as it was packing up I included my interrogations of the prisoners, which are not without interest.'

  'How very obliging in Mr Aubrey,' said Blaine, taking the parcel eagerly. 'Please thank him most heartily from me: and my respectful compliments, if you should think proper, to his wife, whom I remember from Bath as one of the loveliest young women I ever saw. Forgive me for a moment while I run over this log for July last year, when I believe . . .' Sir Joseph did not say what he believed, but it was evidently something discreditable; and while he turned the pages under the green-shaded lamp Stephen leant back in his chair, watching the firelight play on the brass fender, the turkey carpet, and farther off on the books stretching away, row after row of calf or morocco under the singularly light and elegant plasterwork of the ceiling. In his youth he had known Gothic and even Romanesque ceilings (they could retain the winter damp right through a blazing Catalan summer), and in his brief married life with Diana, not a furlong from here, in Half Moon Street, he had known the elaborate ceilings that went with little gilt chairs and a great deal of entertaining; but most of his life had been spent in odd lodgings, inns, and ships. He had never known the quiet, sober, eminently comfortable settled elegance of a room like this. Even Melbury Lodge, the house he had shared with Jack Aubrey for a while during the peace, had not possessed it, and he was contemplating the necessary conditions for its creation when the housekeeper came in and said that if Sir Joseph pleased supper would be on the table in five minutes.

  An eminently comfortable elegant supper, and reasonably sober: Blaine's favourite plain boiled lobster, with a glass of muscadet; sweetbreads and asparagus, with a charming little claret; and a strawberry tart. During the meal Stephen fought the battle over again in the usual naval way, with small pieces of bread on the table-cloth; once again he described the Surprises' ecstasy as, telescopes trained, they saw the prizes slip their cables and sail out of Horta harbour, ' "like lambs to the slaughter", as Aubrey observed; and again Sir Joseph cried 'Lord, what a stroke! The quicksilver alone would have paid for the ship ten times over. And no admiral's share! But a kind of vicarious cupidity and delight in gain makes me gross: forgive me, Maturin. Yet I do hope and trust that this access of fortune will not interfere with the South American scheme?'

  'Never in life. Aubrey would not happily live ashore, however rich, unless he were restored to the list. And even if that were not the case, he has very handsomely stated that he is entirely bound to the ship for this voyage—that he wishes to make it in any event—and he begs I will sell her to him after it is over. My assistant, Mr Martin, whom you may remember—'

  'The chaplain who wrote the unfortunate pamphlet on naval abuses?'

  'Just so, and a very sound ornithologist—expressed the same sense of obligation, of engagement, although he is recently married and although he now possesses what he is pleased to call a fortune, enough to live on in comfort: which I take very kindly indeed, on both their parts.'

  'I am sure you do. Dear Maturin, forgive me if I grow coarse again and speak of money. I know very well that it is an improper subject, but it is one that I find curiously interesting and I should particularly like to know what Mr Martin regards as a fortune.'

  'The capital sum escapes me, but my banker here in London, whom we consulted, stated that if it were placed in the Funds it would bring in £225 a year, leaving a few hundreds over for equipment and menus plaisirs.'

  'Well, that is more than the average country parson's living, I believe; certainly much more than a curate could hope for. And all won in a fortnight's privateering! Bless him. At this rate he will soon be an archbishop.'

  'I do not believe I quite follow you, Blaine.'

  'In the gaiety of my heart I was speaking facetiously, perhaps too facetiously where a sacred office is concerned: but it is a fact that Dr Blackburne, the Archbishop of York in my father's time, had been a buccaneer on the Spanish Main. And after all you and Mr Martin will be in those same latitudes. Shall we go back into the library? I have a bottle of Tokay there that I should like you to try, after our coffee; and Mrs Barlow will bring us some little cakes.'

  In their absence Mrs Barlow or the powerful black who was the only other resident servant had made up the fire, and the train of conversation being broken both Stephen and Blaine sat staring at it like a pair of cats for some little while. Then Stephen said, 'I regretted Duhamel's death extremely.'

  'So did I,' said Blaine. 'A man of outstanding ability.'

  'And rectitude,' said Stephen. 'I did not tell you at the time, but he brought me back the diamond that Diana was obliged to leave in Paris, the stone called the Blue Peter.' He took it out of his pocket.

  'I recall that one evening when you were so kind as to invite me to Half Moon Street she wore it as a pendant. And I very clearly remember the circumstances in which it was left in Paris. I never expected to see it again. A wonderful great jewel: but, Maturin, should not it be lying in the strong-room of a bank?'

  'Perhaps it should,' said Stephen; and after a pause, 'I have been turning the matter over in my mind, and I have decided, if I may be allowed to prolong the ship's exemption from pressing, to go to Sweden and return the stone before setting out for South America.'

  'Certainly,' said Sir Joseph.

  'Tell me, Blaine,' said Stephen, looking straight at him with his pale eyes, 'have you any information about the position there?'

  'I have made no enquiries about Mrs Maturin from the point of view of intelligence, no enquiries whatsoever in my professional capacity,' said Blaine, not without severity. 'None whatsoever. But in my unofficial capacity, my capacity as an ordinary social being, I have of course heard the ordinary gossip of the town: and sometimes a little more.'

  'Gossip states that in consequence of my infidelity in the Mediterranean she ran off to Sweden with Jagiello, does it not?'

  'Yes,' said Blaine, looking at him attentively.

  'Can you tell me anything about Jagiello, at all?'

  'Yes, I can,' said Sir Joseph. 'From the point of view of intelligence, he is perfectly sound: his influence, as you may imagine, is negligible, but what he has is wholly in favour of the alliance with us. What is more to the immediate purpose is that I can tell you something that has nothing to do with common gossip, something that I learnt from a man in the legation: it appears that Jagiello is about to marry a young Swedish lady. I also gathered, though this was not directly expressed and I cannot assert that my assumptions are correct and they may very well be wrong—I also gathered that relations between him and Mrs Maturin were not of the nature—were not what they were ordinarily assumed to be. On the other hand I do not think there is much room for mistake when I say that at present she is far from being rich; though to be sure one might make balloon ascents from a spirit of adventure.' He walked over to his low table, felt under it, and br
ought out the print he had concealed. The picture showed a blue balloon among billowing clouds, surrounded by large red birds, perhaps eagles; in the balloon basket a woman with yellow hair and red cheeks, mounted on a blue horse, held out stiff British and Swedish flags: and from the exclamatory text below leapt the name Diana Villiers, three times repeated in capital letters, with points of admiration fore and aft. That was the name he had first known her by, and Diana Villiers was what he usually called her in his own mind, for their marriage aboard a man-of-war, with never a priest in sight, had convinced him no more than it had convinced her.

  He considered the image for a while, the careful drawing of the cords enveloping the balloon and holding the basket, the wooden figure and its expressionless face, the frozen, theatrical posture; and absurdly enough there was something of Diana there. She was a splendid rider, and although she would never have sat like that, even on a blue cross between an ass and a mule, nor ever have struck a histrionic pose, the wild improbability, the symbol for a horse and the figure's total lack of concern did have a real connection with her.

  'Thank you, Blaine,' he said after a while. 'I am deeply obliged to you for this information. Is there anything, however tenuous, that you could add?'

  'No. Nothing at all. But you may think the absence of any tattle or rumour in such a place as present-day Sweden tolerably significant.'

  Stephen nodded, studying the print once more and making a certain amount of sense of the Swedish. 'I should like to make an ascent in a balloon,' he said.

  'When I was in France before the war,' said Blaine, 'I watched Pilâtre de Rozier and a friend go up. They had two balloons, a small Mongolfier just over the basket and a larger one filled with gas above it. They rose at a fine pace, but at three or four thousand feet the whole thing took fire: Icarus could not have been more dashed to pieces.' Sir Joseph regretted the words as soon as they were out, but no explanation, no softening, could do anything but make them worse, so he moved about, bringing the wine from its corner and pouring them each a glass.

  They talked about Tokay and wine in general until they were half way through the bottle and then Stephen said, 'You spoke of present-day Sweden as being remarkably full of rumours.'

  'It is scarcely surprising that it should be so, when you come to reflect: Bernadotte may have been elected crown-prince and he may have turned against Napoleon, but he is still a Frenchman and the French do not despair of turning him back again. They can offer him Finland, Pomerania—quantities of land—and they have a hold on him: half a dozen natural children in Pau, Marseilles and Paris. And if that don't answer there is always the legitimate royal family, the excluded Vasas, who have plenty of supporters and who may contrive a coup d'état. Then again the treaty of Abo is much disliked by the better kind of Swedes. And of course the Russians and the Danes are also closely concerned, as well as the northern German states; so in spite of the present alliances Stockholm is full of agents of one kind or another, attempting to influence Bernadotte, his entourage, his advisers and his various opponents, actual or potential; and their doings or their alleged doings give rise to a wonderful amount of talk. It is not our department, thanks be—I have seen Castlereagh bowing under the pile of reports—but naturally we hear our fair share.'

  The little silver bracket-clock struck one and Stephen stood up. 'You will never desert a bottle at half-ebb?' cried Blaine. 'Sit down again, for shame.'

  Stephen sat, though as far as he was concerned it might have been cocoa; and when the last glass was poured he said, 'Will I tell you a strange example of the power of money?'

  'If you please,' said Blaine.

  'My servant, Padeen, whom you know, has an impacted wisdom-tooth, from which he suffers extremely. The operation is beyond my skill, and when I took him to the best tooth-drawer in Plymouth nothing would induce him to open his mouth; he had rather put up with the pain. Yet now that I have brought him to London, to be dealt with by Mr Cullis of Guy's, the case is altered: he opens his mouth cheerfully, he is pierced, lanced and probed without a cry; and this is not because Cullis is Sergeant-Dentist to the Prince Regent, which means nothing at all in the County Clare, but because the operation is to cost seven guineas, with half a guinea to the dresser. The expenditure of such a sum, more than Padeen had ever seen in his life before this stroke with the Surprise, not only confers a certain status upon a man, but must necessarily entail an extraordinary degree of well-being.'

  'Do you mean he is not waiting for you downstairs?' asked Blaine, who could be disappointing at times. 'Do you mean you are going to walk home by yourself? And with that absurd great diamond in your pocket into the bargain? I can easily imagine the insurance declining responsibility in such a case.'

  'What insurance?'

  'You will not tell me it is uninsured?'

  'I might.'

  'Next I shall hear that the ship is not covered either.'

  'Ah,' said Stephen, struck by the thought. 'There is maritime insurance too, so there is: I have often heard of it. Perhaps I should make some arrangement.'

  Sir Joseph cast up his hands, but he only said, 'Come. I will see you to the corner of Piccadilly. There is always a knot of link-boys there. Two will see you home and two will see me back.' And as they were walking along he said, 'When I spoke of Mr Aubrey's engaging a national ship of roughly equal force just now my words were not quite so much in the air as they may have appeared to be. I am right in supposing that he is particularly well acquainted with the harbour of St Martin's, am I not?'

  'He surveyed it twice, and he blockaded it for a great while.'

  'There may be some possibility—can you stay in town as long as a week?'

  'Certainly I can; and I am always to be found at Black's. But in any case we are to meet again at the Royal Society Club's dinner on Thursday, before my paper. I am bringing Mr Martin.'

  'I should be very happy to meet him.'

  The meeting was indeed happy on both sides. Stephen placed Martin between himself and Sir Joseph, and the two talked steadily until the toasts began. Martin had not, as he admitted, paid as much attention to the coleoptera as he should have done, but in the nature of things he knew more about the habits, if not the forms, of the South American families, having watched them closely on their native soil; and beetles, especially luminous beetles, together with Blaine's outline of a new classification of them on truly scientific principles, were their sole subject.

  At the subsequent meeting of the Society Stephen read his paper on the osteology of diving birds in his usual low mumble: when it was over, and when those Fellows who could both hear and understand had congratulated him, Blaine accompanied him to the great court, and taking him a little aside asked after Padeen. 'Oh it was a shocking affair entirely,' said Stephen. 'I thanked God I had not attempted it myself. The apparent tooth was obliged to be broken and the pieces of nerve that could be seen pulled out one by one. He bore it better than ever I should have done, but there is still a great deal of pain. I reduce it as much as I can with the alcoholic tincture of opium; and to be sure he displays remarkable fortitude.'

  'He has had his seven guineas' worth, poor fellow,' said Blaine; and then in another tone, 'Speaking of sailors, it would do no harm if our friend held himself in readiness to set off for a short voyage at even shorter notice.'

  'Will I send him an express, so?'

  'If you can make it non-committal enough: this may be no more than a false interpretation—mere flim-flam. But it would be a pity not to be prepared if it were to turn out true.'

  Ashgrove Cottage could never have been described as an eligible residence at any time, since it stood low on a cold, damp slope facing north, on poor, spewy soil, with no means of access but a hollow lane, deep in mud much of the year and impassable after heavy rain. Yet from the top of the slope, by the observatory, one could see Portsmouth, Spithead, the Isle of Wight, the Channel beyond and the vast amount of shipping; what is more, during the high tides of his fortune Jack Aubrey had made
considerable plantations, and he had more than doubled the size of the house. The meagre scrubland of former days was now for the most part decently clothed with young wood, and although the cottage itself could not rival the noble stable-yard with its double coach-house and rows of loose-boxes, it did have some very comfortable rooms. In one of these, the breakfast-parlour, Jack Aubrey and Sophie sat sharing a companionable extra pot of coffee. Although some years had passed since Sir Joseph first saw her in Bath she could still be described as one of the loveliest young women of his acquaintance, for although living with a somewhat difficult, boisterous and over-sanguine husband with little or no sense of business, a husband who might be away for years on end, doing his utmost to risk life and limb in far remote seas, and although bearing him three children had taken its toll, while his infamous trial and disgrace had withered her bloom, the singular beauty of her form, eyes and hair was unaffected, while the intense mental and spiritual activity of keeping their home together in his absence and of dealing with sometimes unscrupulous men of business had done away with any hint of insipidity or helplessness in her expression. But the recent spring tide of gold, which had brought the house back to life—it was difficult to believe now, but only a short while ago this warm, luminous, cheerful, lived-in room had, like many of the other rooms, been locked up, shuttered and shrouded in dust-sheets—had also done wonders for her skin: her complexion was that of a girl.