18 - The Yellow Admiral

by The Yellow Admiral (lit)

  'Sailing by. Yes, indeed. On the few occasions I have seen him I have run with all my might, net outstretched; but all to no avail. And purchased specimens, though very well for comparison and study, are by no means the same thing. You might as well buy your quails and partridges from a game-dealer.'

  'I was more fortunate. Behind Recasens, in what I might call my own back-yard, I watched one emerging from his chrysalis: I placed a bell-jar over him, let him spread his wings, assume his full glory, and then by night carried him in, cut him short with a painless waft, and so put him up for you.' Stephen brought a soft packet from his bosom, unwrapped it, and passed a small glass case.

  After the briefest moment Blaine's happy, eager look changed. He said, 'You would never make game of me, Stephen? Not on such a subject?'

  'Pray look closer. Pray turn him upside down. Pray compare him with those you have.'

  Moving slowly, and with backward glances, Sir Joseph moved over to his cabinet, drawer after drawer of beautifully mounted insects. He held his present over the relevant specimens, and slowly, in a voice of wonder, he said, 'By God. It is a melanistic Charaxes: a perfect, wholly melanistic Charaxes jasius.' He turned the orthodox butterflies and his new acquisition over and over, holding them to the light and murmuring about the exact repetition of the pattern and the exact reversal. 'I never knew it occurred in Charaxes, Stephen - no books, no collection has ever recorded it. Oh Stephen, what a treasure! No wonder you clapped a bell-jar over him. God bless you, my dear friend. You could not have made me happier. I shall write a paper on him for the Proceedings - such a paper!' He went slowly back to his chair, privately turning the case in various directions and his face rosy with contentment.

  But the recording part of his mind was still intent upon Stephen's account of this idyllic ramble through a variety of landscapes, all more or less torn by recent or even actual warfare. 'How I wish I had a better memory for geography,' he said. 'If we were at the Admiralty I could follow on a map; but as it is I cannot understand how you escaped from the raiding parties or foragers of either side, and from the notice of both military intelligence and our people.'

  'It is almost impossible to explain without a chart, since we rarely steered the same course for more than two watches.' Dr Maturin, as a ship's surgeon, was rather fond of using nautical expressions, correct nautical expressions on occasion; and this he repeated with a certain emphasis before going on 'That is to say, we wandered in an unmethodical, even a whimsical fashion, guided by youthful recollections, by the prospect of a noble forest, by side-roads leading to the houses of remote friends or cousins: but when we have an enormous atlas before us I will do my best to retrace our journey. For the now, let me only observe that our path from Laredo to Segovia was far, far south of such dangerous parts as the neighbourhood of Santander or Pampeluna. To be sure, there were the signs of war in many a field, many a devastated village or shattered bridge; and it is true that there was a little trouble from English, Spanish and Portuguese stragglers on occasion, while once we saw a troop of French hussars pursued into the darkness of the upper Ebro by a numerous band of dragoons.'

  'Were the ladies distressed?'

  'Not that I observed.'

  'No, on reflection. No, to be sure,' said Blaine, who had seen Diana driving a four-in-hand along the Stockbridge road and outgalloping the Salisbury Flyer itself, to the cheers of the passengers aboard, and who knew that Clarissa had been sent to Botany Bay for blowing a man's head off with a double-barrelled fowling-piece.

  'But when we struck north into Catalonia I was among friends, protected by a network of intelligence. So having consulted dear Dr Llers, we viewed the estuary or rather the estuaries of the Ebro - such myriads of flamingoes, Joseph, with two spoonbills and a glossy ibis, all in the course of a single picnic - and so took ship from Valencia to Gibraltar, where we changed to the packet: as brilliant a voyage as could be imagined. Diana did not feel even the least uneasiness, and now we are all at the Grapes together, with Mrs Broad and the black children I brought from the South Sea, Sarah and Emily. Will you not come and sup with us? You would enjoy the little girls. They are so pleasant together - they play puss in the corner and hunt the slipper.'

  'Ah? Indeed? Unhappily,' said Sir Joseph, 'unhappily I am engaged to supper at Black's.'

  'Then let us walk along together. At this time of day it is the best place in London to find a hackney-coach setting down.'

  'By all means,' said Blaine, 'but I believe I shall throw a very light greatcoat over my shoulders. There is a certain bite in the evening air.' He rang for his man-servant. It was his housekeeper however who answered and a little vexed he asked, 'But where is Treacher? I rang for Treacher.'

  'He is not back yet, Sir Joseph.'

  'Well, never mind. Pray fetch me my very light greatcoat. I am going to have supper at the club.'

  'But Sir Joseph, the sweetbreads and asparagus. . .' she began: then checked herself.

  They walked along very companionably, talking mostly about beetles, their almost infinite variety; and passing a house in Arlington Street Blaine said, 'That was where Hammersley lived, a very great collector. Did you ever meet him?'

  'I believe not.'

  'Yet he too was a member. We have had several far travelled, learned members, eminent entomologists. I wish we had more. And speaking of Black's, have you seen Captain Aubrey?'

  'I ran into him as he was leaving the club, and there was just time for him to tell me that all was well at home - that he still had the Bellona, now on the Brest blockade - that he had kept my place aboard her - that they were living at Woolcombe, as handier for Torbay or Plymouth, and should be happy to see us all for as long as ever we chose to give them the pleasure - vast great house - whole wings empty. He had just been up for the naval estimates - must run not to miss the coach - and so vanished, cleaving the throng.'

  Blaine shook his head. 'Will you not walk in and take at least a glass of sherry before your puss in the corner? Some added fortitude, Dutch courage, is essentially called for, where the ceaseless din of children is concerned.'

  'I will not,' said Stephen, 'though I thank you kindly. It is already late for girls of that age, and we must be up early for the journey into the west.'

  'Are you away so soon?'

  'A little before the dawn itself.'

  'Shall I not see you again?'

  'Oh surely. I come up next week for the meeting of the Royal and to see about the lease of our house in Half Moon Street. In the present state of affairs we cannot possibly afford to keep it up: but just now we mean to go down to the Aubreys and stay with them until a suitable little place can be found in the country: and of course I must rejoin my ship. We are selling or trying to sell that gaunt cold ill-omened Barham, which will put us in funds again; and in the meantime I shall borrow a few thousand from Jack Aubrey.'

  Blaine gave him a quick look; and a few paces on, when they were almost at the door of the club, with members going in and out like bees, he took Stephen's elbow, halted him by the railings and in a low voice he said, 'Do beg your friend to be quiet in the House, Stephen. On naval estimates he addressed the Ministry as though they were a parcel of defaulters, and now that he has most unhappily overcome his diffidence as a new member he does so in a voice calculated to reach the main topmast-head in a hurricane. His friends do so wish he were not in Parliament; or if he feels he has to be a member (and indeed there are great potential advantages) that he would rarely attend and then sit mute, voting as he is told. I dread the moment he gives his voice against the Ministry, in his dashing, headstrong way. He is very often in town, with a jobbing captain aboard his ship, doing her no good, nor her reputation. Stephen, do take him to sea and keep him there.'

  They were now at the steps leading into Black's. Down them hurried a tall thin member, pursued by the cry of 'Your Grace, your Grace.'

  His Grace turned, and with an anxious look he asked, 'Have I done something wrong?'

  'Your Grace has
taken Mr Wilson's umbrella,' said the head-porter, walking down to recover it; and now a positive company of members came streaming in from a cockpit over the way, making conversation impossible.

  'Until next week,' cried Stephen.

  'A safe and prosperous journey, and my dear love to the ladies,' replied Sir Joseph, kissing his hand.

  Captain Aubrey (Commodore no longer, since the appointment lapsed with the dissolution of his squadron, and the temporary title with it) and his wife sat at the breakfast-table, looking out over the broad grey courtyard of Woolcombe House to the veiled woods and the sky, a somewhat lighter grey but quite as melancholy.

  They sat in silence, waiting for the newspaper and the post, but a companionable silence; and as Jack's gaze moved indoors it paused on Sophie before travelling on to the coffee-pot. She was a tall, gentle, particularly sweet-looking woman, thirty-odd, and Jack's rather stern face softened. 'How well she is bearing up under all this,' he reflected. 'She may not have quite Diana's dash, but she has plenty of bottom. Plenty of bottom: a rare plucked 'un.'

  'All this' was a spate of litigation arising from Jack's cruise against slave-traders in the Gulf of Guinea. When he and his captains were confronted with a stinking vessel crammed with black men and women chained on a low slave-deck in that tropical heat they did not always pay the very closest attention to the papers that were produced, above all since the first ten alleged protections had proved to be forgeries. Yet genuine protection did exist: Portuguese slavers for example could still legally trade south of the Line, and if one was found in the northern hemisphere, obviously heading for Cuba, it was difficult to prove that the ship's master had not been compelled by stress of weather to put his nose over the equator, or that he did not intend to steer for Brazil tomorrow, particularly as a cloud of witnesses would swear to the fact. Navigational error, shortage of stores, and the like, could always be brought forward with a fair appearance of truth. Then again there were all sorts of legal devices by which the true ownership of the vessel could be disguised or concealed - companies holding on behalf of other companies and so on four deep, with the true responsibility for the cargo growing more dubious at each remove: nor was there any shortage of legal talent to make the most of a wealthy ship-owner's case.

  The day was as still as a day could well be, extremely damp and so silent that the dew could be heard dripping right along the front of the house, which an earlier Jack Aubrey, in the fashion of his day, had built facing north: right along the front and on either of the somewhat later wings, even to the very end of that on the east, whose ultimate drip fell on a cistern whose leaden voice was part of the Captain's very earliest memories.

  To these, in time, was added the sound of hoofs, the high-pitched hoofs of a mule approaching: then an old man's creaking voice and a boy's shrill pipe. This was George Aubrey, the Captain's son; and presently he appeared outside the window, smiling a little cheerful fat boy with his father's bright yellow hair, blue eyes and high colour.

  Although he did not encourage them to breakfast with him when he was on shore, Jack was fond of his children and with an answering smile he walked over to the window. 'Good morning, sir,' cried George, handing in The Times, 'Harding showed me a wariangle in the hedge by Simmon's Lea.'

  'Good morning to you, George,' said Jack, taking the paper. 'I am amazingly glad about the wariangle. He showed me one too, just before I went to sea. Remember all the details you can manage, and tell me at dinner.'

  Back in his chair he opened the pages eagerly, for this was the day when the flag-promotion would be announced, and he turned straight to the Gazette. There were the familiar names, the whole list of admirals (that glorious rank) from the most junior rear-admirals of the blue, just promoted from the most senior names on the post-captains' list, onwards: all of them moving steadily up through the ranks and squadrons - rear-admirals of the blue, then of the white, then of the red; vice-admirals and then full admirals of the same, and finally the sailor's apotheosis, admiral of the fleet. The last nine stages of increasing splendour were devoid of suspense, progress being wholly automatic, depending on seniority - no merit, no royal favour even, could advance a man a shadow of an inch, and Nelson died a vice-admiral of the white - yet Jack read out many of the admirals they knew or liked or admired.

  'Sir Joe will hoist the red at his mizen. He will like that: I shall drink him joy of it at dinner. I should like it too. Lord, if I were ever to hoist my own flag, I should keep it to be buried in.' He carried on, picking out friends in the squadrons red white and blue; but just before he reached the really interesting part, the dividing-line, the crucial boundary between the top of the post-captains' list and the rear-admirals of the blue, Sophie, still much put out by that unfortunate reference to a shroud, said, 'I am glad about dear Sir Joe, and Lady Le Poer will be delighted: yet after all, surely it is no surprise, any more than moving up the dance? And what do you mean, if you were ever to hoist your flag? You are quite near the top of the list, and no one can deny you the right to one.' She spoke with the particular emphasis, even vehemence, of those who wish to establish the truth of their words; although as a sailor's wife she knew perfectly well that the Navy List contained twenty-eight superannuated rear-admirals and (even worse) thirty-two superannuated post-captains.

  'Of course,' said Jack. 'That is the usual way: you go up and up, like Jacob on his ladder. But with something so important it would be courting ill-luck to speak of any certainty about it. You must not tempt fate. If I were Stephen, I should cross myself whenever I had to mention flag-rank. God bless us all. No. They do not usually superannuate post-captains unless they are very old and sick, or very mad and froward, or unless they have often refused service: though I have known it done. No. On the whole, and speaking quite impersonally, you understand, it could be said that men at the head of the post-captains' list may assert a right to a flag at the next promotion of admirals. But that don't mean they have a right to hoist it, let alone to any employment. What happens if they do not like the cut of your jib is that they make you a rear-admiral "without distinction of

  squadron". You have a rear-admiral's half-pay: you have the nominal rank. But you are neither red, white nor blue; neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring; and when sailors call you admiral the decent ones look away - the others smile. In the cant phrase you have been yellowed.'

  'But that could never happen to you, Jack,' she cried. 'Not with your fighting record. And you have never refused any service, however disagreeable.'

  'I hope you are right, my dear,' said Jack, searching down the column. 'Yet I am afraid it has happened to Captain Willis. John Thornton is not here either, but I think he has accepted a place as commissioner, which puts him out of the running. Craddock is missing too.'

  She came and looked over his shoulder. 'So he is, poor soul: though I never liked him. But there is no mention of "without distinction of squadron": and I have never seen it either, in any Gazette.'

  'No. They do not make it public. You just get a letter saying that Their Lordships do not have it in contemplation and so on. And I am afraid more and more people are going to get that damned uncomfortable letter. Unless Napoleon wins yet another of those shattering unexpected victories by land all over again, it looks as though this war was pretty nearly over, with the French cleared right out of Spain and Wellington already well into France.'

  'Oh, how I hope so,' said Sophie.

  'So do I, of course, a very good thing, to be sure. No more carnage. But can you imagine the cut-throat struggle for commands in a Navy reduced to three wherries and a gig? Armageddon would be nothing to it. No, no. Rather than make things even worse and overcrowd the flag-officers' list they will superannuate right, left and centre, and the Devil take the . .

  They both turned their heads, listening: hoofs again, far off, and sea-going cries: 'Give way, there. Luff and touch her. Thus, thus, very well thus. Easy, as she goes. Easy. Easy, God damn and blast your eyes. This ain't the fucking Derby
stakes.'

  Whenever Captain Aubrey was ashore for any length of time, as for that part of the parliamentary session devoted to the naval estimates, he naturally brought his coxswain, his steward and one or two followers with him. The first, Barrett Bonden, was a tough, powerful, very able seaman; the virtues of the second, Preserved Killick, were less evident - he was a passable seaman and a brilliant silver-polisher, but as a personal servant he left much to be desired: indeed almost everything. Jack brought them because it was customary for a post-captain to have a minimum of retinue, and Captain Aubrey had the greatest respect for naval customs; yet they were beings so wholly nautical that they were of very little use to him by land. In the present instance, for example, they were barely capable of inducing a staid old mare, well past mark of mouth and thoroughly accustomed to the road, to carry them and the gig to the post-office for the Woolcombe letters without overturning into a ditch or two, or even, in her agitation of mind, losing the way.

  The voice died away as the mare, quickening her pace, headed for the familiar stables behind the house. Jack and Sophie sat waiting. The post had been a matter of dreadful importance ever since the first action for wrongful seizure opened with a broadside of writs, each more injuriously phrased and menacing than the last.

  In a properly-run household it was the butler's duty, indeed his privilege, to carry in the family's letters, taking them out of the leather bag in which the postmaster at Woolhampton had placed them, considering them back and front, and arranging them on a salver. Woolcombe was still a properly-run house, though terribly threatened and managing on the strictest minimum; but its due order was shaken every time the Captain's coxswain appeared. He had an unshakable view of his own prerogatives; and since Manson, the regular, hereditary butler, knew that the broken-nosed coxswain had knocked out or otherwise disabled all challengers for the championship of the Mediterranean fleet, he confined himself to verbal complaints and Bonden carried