Stephen Maturin, worn limp as an old and dirty pair of stockings after countless hours of negotiation, mostly in Slavonic languages that he understood no more than Turkish and that had to be translated, all in a stifling atmosphere, with people playing shawms outside to prevent the possibility of eavesdropping—shawms in no key known to him or range of intervals—had lain flat on his cot the moment he reached it, plunging instantly into a stupor rather than a Christian sleep.
From this his body leapt up at the first prodigious crash, leaving its wits behind it: and when the two came together he found that he was sitting by the door, his body as tense as a frightened cat's. Understanding and recollection came with the next roaring broadside; he recognized his dimly-lit surroundings and groped his way on deck.
He arrived for the Frenchman's next reply. Above the smoke the whole low arch of the sky was brilliantly lit—the Algerine merchantmen could be seen frantically making sail, innumerable lights on shore running about, the whole city clear in a momentary blaze of light.
Surprise drew ahead and now it was Pomone's turn, her eighteen-pounders making an even more shocking din, improbably loud: again and again, on both sides, the almost simultaneous flashes lit the sky—astonished sea-birds could be seen, flying in a wild, uncertain fashion.
'Well, Doctor,' said the Commodore, just beside him, 'I am afraid you had but a short nap of it: but we shall soon have done—Mr Woodbine, I believe we may go about.' And aside to Stephen, as the bosun piped All hands about ship, 'There is that big Kutali xebec, flying in a state of dreadful concern, as though this were the end of the world, ha, ha.'
'It sounds very like it, and looks very like it,' said Stephen, and he muttered, '. . . solvet saeclum in favilla.'
Now they were on the other tack, running gently down the side of Cerbère: it was the turn of the larboard guns and this time they were so close that some of the Frenchman's smouldering wads came aboard, to be put out with a great deal of laughter, and indignant, often very cross cries of 'Silence, fore and aft' from the midshipmen.
Yet another tack, yet another apocalyptic series of shattering broadsides—renewed screeching, howling and running about on shore—distant drums and trumpets, church bells ringing—and having given the order to reload with right cartridge and ball, and to house the guns, Jack carried straight on, shaping a course for the Canale di Spalato, followed by Cerbère and Pomone, with Ringle under his lee. He called for stern-lanterns and top-lights, desiring Mr Harding to dismiss the starboard watch once courses had been set, and went below himself, ludicrously walking on tiptoe. In the cabin—the bed-place—that they had shared for so many years, he found Stephen, not dead asleep—far from it—but writing.
'I hope I do not interrupt you,' he said.
'Not at all. I am only setting down a succinct account of my conversation in Spalato with certain organizations for the benefit of the Admiral's intelligence officer in Malta; and as soon as it is done, my duty, as I see it, is to go to Algiers as fast as ship will fly.'
'What do you think we should do?'
'Obviously I cannot dictate to a Commodore; but as far as the single aim of defeating this intervention by Bonapartist mercenaries, this potentially "extremely dangerous intervention" as the Secretary of State put it, I think we should run down the coast, looking attentively into the yards that contain vessels in any state of forwardness—and then as soon as we have examined Durazzo, straight away for Algiers, keeping the sharpest possible watch for a houario between Pantellaria and Kelibia. Then, it being assumed that we do not catch the vessel, I should go on in Ringle to dissuade the Dey from carrying the promised treasure across, while you remain, a very present threat on the horizon, a powerful, famous frigate, seen by all shipping that comes and goes.'
'No Pomone?'
'Her eighteen-pounders are very well, but this is no longer a matter of direct physical strength. We have already dealt with the two dangerous heavy frigates and I have—at enormous expense, I may say—set in train a series of measures that will rid us of several smaller but still dangerous vessels repairing or nearing completion—brigs-of-war, corvettes, three gunboats. Letting Pomone return to Malta with her companion seems to me a master-stroke.'
Jack considered. 'Very well,' he said. 'We shall do as you say. As soon as you have finished your account I will send it across to Pomone, who will carry it to Valetta.'
A violent ten-minute downpour had cleared the sky without much deadening the prosperous topgallant breeze: day was breaking fair and clear in the east and looking southward at his companions he saw that Cerbère had hoisted the French royal ensign. 'Mr Rodger,' he said to the signal midshipman, 'to Ringle: Send a boat aboard pennant, if you please.'
The young man had seen much great-gun exercise, but he had never been in anything so very like action as this and he was still at least three parts deaf, as well as stupid from lack of sleep. Jack repeated the words somewhat louder, but the grizzled yeoman had heard the first time and he had the hoist not exactly ready, but clearly evident.
'Stephen,' said Jack, 'I do not mean to hurry you in the least, but as soon as you have finished a boat will carry it to Pomone. Shall I send word too, stating our aims?'
'It might be as well: just "it has been agreed that . . ." Yours will be a separate cover.' He drew the candle towards himself, melted wax, and sealed his brief account: as a matter of course he wrapped it in oiled silk, thrust the whole into a sailcloth pocket, sealed that too, and passed it over.
'I wonder that so fumble-fisted a companion can be as neat as a seamstress when it comes to parcels: or opening your belly, for that matter,' reflected Jack, watching him.
'Use makes master,' observed Stephen.
'I never said a word,' cried Jack. 'I was as mute as a swan.'
Ringle's boat came alongside. The young officer received the parcel reverentially, and Jack put his ship about, heading back to the coast with the wind two points free, followed by the Ringle. As they passed those bound for Malta they exchanged greetings, some formal, others, from the open gunports, facetious and even bawdy. The Commodore had it in mind to observe an already ancient naval tradition and throw out a signal consisting of book, chapter and verse: 'Oh that my words were now written, oh, that they were printed in a book' was the quotation that had been addressed to him in the Baltic by Admiral Gambier when he was very slow with a return of stores; but before he could think of the references, a truly heavenly smell of coffee and kippered herrings wafted along the quarterdeck.
'Mr Rodger,' he said to the signal midshipman, 'should you care to breakfast in the cabin?'
'Oh yes, sir, if you please.'
'My compliments to Mr Harding, and should be happy if he were to join us.'
It was a cheerful breakfast, and copious, as Jack Aubrey's breakfasts always were whenever he was anywhere near a civilized shore; and his present cook Franklin was an old Mediterranean hand, with a genius at shopping in lingua franca, gestures, and cheerful repetition growing louder and louder until the poor foreigner (Dalmatian in this case) understood. The kippers had of course been brought from home, but the perfectly fresh eggs, butter, cream and veal cutlets were from the island of Brazza itself and the new sack of true Mocha from a friendly Turkish ship encountered off the Bocche di Cattaro.
Harding had been in the Adriatic with Hoste in 1811, serving as second in Active, 38, and since they could now see the island of Lissa through the stern windows, on the starboard quarter, with very little prompting he gave a vivid account of that famous action, one of the few frigate-battles of the war, with ten of them engaged, besides smaller vessels, illustrating the movements of the squadrons with pieces of crust.
Breakfast was necessarily late that day and the very exact account of an engagement with so many ships in constant motion made it later still. Favorite had only just run aground in shocking confusion when a midshipman came in, and begging the Commodore's pardon, asked if he might tell Dr Maturin that Dr Jacob would like to speak to him.
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'I hope not to be a moment,' said Stephen. 'I would not miss a single manoeuvre.'
'Have I done wrong in calling you?' asked Jacob. 'I thought you would like to see the first results of our conversations in Spalato.' In the bright sun flames could not be seen to full advantage, but the great trail of smoke drifting west-north-west was very eloquent. 'Bertolucci's yard, of course,' said Jacob. 'It had half-completed Néréide, a . . . what is smaller than a frigate?'
'A corvetto.'
'Just so: a corvetto. The men have not been paid these three weeks and more . . . I believe I see French sailors trying to put the fire out.'
'Should you like to climb into that platform up there, with a perspective glass?'
'Not at all, not at all. Besides, there are our morning rounds, and it is already late. Surely you have not forgotten young Mr Daniel, your guardian spirit?'
So practised a body of men as the Surprises could ordinarily fire a rapid series of broadsides without doing themselves much harm, but this time, almost entirely because of levity and mirth, there were three or four hands in the sick-berth, some from rope-burns as they tried to check the gun's recoil, and some from getting in the way of the carriage itself. The exception was John Daniel, the only true casualty: Captain Delalande, like his opponent, preferred that his gunfire, however formal, should make a great deal of noise, and he too had the charge rammed home with wooden disks. One of these, flying out ahead of the wad, had struck poor Daniel in the chest, breaking his collar-bone and making a great livid bruise.
Stephen had certainly not forgotten him; but later in the morning, with all the patients dressed, bandaged and treated (in Daniel's case with a comfortable dose of laudanum), he was glad to be able to make his way into the maintop unescorted as the frigate ran (or rather crept, the breeze dying on them) between Sabbioncello and Meleda.
Papadopoulos' yard on the one and Pavelic's on the other had already been destroyed: only a little smoke rose from the sail- and rigging-lofts, ropewalks and blackened hulls. He stared fixedly at the southern end of Sabbioncello, where according to his list there was a small yard belonging to one Boccanegra: but as Boccanegra, a Sicilian, had a father-inlaw of importance among the Carbonari and their sometimes very curious allies, Stephen was not sure that his yard was part of the bargain. He stared with increasing intensity as the frigate moved gently across the placid Adriatic, focusing and refocusing Jack's telescope, some remote part of his mind was aware of the striking of eight bells, the assembly of officers making the noon observation, the cheerful sound of hands being piped to dinner; and then at one bell the fife's squeaking out the expected but still very welcome news that grog was ready.
The cheers and the beating of wooden plates on messtables that greeted its arrival were still quite audible from far below when a nervous ship's boy in a bright blue jacket, nominally Dr Maturin's servant, nipped into the top and said, 'Oh sir, if you please . . . oh, sir, if you please . . . which Mr Killick bids me remind you that the Commodore, his honour, is to dine in the gun-room and you are all filthy. Which he has powdered your best wig.'
'Thank you, Peter; you may tell him that you have delivered the message,' said Stephen. He looked at his hands. 'Not as who should say filthy,' he murmured. 'But it is true I had forgotten.'
Although he led Peter a hard life, Killick had not yet recovered the power, consequence or esteem that had been his before he broke the horn, nor anything like it, either in the cabin or on the lower deck, he could still point out, in a tolerably shrewish voice, that the gentlemen were all assembled, that they were only waiting for the Commodore, and that Dr Maturin's clean breeches, his brushed best coat, and his newly-powdered wig were on that there chair: there was not time to more than just sponge his face in this here warm basin and how did he manage to get into such a pickle? 'We shall never do it in the time, oh dear, oh . . . dear.'
They did do it in the time, however, and five or even ten seconds before the Commodore walked in, Stephen was already in his place between Whewell and the master, his servant behind his chair, and Dr Jacob opposite him. They exchanged a calm, unconscious look as the door opened and the Commodore walked in. Everybody stood up.
'Be seated, gentlemen; I beg,' cried Jack. 'I was so very nearly late that I do not deserve such courtesy. For one who tends to cry up timeliness more than faith, hope or charity it is a very shocking performance. Absurdly enough, I was looking for my glass: I looked in every conceivable place—no glass. But here is consolation'—draining his admirable sherry.
A chill fell upon Stephen's heart: without leave he had taken the telescope, and slinging it about his neck in a seamanlike or fairly seamanlike fashion, had carried it up into the maintop. And there, shocked by Peter's news, he had left it, lying on a neat heap of studdingsails. To cover his guilt he said, 'We often hear of people calling their daughters Faith, Hope, Charity, or even Prudence; but never Justice, Fortitude or Temperance; nor yet Punctuality, though I am sure it has its charms.' He helped himself to soup, and the talk flowed on. Nobody said anything particularly witty or profound or really memorable for foolishness but it was agreeable, friendly conversation, accompanied by acceptable food and more than acceptable wine.
When they had drunk the loyal toast Stephen excused himself: there 'was something he had forgotten', he told the president, avoiding Jacob's eye. There was indeed: but he had completely overlooked the difficulty, for those unrelated to the more nimble kind of ape, of climbing in tight breeches, buckled shoes, and a fine long-tailed coat. In his hurry he slipped again and again, for the ship, now almost becalmed in the lee of a headland, was rolling, wallowing, in a very disgraceful and uncharacteristic fashion. Sometimes he hung by both hands, writhing to get his feet back onto the ratlines, sometimes by one. He was in this ludicrous posture, much disturbed in his mind, when Bonden came racing up the shrouds, seized him with an iron grasp, wheeled him round to the outboard side and at his faint, wheezing request, propelled him into the top, where he gave him the buckled shoe that had dropped on deck. He asked no questions, he gave no advice; but he did look very thoughtfully at the Commodore's telescope: he was, after all, Jack Aubrey's coxswain.
'Barret Bonden,' said Stephen, when he had recovered his breath, 'I am very much obliged to you indeed. Deeply obliged, upon my word. But you need not mention that telescope to the Commodore. I am about to carry it down to him myself, and explain . . .'
'Why,' cried the Commodore, heaving his powerful frame over the top-brim, 'there's my glass. I had been looking for it everywhere.'
'I am so sorry—I should not have made you uneasy for the world—thank you, Bonden, for your very timely help: please be so good as to tell Dr Jacob that I may be a few minutes late for our appointment.' When Bonden had disappeared, Stephen went on, 'That dear good fellow gave me a hand when a hand was extraordinarily welcome: I found breeches and shoes a sad embarrassment. The truth is . . .' He hesitated for a moment. 'The truth is,' he went on with more conviction, 'that there was something on the shore that interested me extremely: I could not be certain of the object without bringing it closer, so seeing your glass on its usual peg, and you not being in the way, I took the perhaps unwarrantable liberty of seizing it and running aloft as fast as my powers would admit; and upon my soul it was worth the journey. And, although it is scarcely decent in me to say so, the liberty.'
All this time—and it was not inconsiderable, for diffidence reduced Maturin's ordinarily rapid canter to a hobbling walk with frequent pauses—Jack had been examining his precious telescope, one of Dollond's achromatic masterpieces, with a jealous eye: but finding it quite undamaged he said, 'Well, I am glad you saw your object. A double-headed Dalmatian eagle, I make no doubt.'
'Do you see the blur of smoke over the headland, somewhat to the left?'
'Yes. It looks as if they were burning the furze on the far side: though spring is an odd time of year to be doing so. Cape San Giorgio, I believe. Have you noticed how foreigners can never get English names qu
ite right?'
'Poor souls: yet I hope this name, though distorted, may be a good omen. On the far side of that little projection lies the village of Sopopeia, with its chalybeate springs; and in a deep, sheltered inlet let us say a furlong south of it, the shipyard of Simon Macchabe, a sordid wretch, but one who was building a gunboat until his unpaid hands laid down their tools. I believe they burnt the yard some hours ago, and this wafting smoke, much diminished since first I saw it, rises only from the calcined ashes.'
He was by no means sure how Jack would take this form of warfare, and when the ship rounded the cape, opening Macchabe's creek, whose dismal blackened ruins Jack surveyed through his glass with his closest attention before closing it and saying, 'Whewell saw a newly-burned yard on the coast of Curzola. It was not on our list, but that one over there is, and at this point I should have looked into it, sending Ringle or the boats if necessary.'
'In the nature of things you would have burnt the half-finished gunboat in that event. Even if we had time to spare, which we have not, most certainly not, such a miserable prize would not have been worth the while. Jack, I must tell you in your private ear that we have some allies ashore, rather curious allies, I admit, who look after these operations: I hope and trust that you will see many another yard burnt or burning before we reach Durazzo. I am aware that this is not your kind of war, brother: it is not glorious. Yet as you see, it is effective.'
'Do not take me for a bloody-minded man, Stephen, a death-or-glory swashbuckling cove. Believe me, I had rather see a first-rate burnt to the waterline than a ship's boy killed or mutilated.' Leaning over the rail he called down orders that took the frigate away from the land. 'Let us go down and look at Christy-Pallière's list with your additions,' he said. 'And may I beg you to unbuckle your breeches at the knee, leave your coat on those stunsails for the boy to bring down, and lower yourself through the lubber's hole. I will guide your feet.'