Post captain, page 34
‘I have not seen you these months past,’ said Dundas in a very friendly tone. ‘I asked for you several times, whenever Polychrest was in, and they told me you was on leave. How brown you are! Where have you been?’
‘In Ireland - tedious family business.’
‘In Ireland? You astonish me. Every time I have been in Ireland it has rained. If you had not told me, I should have sworn you had been in the Med, ha, ha, ha. Well, I asked for you several times: I had something particular to say. Excellent muffin, eh? If there is one thing I like better than another with my tea, it is a well-turned piece of muffin.’ After this promising beginning, Dundas fell strangely mute: it was clear that he wanted to say something of importance, but did not know how to get it out handsomely - or, indeed, at all. Did he want to borrow money? Was some disease preying on his mind?
‘You have a particular kindness for Jack Aubrey, Dr Maturin, I believe?’
‘I have a great liking for him, sure.’
‘So have I. So have I. We were shipmates even before we were rated midshipmen - served in half a dozen commissions together. But he don’t listen to me, you know; he don’t attend. I was junior to him all along, and that counts, of course; besides, there are some things you cannot tell a man. What I wanted to say to you was, do you think you might just hint to him that he is - I will not say ruining his career, but sailing very close to the wind? He does not clear his convoys - there have been complaints - he puts into the Downs when the weather is not so very terrible -and people have a tolerable good notion why, and it won’t answer, not in Whitehall.’ ‘Lingering in port is a practice not unknown to the Navy.’
‘I know what you mean. But it is a practice confined to admirals with a couple of fleet actions and a peerage behind them, not to commanders. It won’t do, Maturin. I do beg you will tell him so.’
‘I will do what I can. God knows what will come of it. I thank you for this mark of confidence, Dundas.’
‘The Polychrest is trying to weather the South Foreland now; I saw her from the Goliath, missing stays and having to wear again. She has been over the way, looking at the French gunboats in Etaples. She should manage it when the sea-breeze sets in; but God help us, what leeway that ship does make. She has no right to be afloat.’
‘I shall take a boat and meet her,’ said Stephen. ‘I am quite impatient to see my shipmates again.’
They received him kindly, very kindly; but they were busy, anxious and overwrought. Both watches were on deck to moor the Polychrest, and as he watched them at their work it was clear to Stephen that the feeling in the ship had not improved at all. Oh very far from it. He knew enough about the sea to tell the difference between a willing crew and a dogged, sullen set of men who had to be driven. Jack was in his cabin, writing his report, and Parker had the deck: was the man deranged? An incessant barking flow of orders, threats, insults, diversified with kicks and blows: more vehement than when Stephen had left the ship, and surely now there was a note of hysteria? Not far behind him in vociferation there was Macdonald’s replacement, a stout pink and white young man with thick pale lips; his authority extended only to his soldiers, but he made up for this by his activity, bounding about with his cane like a jack-in-a-box.
When he went below this impression was confirmed. His assistant, Mr Thompson, was not perhaps very wise nor very skilful - his attempt at a Cheseldon’s lithotomy had an ominous smell of gangrene - but he did not seem at all brutal or even unkind; yet as they went round their patients there was not a smile - proper answers, but no sort of interchange, no friendliness whatsoever, except from one old Sophie, a Pole by the name of Jackruckie, whose hernia was troubling him again. And even his strange jargon (he spoke very little English) was uneasy, conscious, and inhibited. In the next cot lay a man with a bandaged head. Gummata, the sequelae of an old depressed fracture, malingering? In an eager attempt to justify his diagnosis, Thompson darted a pointing finger at the man’s head, and instantly the crooked protective arm shot up.
By the time he had finished his rounds and settled in his cabin, the Polychrest was moored. Jack had gone off to make his report, and something nearer to peace had come down on the ship. There was only the steady grind of the pumps and the now almost voiceless bark of the first lieutenant getting the courses, the square courses, and topsails furled in a body, smooth enough for a royal review.
He walked into the gun-room, which was empty but for the Marine officer. He was reclining upon two chairs with his feet on the table; and craning up his neck he cried, ‘Why, you must be the sawbones back again. I’m glad to see you. My name is Smithers. Forgive me if I do not get up; I am quite fagged out with mooring the ship.’
‘I noticed that you were very active.’
‘Pretty brisk, pretty brisk. I like my men to know who’s who and what’s what and to move smart - they’ll smart else, you catch my meaning, ha, ha. They tell me you are quite a hand with a cello. We must have a bout some night. I play the German flute.’
‘I dare say you are a remarkable performer.’
‘Pretty brisk, pretty brisk. I don’t like to boast, but I fancy I was the best player at Eton in my time. If I chose to do it professionally, I should make twice what they give me for fighting His Majesty’s wars for him - not that the pewter matters to me, of course. It’s precious slow in this ship, don’t you find? Nobody to talk to; nothing but ha’penny whist and convoy-duty and looking out for the French prams. What do you say to a hand of cards?’
‘Is the captain returned, do you know?’
‘No. He won’t be back for hours and hours. You have plenty of time. Come let us have a hand of piquet.’
‘I play very little.’
‘You need not be afraid of him. He’ll be pulling down to Dover against the tide - he’s got a luscious piece there- won’t be back for hours and hours. A luscious piece, by God: I could wear it. I’d have a mind to cut him out, if he weren’t my captain: it’s a wonder what a red coat will do, believe you me. I dare say I could, too; she invited all the officers last week, and she looked at me. .
‘You cannot be speaking of Mrs Villiers, sir?’
‘A pretty young widow - yes, that’s right. Do you know her?’
‘Yes, sir: and I should be sorry to hear her spoken of with disrespect.’
‘Oh, well, if she’s a friend of yours,’ cried Smithers, with a knowing leer, ‘that’s different. I have said nothing. Mum’s the word. Now what about our game?’
‘Do you play well?’
‘I was born with a pack of cards in my hand.’
‘I must warn you I never play for small stakes: it bores me.’
‘Oh, I’m not afraid of you. I’ve played at White’s -I played at Almack’s with my friend Lord Craven till daylight put the candles out! What do you think of that?’
The other officers came down one by one and watched them play; watched them in silence until the end of the sixth panic, when Stephen laid down a point of eight followed by a quart major, and Pullings, who had been sitting behind him, straining his stomach to the
groaning-point to make him win, burst out with ‘Ha, ha, you picked a wrong ‘un when you tackled the Doctor.’
‘Do be quiet, can’t you, when gentlemen are playing cards. And smoking that vile stinking pipe in the gun-room - it is turning the place into one of your low pot-houses. How can a man concentrate his mind with all this noise? Now you have made me lose my score. What do you make it, Doctor?’
‘With repique and capot, that is a hundred and thirty; and since I believe you are two short of your hundred, I must add your score to mine.’
‘You will take my note of hand, I suppose?’
‘We agreed to play for cash, you remember.’
‘Then I shall have to fetch it. It will leave me short. But you will have to give me my revenge.’
‘Captain’s coming aboard, gentlemen,’ said a quartermaster. Then reappearing a moment later, ‘Port side, gents.’ They relaxed: he was returning with no ceremony. ‘I must leave you,’ said Stephen. ‘Thank you for the game.’
‘But you can’t go away just when you have won all that money,’ cried Smithers.
‘On the contrary,’ said Stephen. ‘It is the very best moment to leave.’
‘Well, it ain’t very sporting. That’s all I say. It ain’t very sporting.’
‘You think not? Then when you have laid down the gold you may cut double or quits. Sans revanche, eh?’
Smithers came back with two rouleaux of guineas and part of a third. ‘It’s not the money,’ he said. ‘It’s the principle of the thing.’
‘Aces high,’ said Stephen, looking impatiently at his watch. ‘Please to cut.’
A low heart: knave of diamonds. ‘Now you will have to take my note for the rest,’ said Smithers.
‘Jack,’ said Stephen, ‘may I come in?’
‘Come in, come in, my dear fellow, come in,’ cried Jack, springing forward and guiding him to a chair. ‘I have scarcely seen you how very pleasant this is! I cannot tell you how dreary the ship has been without you. How brown you are!’
In spite of an animal revulsion at the catch of the scent that hung about Jack’s coat - never was there a more unlucky present - Stephen felt a warmth in his heart. His face displayed no more than a severe questioning, professional look, however, and he said, ‘Jack, what have you been doing to yourself? You are thin, grey - costive, no doubt. You have lost another couple of stone: the skin under your eyes is a disagreeable yellow. Has the bullet-wound been giving trouble? Come, take off your shirt. I was never happy that I had extracted all the lead; my probe still seemed to grate on something.’
‘No, no. It has quite healed over again. I am very well. It is only that I don’t sleep. Toss, turn, can’t get off, then ill dreams and I wake up some time in the middle watch - never get off again, and I am stupid all the rest of the day. And damned ill-tempered, Stephen; I sway away on all top-ropes for a nothing, and then I am sorry afterwards. Is it my liver, do you think? Not yesterday, but the day before I had a damned unpleasant surprise: I was shaving, and thinking of something else; and Killick had hung the glass aft the scuttle instead of its usual place. So just for a moment I caught sight of my face as though it was a stranger looking in. When I understood it was me, I said, “Where did I get that damned forbidding ship’s corporal’s face?” and determined not to look like that again - it reminded me of that unhappy fellow Pigot, of the Hermione. And this morning there it was again, glaring back at me out of the glass. That is another reason why I am so glad to see you: you will give me one of your treble shotted slime-draughts to get me to sleep. It’s the devil, you know, not sleeping: no wonder a man looks like a ship’s corporal. And these dreams - do you dream, Stephen?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I thought not. You have a head-piece. . . however, I had one some nights ago, about your narwhal; and Sophie was mixed up with it in some way. It sounds nonsense, but
it was so full of unhappiness that I woke blubbering like a child. Here it is, by the way.’ He reached behind him and passed the long tapering spiral of ivory.
Stephen’s eyes gleamed as he took it and turned it slowly round and round in his hands. ‘Oh thank you, thank you, Jack,’ he cried. ‘It is perfect - the very apotheosis of a tooth.’
‘There were some longer ones, well over a fathom, but they had lost their tips, and I thought you would like to get the point, ha, ha, ha.’ It was a flash of his old idiot self,
and he wheezed and chuckled for some time, his blue eyes as clear and delighted as they had been long ago: wild glee over an infinitesimal grain of merriment.
‘It is a most prodigious phenomenon,’ said Stephen, cherishing it. ‘How much do I owe you, Jack?’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he laid on the table, then a handful of gold, then another, and scrabbled for the odd coins, observing that it was foolish to carry it loose: far better made a bundle of.
‘Good God,’ cried Jack, staring. ‘What on earth have you been at? Have you taken a treasure-ship? I have never seen so much money al! at once in my life.’
‘I have been stripping a jackeen that annoyed me: the young nagin, the coxcomb in the red coat. The lobster, as you would say.’
‘Smithers. But this is gaming, Stephen, not mere play.’
‘Yes. He seemed concerned at his loss: a lardish sweat. But he has all the appearance of wealth - all its petulant arrogance, certainly.’
‘He has private means, I know; but you must have left him very short - this is more than a year’s pay.’
‘So much the better. I intended he should smart.’
‘Stephen, I must ask you not to do it again. He is an under-bred puppy, I grant you, and I wonder the jollies ever took him, they being so particular; but the ship is in a bad enough way as it is, without getting a name for gaming. Will you not let him have it back?’
‘I will not. But since you wish it, I shall not play with him again. Now how much do I owe you, my dear?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Do me the pleasure of accepting it as a present. Pray do. It was very little, and the prize paid for it.’
‘You took a prize, so?’
‘Yes. Just one. No chance of any more - the Polychrest can be recognized the moment she is hull up on the horizon, now that she is known. I am sorry you were not aboard, though it did not amount to much: I sold my share to Parker for seventy-five pounds, being short at the time, and he did not make a great deal out of it. She was a little Dutch shalloop, creeping along the back of the Dogger, laden with deals; and we crept just that trifle less almighty slow. A contemptible prize - we should have let her go in the Sophie - but I thought I ought to blood the hands at last. Not that it did much good. The ship is in a bad way; and Harte rides me hard.’
‘Pray show me your honorary sword and the merchants’ piece of plate. I called upon Sophie, and she told me about them.’
‘Sophie?’ cried Jack, as though he had been kicked. ‘Oh. Oh, yes - yes, of course. You called upon her.’ As an attempt at diverting his mind to happier thoughts, this was not a success. After a moment he said, ‘I am sorry, they are not here. I ran short again. For the time being, they are in Dover.’
‘Dover,’ said Stephen, and thought for a while, running the narwhal’s horn through his fingers. ‘Dover. Listen, Jack, you take insane risks, going ashore so often, particularly in Dover.’
‘Why particularly in Dover?’
‘Because your often presence there is notorious. If it is notorious to your friends, how much more so to your enemies? It is known in Whitehall; it must be known to your creditors in Mincing Lane. Do not look angerly now, Jack, but let me tell you three things: I must do so, as a friend. First, you will certainly be arrested for debt if you continue to go ashore. Second, it is said in the service that you cling to this station; and what harm that may do you professionally, you know better than I. No, let me finish. Third, have you considered how you expose Diana Villiers by your very open attentions, in circumstances of such known danger?’
‘Has Diana Villiers put herself under your protection? Has she commissioned you to say this to me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I do not see what right you have to speak to me in this way.’
‘Sure, Jack, my dear, I have the right of a friend, have I not? I will not say duty, for that smells of cant.’
‘A friend who wants a clear field, maybe. I may not be very clever, no God-damned Macchiavelli, but I believe I know a ruse de guerre when I see one. For a long time I did not know what to think about you and Diana Villiers first one thing and then another - for you are a devilish sly fox, and break back upon your line. But now I see the reason for this standing off and on, this “not at home”, and all this damned unkind treatment, and all this cracking-up of clever, amusing Stephen Maturin, who understands people and never preaches, whereas I am a heavy-handed fool that understands nothing. It is time we had a clear explanation about Diana Villiers, so that we may know where we stand.’
‘I desire no explanations. They are never of any use, particularly in matters of this kind, where what one might term sexuality is concerned - reason, flies out of the window; all candour with it. In any case, even where this passion is not concerned, language is so imperfect, that…’
‘Any bastard can cowardly evade the issue by a flood of words.’
‘You have said enough, sir,’ said Stephen, standing up. ‘Too much by far: you must withdraw.’
‘I shall not withdraw,’ cried Jack, very pale. ‘And I will add, that when a man comes back from leave as brown as a Gibraltar Jew, and says he had delicate weather in Ireland, he lies. I will stand by that, and I am perfectly willing to give you any satisfaction you may choose to ask for.’
‘It is odd enough,’ said Stephen, in a low voice, ‘that our acquaintance should have begun with a challenge, and that it should end with one.’
‘Dundas,’ he said, in the small room of the Rose and Crown, ‘how good of you to come so soon. I am sorry to say I must ask you to be my second. I tried to follow your excellent suggestion, but I mishandled it - I did not succeed. I should have seen he was in a state of unhappy passion, but I persisted untimely, and he called me a coward and a liar.’
Dundas’s face changed to one of horror. ‘Oh, that is very bad,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Lord.’ A long, unhappy pause. ‘No question of an apology, I suppose?’
‘None whatsoever. One word he did withdraw,’ - Captain Aubrey presents his compliments to Dr Maturin, and begs to say that an expression escaped him yesterday evening, a common expression to do with birth, that might have been taken to have a personal bearing. None was intended, and Captain Aubrey withdraws that word, at the same time regretting that, in the hurry of the moment, he made use of it. The other remarks he stands by - ‘but the gratuitous lie remains. It is not easy of digestion.’
