The Nutmeg of Consolation

  'They are not swallows at all,' he said, feeling not only indignant but deadly sick. He stepped aside into a bush: and then into a series of bushes, for the vomiting was succeeded by an imperative looseness.

  Stephen Maturin was not really an ill-natured man, but his was scarcely a jovial, sunny temperament, and sometimes disturbances of this kind rendered him morose or even worse. By the time he reached the camp he was perfectly ready to savage Killick. Killick knew him very well, however, and after one glance at his filthy jacket, his indecently bare head and the dangerous look in his pale eye silently fetched him a broad-brimmed sennit hat and said, 'Captain is just woke up, sir.'

  'My indignation against those birds was quite excessive,' said Stephen inwardly. 'It was no doubt caused by a sudden flow of bile, my posture exerting pressure on the ductus choledocus communis.'

  He stepped into the dispensary, mixed himself a draught, lay flat on his back for a while and then walked towards the tent, feeling somewhat better. He repeated 'Quite excessive'; yet even so, having received Jack's congratulations on the babirussa ('I am so glad: I was getting sick of those damned apes, even made into pasties'), he said 'As for those bird's-nest soup creatures, I am afraid I must tell you they are not true swallows at all, but only a dwarvish branch of the oriental swifts.'

  'Never be so put about, brother,' said Jack. 'What's in a name? So long as they make the right well-tasting kind of nest, it would be all one if they were called ostriches.'

  'Did you like them, at the Raffleses'?'

  'I thought they made a capital dish. It was a very pleasant evening altogether.'

  'Then perhaps we might take some in a few days' time. This is the season: the young are almost on the wing, and a little small thin midshipman like Reade or Harper could be lowered down the cleft on a rope, and collect half a dozen empty nests. And I must say I should like to net one or two of the birds, to examine their toes. But come, I have not asked you how the match went. Did we win?'

  'I am happy to say we all won. It was a draw. They made more runs than we did, but they could not manage to get Fielding and the bosun out before stumps were drawn. Fortunately we had Edwards as a neutral timekeeper, so there were no wry looks, no murmurs about flogging the glass; and we all triumphed.'

  'Certainly everyone looked very cheerful as I came through the camp; though the Dear knows it must have been a wearing form of sport, in this breathless heat. Even pacing slowly under the trees, I was all aswim, to say nothing of running about after a hard and wicked ball in the sultry glare, God forbid.'

  'Yet I am sure all hands will turn to the better for it tomorrow; I am sure I shall. And from the look of the sky we shall have an east wind. I hope so, indeed. There is a great deal of long-sawing to be done—exhausting work even with a breeze to take away the dust and let the bottom-sawyer breathe—but once we start planking her it will encourage the people amazingly, and we may le able to put to sea before St Famine's Day. Come down to the slip and I will show you what remains to be done.'

  The camp, with its ditch and earthwork trim again after the typhoon, was laid out after the fashion of a man-of-war, and to avoid disturbing the foremast hands who were sitting about talking outside their tents at the farther end of the rectangle Jack stepped on to the carriage of the brass nine-pounder dominating the seaward approach and jumped over, giving Stephen a hand. It was a fine gun, one of the much-loved pair that had gone overboard with the rest when they were lightening ship in an attempt at heaving her off the reef, and the only one to be found, wedged between the rocks, at low tide, by a fishing party: a very fine gun, but of less use than the two light carronades, even if there had been quantities of powder, because the single round-shot that was still in place when it was recovered was the only nine-pound ball they possessed.

  'Sir, sir!' called Captain Aubrey's two remaining lieutenants, gasping up the hill towards him. 'The midshipmen have caught a turtle, out by the point.'

  'Is it a true turtle, Mr Fielding?'

  'Well, sir, I trust it is, I am sure. But Richardson thinks it looks a little strange; and we hoped the Doctor would tell us if it could be ate.'

  They went sloping right-handed down the valley, skirting the mass of rock and earth which had slid down the hillside at the height of the typhoon—a mass in which some trees and bushes were still growing happily, others withering as they stood—across the dry bed of the watercourse the torrent had scooped out, providing them with a commodious building-slip, and out along the strand, almost to the place where the precious wreck had come ashore. The whole midshipmen's berth was there, all standing silent in the roar of the surf: two master's mates, the one midshipman proper (the other had been drowned), the two youngsters, the Captain's clerk and the assistant surgeon. Like the other officers they had changed out of their fine Sunday clothes; they were now in ragged trousers or breeches undone at the knees: some had no shirts to their nut-brown backs: no shoes of course: a poverty-stricken, hungry group, though cheerful.

  'Should you like to see my turtle, sir?' cried Reade from a hundred yards or more. His voice had not yet broken and it carried high above the sea's growl and thunder.

  'Your turtle, Mr Reade?' asked Jack, coming nearer.

  'Oh yes, sir. I saw him first.'

  In the Captain's presence Seymour and Bennett, the tall young master's mates who had turned the turtle, could do no more than exchange a look, but Reade, observing it, added, 'Of course, sir, the others helped a little.'

  They gazed for a while at the pitiful flippers swimming powerfully in the air. 'What do you think is wrong with the turtle, Mr Richardson?' asked Jack again.

  'I can hardly put my finger on it, sir,' said Richardson, 'but there is something about his mouth I do not quite like.'

  'The Doctor will set us all right,' said Jack, raising his voice over a triple crash of breakers: the ebb was well under way, and the rip-tide, combined with the current, was cutting the steady swell off the point into a series of chaotic cross-seas.

  'He is the green turtle, sure,' said Stephen equally loud in spite of his aching head but in quite a different pitch, higher, disagreeably metallic. 'And a very fine green turtle: two hundredweight, I should say. But he is a male, and of course his face is displeasing—he would be rejected on the London market—he would never do for an alderman.'

  'But is he edible, sir? Can he be ate? He ain't unwholesome? He is not like the soft purple fish you made us throw away?'

  'Oh, he may be a little coarse, but he will do you no harm. If you have any doubts, and Heaven knows I am not infallible, you may desire Mr Reade to eat some first and then watch him for a few hours. But in any event, I do beg you will take the animal's head off directly. I hate seeing them strive and suffer. I remember one ship where they had scores made fast on deck, and the creatures' eyes were red as cherries, unwatered by the sea. A friend and I went round sponging them.'

  Reade and Harper ran up to the camp for the carpenter's broad axe. Aubrey and Maturin walked back along the hard-beaten sand to the building-slip. 'That is a very horrid tide-race,' observed Jack, nodding out to sea: and then, 'Do you know, I very nearly said a good thing just now, about your cock and hen turtles. It was on the lines of sauce—sauce for the goose being sauce for the gander, you understand. But it would not quite take shape.'

  'Perhaps, my dear, it was just as well. A facetious lieutenant is good company, if he happens to be endowed with wit; a facetious commander among his equals, perhaps; but may not the post-captain who sets the quarterdeck in a roar conceivably lose some of his Jovian authority? Did Nelson crack jokes, at all?'

  'I never heard him, to be sure. He was nearly always cheerful, nearly always smiling—he once said to me "May I trouble you for the salt, sir?" in such a kind way that it was far better than wit. But I do not remember him making downright jokes. Perhaps I shall save my good things, when they happen, for you and Sophie.'

  They walked along in silence, Stephen regretting his unkind words, his remorse much
increased by the mildness of the response: he saw an unmistakable Philippine pelican overhead, but fearing that he might be even more of a bore with his birds than Jack with his puns, clenches and set pieces he did not point it out: besides his head was about to split.

  'But tell me,' he said at last, 'what did you mean by St Famine's Day? Here we have a boar of ten score and a two hundredweight turtle.'

  'Yes, it is charming: a little over a pound a head for two days, and that would be high living if there were ship's bread or even dried peas to go with it. But there ain't. I blame myself very much for not rousing out more biscuit, flour, salt beef and pork while there was yet time.'

  'Dear Jack, you could not foretell the typhoon; and the boats never ceased going to and fro.'

  'Yes, but it was the envoy's things that went first, and his followers'. Killick, God forgive him, privately shipped the silver in your skiff: it should have been dried peas. First things first: for as you have said yourself, the hogs are hardly to be found now, nor even the apes. We are six upon four already. There are almost no coconuts left, and fishing produces almost nothing safe to eat, but all that to one side: it is amazing how little food you absolutely need—you can keep going and work hard on old boots, leather belts and the most unlikely things if you are in spirits. No. When I speak of St Famine's Day I mean the day when I have to tell them there is no more tobacco and no more grog. You cannot believe how they hold to those two things. And that will be in less than a fortnight.'

  'Would you expect a mutiny?'

  'Mutiny in the sense of outright revolt and refusal of command? No. But from some of the people I expect muttering, discontent, ill-will; and nothing makes work slower or more inefficient or more unsafe than ill-will and its perpetual quarrels. It is horrible having to drive even half a resentful, sullen crew. Then again whenever a King's ship is lost there are always a few clever fellows who tell the rest that since the officers are commissioned to a particular ship they have no authority once that particular ship is gone. They also say the seaman's pay stops on the day of the wreck, so no service or obedience is due—the Articles of War no longer apply.'

  'Are these things true?'

  'Lord, no. They were once upon a time, but that was knocked on the head after the loss of the Wager in Anson's day. Still, a good many of the hands are quite willing to believe they are going to be done in the eye again; the service has a shocking reputation where pay and pensions are concerned.' At this point the level strand was broken by the bank of debris brought down by the torrential rain: they climbed it, and there below, in the natural slip, lay the schooner, as neat an anatomy of a vessel as could be wished. 'There,' cried Jack. 'Ain't you amazed?'

  'Extremely so,' said Stephen, closing his eyes.

  'I thought you would be,' said Jack, nodding and smiling. 'It must be two or even three days since you saw her, and since then we have reached not only the fashion-pieces but the transoms and ribbands. There are only the counters, and then we start planking.'

  'The counters, indeed?'

  'Yes. Let me explain. You see the stern-post, of course. The fashion-pieces rise on either side, and then curving out from them you see the counter-timbers . . .' Jack Aubrey spoke with great animation; he and Mr Hadley the carpenter were particularly proud of this elegant stern; but his enthusiasm led him to go on rather long, and in too great detail about the rabbets and the cant-frames.

  Stephen was obliged to interrupt him. 'Forgive me, Jack,' he said; and turning aside he was extremely sick.

  Few things could have been more disconcerting. Dr Maturin, no mere surgeon but a physician, possessed a perfect command of health, other people's and of course his own: disease had no hold on him: he had undergone antarctic cold and equatorial heat with equal immunity, he had nursed a whole ship's company through a murderous outbreak of gaol-fever quite unscathed, he treated yellow fever, plague and smallpox as fearlessly as the common cold; and here he was as pale as an ostrich-egg.

  Jack led him gently up the hill. 'It is only a passing fit,' said Stephen. And then, as they approached the earthwork, 'I believe I shall sit here and get my breath again.' This he did, in the corner of the camp where the gunner and one of his mates were turning a meagre sand-castle of gunpowder on a piece of sailcloth. 'Well, Mr White,' he said, 'how are you coming along?'

  Both gunner and mate stopped their work, turned towards him, leaning on their wooden shovels, and shook their heads. 'Well, sir,' said White in his usual shattering roar, 'I boiled out the peter from the ruined barrels, like I said, and it crystallized and mixed and ground down quite pretty with a little old piss, as we say. But will it dry in this cruel wet air? No, sir, it will not. Not even in the sun. Not even if we turn it ever so.'

  'I think we shall have a wind in the east tomorrow, Master Gunner,' said Jack, so quietly that the gunner stared. 'Then you will have no trouble.' He took Stephen's elbow, heaved him up, led him to their tent, and sent a boy running for Macmillan, the assistant surgeon.

  'The Doctor looked wholly pale,' said the gunner, staring still.

  He was looking paler by far when Macmillan arrived. The young man was fond of his chief, but even after so long a voyage in such very close proximity he was still in great awe of him and now he was sadly at a loss. Having made the usual gestures—tongue, pulse and so on—he said very diffidently, 'May I suggest twenty drops of the alcoholic tincture of opium, sir?'

  'No, sir, you may not,' cried Stephen with surprising vehemence. He had been very deeply addicted to the drug for years and years, reaching such monstrous doses that they hardly bear repetition, and suffering in due proportion when he gave it up. 'But,' he added when the pain of his own cry had died away, 'as you will have perceived there is an increasing febrility, and our best course is no doubt bark, steel, saline enemata, rest and above all quiet. True quietness, as you know very well, is not to be expected in a camp full of sailors; but balls of wax provide something not unlike it. They are behind the balm of Gilead.'

  When Macmillan came back with all these things Stephen said to him, 'There will of course be no true physical effect for some time; and in the meanwhile it is possible that I shall grow light-headed. I am aware of a rapid increase in the fever and already there is a slight inclination to wandering fancies, disconnected thoughts, hallucination—the first hint of delirium. Be so good as to pass me three coca leaves from the box in my breeches pocket and sit as comfortably as you can on the folded sail.' Having chewed the leaves for some time he went on, 'One of the miseries of medical life is that on the one hand you know what shocking things can happen to the human body and on the other you know how very little we can really do about most of them. You are therefore denied the comfort of faith. Many and many a time have we seen patients in real distress declare themselves much relieved after a draught of some nauseous but wholly neutral liquid or a sugared pill of common flour. This cannot, or should not, happen with us.'

  Each retired into his memory, recalling cases where in fact it had happened; sometimes, perhaps, in his own person; and presently Stephen said 'But I will tell you another misery that is not to be denied. In the common, natural course of events physicians, surgeons and apothecaries are faced with enormous demands for sympathy: they may come into immediate contact with half a dozen deeply distressing cases in a single day. Those who are not saints are in danger of running out of funds and becoming bankrupt; a state which deprives them of a great deal of their humanity. If the man is in private practice he is obliged to utter more or less appropriate words to preserve his connexion, his living; and the mere adoption of a compassionate face as you have no doubt observed goes some little way towards producing at least the ghost of pity. But our patients cannot leave us. They have no alternative. We are not required to put on a conciliating expression, for our inhumanity in no way affects our livelihood. We have a monopoly; and I believe that many of us pay a very ugly price for it in the long run. You must already have met a number of callous idle self-important self-indulgent
hard-hearted pragmatic brutes wherever the patients have no free choice: and if you remain in the Navy you will meet a great many more.'