Desolation Island

  'Louisa Wogan: I was made aware (so little do I know myself) of a certain tenderness shall I say, or warmth, that had grown up in our relationship, by its extinction after the appearance of her lover. Nothing harsh, oh not at all; only an absence of something that is hardly to be defined. When she had no ally whatsoever in this grim floating self-contained and noisome world, she naturally clung to what offered, and tried by very pretty ways to improve her hold. The extinction is only temporary, I believe, since she can see but little of her lover, little of anyone except her maid (and Mrs Wogan has no more use for women's company than had Diana Villiers): I must therefore pay attention. There are intolerably fatuous coxcombs who protest that women pursue them: they meet with nothing but deserved contempt and disbelief. Yet something not wholly dissimilar may occur and for some time past I have been aware that an advance on my part would not be too cruelly resented. Furthermore, deep stirrings within my own person are by no means absent: a consequence of my abstention, opium in all its forms being an antaphrodisiac, counteracting venereal desire. Does not duty require that I should resume? In moderation of course and by no means as an indulgence, but rather as part of a process of inquiry, in which a clear, chaste mind is essential. A very devilish suggestion.

  'In these cases, we read, a man causes mortal offence by refusing. It may be so, but it is outside my experience; and I am bound to remember that all tales of this nature are told by men, who love to impute a masculine appetite and urgency to the other sex. Myself I doubt it: did the dark-haired Sappho hate her Phaon? In any event, none of this can apply to me. I am no Phaon, no golden youth, but a potentially useful ally, a source of present material comfort, some slight guarantee for the future; at the highest, a not disagreeable companion where no other can be found. Yet there is, I flatter myself, a certain real liking: of no vast magnitude, to be sure, but enough for me to feel that she would not have to put too much constraint upon herself, would not betray her principles, in admitting me to her bed. For it seems to me that she is a woman to whom these sports are of no great consequence, but may be indulged in for pleasure, for friendship or kindness, and even, where a minimum of liking is present, for interest. With such women sexual fidelity has as little meaning as the act has significance: one might as well require them to drink wine with one man alone. This attitude is much condemned, I know; they are called whores, and other ill-sounding names; in this case I do not find it affects my liking.' He paused, looking at the folder Sir Joseph had sent after him, and continued: 'She has had three principal liaisons, I see: one with G. Hammond, the member for Halton, a friend of Horne Tooke and himself a literary man; one with the wealthy Burdett; and another with the even wealthier Breadalbane, apart from that with the lay lord of the Admiralty which led to the present situation. At one point a certain Michael is mentioned as a secretary: presumably Herapath. The liaisons tolerably well known, but her reputation preserved, at least to the extent of her continuing to frequent Lady Conynghame and Lady Jersey, to whom she no doubt owed her acquaintance with Diana. At one time there was a somewhat nebulous Mr Wogan, of Baltimore, attached first to Mr Jay's mission and then to another in St Petersburg, where he may yet remain. Has published a comedy, The Distressed Lovers, under the name of John Doe, and a volume of poems, Thoughts on liberty, by a Lady. Why, why did Blaine not find me copies? Nothing betrays a man like his book. Means of support unknown: irregular remittances from Philadelphia: considered an unsound risk by Morgan and Levy and the principal London money-lenders: presumably combines the higher prostitution with intelligence.'

  A more than usually thunderous din made his ink-horn tremble. He thrust his balls of wax still deeper into his ears, but it was no use. The Leopard's last boat-loads of water were coming aboard, the great casks plunging from the main-hatch into her bowels and there rolling to their place, growling as they went, ton after ton ranged in the echoing hold, bung up and bilge free. At the same time her people prepared to unmoor, and shortly after the last boat had been hoisted in, her eighteen-inch cables began to fill the tiers, bringing with them a great deal of water and the distinctive smell of Porto Praya ooze, which at least made a change in the stagnant fetor of the orlop. Few naval operations are carried out in silence, and now the tierers worked with a rhythmic howl, interspersed with oaths, while the fifer on the capstan-head blew with all his might, and the hands at the bar were encouraged to 'stamp and go, stamp and go' by men with brazen lungs: orders echoed from the quarterdeck and the forecastle, and above all an enormous voice cried passionately, 'Will you light along those—nippers, there?' There was indeed far more noise than usual, since all Jack's care had not kept the hands from the distillery; and while many of them were partly dazed, others were so elevated that they grew jocose, tripping their mates, adopting antic postures, affecting lameness or even palsy, and laughing immoderately.

  Yet eventually the clamour died away, and when Stephen came on deck he found all the visible Leopards but six busy coiling down, fishing the anchors, and clearing away: the six lay in the lee gangway, and a swabber phlegmatically directed a hose upon them, while his companions worked the head-pump. The sober Leopards had made sail; the topgallants had been sheets home an hour ago and the little town was far astern: overhead white clouds moved steadily south-west across a deep blue sky; the air was warm but brisk, most gratefully fresh after the sheltered anchorage; and as he gazed about he saw the first tropic-bird of their voyage, gleaming white in the sun: the yellow-billed tropic-bird, clipping fast away to the south with strong quick strokes, its long tail stiff behind. He watched it out of sight, and walked forward to the convicts' sickbay.

  It smelt strongly of the vinegar with which he had had it washed; the fresh white paint made it fairly light; it was as clean as the swabber's art could make it; and pure sea-air came down through the wind-sail. The patients were still much the same: three men in a low fever, with grave prostration, a weak thready intermittent pulse, fetid breath, severe headache, contracted pupils. The same disease was on all three: but what disease? Its course was following no description that he or Martin or the Phoebe's two surgeons had ever read. Yet as he leant over them, watching intently, he felt that the fever would soon declare itself, that the crisis was not far distant, and that in a little while he would not only know his enemy but have the power of bringing all his allies into action. 'Carry on with the slime-draughts, Soames,' he said to the attendant, and stepped aft to the other bay. The only man there, apart from Herapath, was his old shipmate Jackruski, a Pole, in a deep alcoholic coma once again. 'How their bodies stand it,' he said, 'I cannot tell. I can but suppose that sea-air, one solid meal a day, more or less continual damp, heavy labour, no more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep at a time, and that taken in such a tight packed crowd of unwashed sweating bodies as would be thought severe in a Dublin doss-house, must be what the human frame in fact requires to keep it thoroughly robust; and that our notions of hygiene are quite fallacious. Herapath, how do you do?'

  'Far better, sir, I thank you,' said Herapath.

  Stephen peered into his eyes, felt his head and took his pulse, and said, 'Show me your hands. Still more raw flesh than undamaged skin, I see. You will have to wear mittens, when you hale upon a rope again: canvas mittens, until the horny integument shall have had time to grow. Will you take off your shirt, now? You are strangely emaciated, Herapath, and must put on some flesh before you return to your labours: our diet may not be delicate, but it is wholesome, and as you see, men may thrive with nothing else. It will never do, to be over-nice. A proud stomach will not answer, Herapath.'

  'No, sir,' said Herapath, and he murmured something about 'biscuit excellent—he ate any amount of biscuit, when off duty' before saying, 'Might I beg you to advise me, sir?' Stephen gave him a questioning, noncommittal look, and he went on, 'I should like to thank the Captain for taking me from the water. But I do not know whether I should address him through my immediate superior, nor whether it would be proper at all—I am at a loss.' r />
  'In service matters, the first lieutenant, Mr Pullings, would be the intermediary, I believe: yet since your relationship with the Captain was in the ocean, rather than aboard, and was therefore that of one private person with another, it seems to me that a direct acknowledgement on your part would be perfectly proper. And if, as I suppose, that note is intended for the Captain, I will undertake to be your messenger.'

  Carrying the note, Stephen unlocked Mrs Wogan, and, roaring above the din of the carpenter's crew nailing sheet-tin to the outside of her cabin, stated that if she were at leisure, he proposed attending her to the poop. He noticed that she looked less composed than usual, and that there was a singular tension on the silent quarterdeck as they made their way across it. A small awning had been rigged for her, and as its shade fell amidships, there she took her paces walking round and round the cabin skylight. After a while she said hesitantly, 'I hope your patient is doing well, sir?'

  Which patient, ma'am?'

  'The young man with long curling hair; the young man the Captain saved so heroically when he fell into the sea.'

  'Young Icarus? I never noticed that his hair curled. Oh, he comes along, sure: only a few ribs stove, and what are a few ribs? We all have four and twenty, whatever Genesis may say. We shall pull him through this awkward pass; but sometimes I fear that we shall do so only to see him deperish from mere inanition and want of nourishment—such a waste of all our effort. That reminds me, I have a note from him to the Captain. Pray forgive me.'

  He walked down the poop ladder to the cabin door, but there the Marine sentry stopped him: only Captain Moore could be received at present. He returned in time to point out another tropic-bird, and he was speaking with some warmth of their nesting-habits when below them the sentry clashed his musket, opened the door, and cried, 'Captain Moore, sir.'

  'Captain Moore,' said Jack, 'I have sent for you because it has come to my knowledge that certain officers have seen fit to disobey my express orders, and to attempt to enter into communication with the female prisoner abaft the cable-tiers.'

  Moore's face flushed as red as his coat and then turned whitey-yellow. 'Sir,' he said.

  'You are aware of the consequences of disobedience to orders, Captain Moore, I believe . . .'

  'Perhaps we had better move away,' said Mrs Wogan. But it was no use: Jack Aubrey's strong voice, though inaudible on the quarterdeck because of the intervening sleeping and dining cabins, came up through the skylight and pervaded the whole poop.

  '. . . furthermore,' the awful voice went on, 'one of your subalterns has endeavoured to bribe the armourer to make him a key to her cabin.'

  'Oh!' cried Mrs Wogan.

  '. . . if this criminal state of affairs is the result of one month's sailing with that infernal woman, what will it be like by the end of a voyage of half a year or more? What have you to say, Captain Moore?'

  Very diffidently, very tentatively, Captain Moore mentioned the sudden warmth of the tropics—they would soon get used to it—and the very large quantities of fresh meat, and lobsters, at St Jago.

  'I am weighing in my mind,' said Captain Aubrey, dismissing the heat, the beef, and the lobsters with a wave of his hand, 'whether it may not be my duty to return to St Jago, to set these unreliable people ashore, and continue the voyage with those who can exercise some mastery over their passions.'

  'Such as your Turk, for example,' murmured Stephen, aside.

  'There is no shadow of a doubt that any court-martial, upon the view of my order-book, signed by all the officers in question, would break them instantly: there is no possible defence—a plain order has been given, and it has been disobeyed. Still, I am unwilling to break men for what may have been a lunatic whim. But I tell you, Captain Moore,' said Jack with a shocking cold ferocity, 'that I will not have my ship run like a bawdy-house: I will have a taut ship. I will have my orders obeyed. And if there is the least hint of recurrence, by God I shall break them without mercy. Now, sir, if there are any of your men who understand what orders mean, after this disgraceful exhibition on the part of their officers, be so good as to have a sentry posted at the lady's door. And pray tell Mr Howard that I wish to see him at once.'

  Howard did not last long. Having got wind of this affair long before the sleeping Captain Moore, he had been preparing for the interview for an hour at least: he was double-shaved, his uniform was speckless, his stock as tight as a stock can be; and he had swallowed four glasses of brandy and water. What he had to say did not reach the poop, but its nature could be surmised from Jack's explosive 'Contemptible, sir, contemptible! The most disgraceful mean shuffling ungentlemanly defence I have ever heard in my life. The most infernal sneaking scrub ever whelped in a gutter would be ashamed . . . Killick, Killick there,' pealing on his bell, 'Call the sentry and carry Mr Howard away. He is took ill. And pass the word for Mr Babbington.'

  Babbington received the expected summons, cast a pitiful look at Pullings, licked his lips, looking absurdly like his anxious, apprehensive dog, and stepped aft, quite bowed.

  But Babbington was executed in the stern-gallery, where the overhang muted the sound; and the Leopard being close-hauled to weather Fogo, even those muted notes were borne away by the wind.

  'The smoke over there,' said Stephen, 'is Fogo, the volcano.'

  'Dear me,' said Mrs Wogan, 'how very shocking.' She paused, and said, 'So now I have seen a volcano, as well as having heard one.' This reference was contrary to their tacitly agreed rules of intercourse, but Mrs Wogan was clearly upset, and she showed this a moment later by the ineptitude of her return, to Herapath. 'So your patient can read and write? Surely that is unusual in a common sailor?'

  Stephen considered for a while. Although she had uttered this with a creditable air of detached curiosity, its timing was wretchedly ill-judged, and he was inclined to make her pay for her want of professional skill. Yet he was feeling benign, and she had just been called that infernal woman, together with several other disobliging names, so he replied, 'He is not a common sailor. He appears to be a young man of good family and of a certain education who has run away to sea because of some misfortune or distress, presumably of an erotical nature. Perhaps he has run from an unkind mistress.'

  'What a romantic thought. But if he is shot of the lady, why should he perish away? People do not die of love, you know.'

  'Do they not, ma'am? I have known them brought pretty low, however, and to take to mighty strange courses, ruin their happiness, career, prospects, reputation, honour, estate, and wits, break with their families and their friends, run mad. But in this case, I fear he may perish away not so much from a wounded heart, as from an empty belly. You cannot conceive the promiscuity of the seaman's life, nor its total lack of privacy. The seamen, upon the whole, are a very decent set of men; but to one bred up in a different way of life, their company can be strangely burdensome. What they eat, for example, and their way of eating it—the noise, the open-mouthed champing, the primitive gestures, the borborygmus, the belching, the roaring jocularity, the—I will spare you many aspects, but I assure you that to an educated man, who has no very robust vital principle, who knows nothing of the sea except perhaps the Dover packet, who has lived retired, and who has been much reduced by unhappiness, all these things together can bring about a morbid state, an anorexy; and he may literally starve in the midst of plenty. Poor Herapath—for Herapath is his name—is already skin and bone. I feed him up with my portable soup, and the Captain sent him a chicken from his table; but I look to see him buried, bone alone, before he can came to relish . . . The bell! The bell! Come, there is not a moment to be lost.'

  The Marine sentry was already on the door, and it was therefore in a very low voice that Mrs Wogan said, 'Having been present at the young man's rescue, I feel a certain interest in him. I have vast quantities of stores. May I beg you to be so humane as to allow me to send him this canister of Naples biscuits, and a tongue?'

  Stephen returned to the cabin, and this time he was admitted.
He found Jack looking old and tired. 'I have had a damned unpleasant afternoon, Stephen,' he said. 'How it does take it out of you, being angry. Those lecherous sodomites have been sending Mrs Wogan billets doux, bribing people right, left and centre—cannot keep their breeches on, the hounds. And this evening I shall beat the oldsters, the whole after-cockpit. No dry flogging, neither. Seized to that gun, and a hearty score or so on the bare breech. God rot them all. Would you believe it, Stephen? They bored holes in the bulkhead of her cabin, and stood there in rows, to see her in her shift. Oh, the odious wench. How I wish I were rid of her. I have always loathed women, from clew to earing; hook, line and sinker; root and branch. I always said this would happen, you remember; I was against it from the start. Damn her for a flibbertigibbet, the hussy. Without her we would be sailing along as sweet as—' for the moment nothing typically sweet occurred to his mind, so he added 'swans' in an angry growl. 'God-damned swans.'

  'Here is a note for you from Herapath.'

  'Eh? Oh, Herapath: yes. Thankee. Forgive me.' He read it, smiled and said, 'Very prettily put. Could not have put it prettier myself. The civilest line I ever had from anyone I pulled out: wrote pretty, too; an elegant hand. Well, I take that very kindly. He shall have another fowl. Killick! God damn that stone-deaf Beelzebub. Killick, there's a cold fowl left, ain't there? Send it along to Herapath, in the sickbay. Can he take a little wine, Stephen? No wine, Killick: but rouse out a bottle of sherry for us.'