THE SURGEON'S MATE
Patrick O'Brian is the author of the acclaimed Aubrey-Maturin tales and the biographer of Joseph Banks and Picasso. His first novel, Testimonies, and his Collected Short Stories have recently been reprinted by HarperCollins. He translated many works from French into English, among the novels and memoirs of Simone de Beauvoir and the first volume of Jean Lacouture's biography of Charles de Gaulle. In 1995 he was the first recipient of the Heywood Hill Prize for a lifetime's contribution to literature. In the same year he was awarded the CBE. In 1997 he was awarded an honurary doctorate of letters by Trinity College, Dublin. He died in January 2000 at the age of 85.
The Works of Patrick O'Brian
The Aubrey/Maturin Novels
in order of publication
MASTER AND COMMANDER
POST CAPTAIN
HMS SURPRISE
THE MAURITIUS COMMAND
DESOLATION ISLAND
THE FORTUNE OF WAR
THE SURGEON'S MATE
THE IONIAN MISSION
TREASON'S HARBOUR
THE FAR SIDE OF THE WORLD
THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL
THE LETTER OF MARQUE
THE THIRTEEN-GUN SALUTE
THE NUTMEG OF CONSOLATION
CLARISSA OAKES
THE WINE-DARK SEA
THE COMMODORE
THE YELLOW ADMIRAL
THE HUNDRED DAYS
BLUE AT THE MIZZEN
Novels
TESTIMONIES
THE CATALANS
THE GOLDEN OCEAN
THE UNKNOWN SHORE
RICHARD TEMPLE
CAESAR
HUSSEIN
Tales
THE LAST POOL
THE WALKER
LYING IN THE SUN
THE CHIAN WINE
COLLECTED SHORT STORIES
Biography
PICASSO
JOSEPH BANKS
Anthology
A BOOK OF VOYAGES
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This paperback edition 2003
Previously published in B-format paperback
by HarperCollins 1996
Reprinted four times
Also published in paperback by HarperCollins 1994
Reprinted three times
Also published in paperback by Fontana 1981
Reprinted four times
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1979
Copyright © The estate of the late Patrick O'Brian CBE 1980
Patrick O'Brian asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
ISBN 978-0-00-649921-3
Set in Imprint by
Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd.
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Printed and bound in Great Britain by
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MARIAE SACRUM
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Great men can afford anachronism, and indeed it is rather agreeable to find Criseyde reading the lives of the saints or Hamlet going to school at Wittenberg; but perhaps the ordinary writer should not take many liberties with the past. If he does, he sacrifices both authenticity and the willing suspension of disbelief, and he is sure to receive letters from those with a greater love of precision than himself. Only the other day a learned Dutchman reproached me for having sprinkled eau de Cologne in the forepeak of HMS Shannon in my last book: the earliest English reference to eau de Cologne, said he, quoting the Oxford Dictionary, is in a letter of Byron’s dated 1830. I believe he was mistaken in assuming that no Englishman ever spoke of eau de Cologne before that time; but his letter made me uneasy in my mind, all the more so since in this present book I have deliberately kept Sir James Saumarez in the Baltic some months after he had taken the Victory home and struck his flag. In the first draft I had relied on the Dictionary of National Biography, which maintained the Admiral in command for my chosen period: but then, checking in the memoirs of one of his subordinates, I found that in fact another man had taken his place. Yet I did want to say something about Saumarez, an outstanding example of a particular type of sea-officer of that time, deeply religious, extremely capable, and a most effective diplomat, so as I really could not rearrange the calendar any more I decided to leave things as they were, although out of some obscure feeling of respect for that noble ship I omitted all reference to the Victory. The historical sequence, therefore, is not quite exact; but I trust that the candid reader will grant me this amount of licence.
P. O’B.
Chapter One
The long harbour of Halifax in Nova Scotia on a long, long summer's day, and two frigates gliding in on the tide of flood under their topsails alone: the first, since she had belonged to the United States navy until a few days before, wore the Stars and Stripes under a white ensign; the second showed no more than her own shabby colours, for she was HMS Shannon, the winner in that short and bloody action with the Chesapeake.
The Shannon's crew already had some notion of the welcome they should receive, because news of the victory had spread and dories, yachts, privateers' boats and small craft of all kinds had met them beyond the distant harbour's mouth, sailing along with them, waving their hats and bawling out 'Bravo—huzzay—well done, Shannon—huzzay, huzzay!' The Shannons took no great notice of the civilians, apart from a distant acknowledgement, a discreet wave from the watch below; but the small craft took great notice of them, and although the casual observer saw little to exclaim at in the Shannon herself, with most of her rigging new set up, a fresh suit of sails bent to her yards, and her paintwork at least as trim as it was when she set out from this same port some weeks ago, the more knowing eye of the privateersmen saw the deep wounds in her bowsprit and her masts, the mizzen fished with capstan-bars, the shot still lodged in her side and the plugs where they had gone through: yet even the most unobservant could not miss the gaping void in the Chesapeake's stern and larboard quarter, where the Shannon's full starboard broadside had raked her again and again, sending some five hundredweight of iron hurtling clean through her length at every blast. They did not of course see the blood of that savage conflict, the blood that had poured thick from the scuppers, for the Shannons had cleaned both ships and they had priddied the decks as far as they could; but even so, from the state of the masts and the yards and of the Chesapeake's hull, any man who had seen action could imagine the slaughter-house look of the ships when the battle ended.
The Shannons, then, knew how they would be received, and the watch below had already contrived to slip into their best shore-going rig of glazed broad-brimmed hats with Shannon embroidered on the ribbon, bright blue jackets with brass buttons, loose white trousers with ribbons in the seams, and very small shining black pumps; but even so they were astonished by the prodigious volume of sound that met them as they neared the wharves—by the overlapping waves of cheers and then by the even louder, even more highly-valued, exactly-ordered cheering as they passed the men-of-war that lay in the harbour, each one with her yards
and rigging manned all over, roaring in unison 'Shannon, huzzay, huzzay, huzzay!' so as to make the air and the sea under it tremble while the frigate slipped along on the height of the tide to pick up her familiar moorings. The whole of Halifax had turned out to greet them and their victory, the first victory in a war that had started so disastrously for the Royal Navy, with three proud frigates taken one after another by the Americans in single-ship actions, to say nothing of the smaller vessels: obviously the sailors were the most ecstatic—and their bitter pain at all these defeats could be measured by the hoarse enormity of their present joy—but the thousands and thousands of redcoats and civilians were delighted too, and young Mr Wallis, in command of the Shannon, could scarcely be heard when he gave the order to clew up.
Yet although the Shannons were pleased and astonished, they remained for the most part grave, gravely pleased: their deeply-respected captain lay between life and death in his cabin; they had buried their first lieutenant and twenty-two of their shipmates; and the sickbay, overflowing into the berth-deck, held fifty-nine wounded, many of them very near their end and some of them the most popular men in the ship.
When the port-admiral came up the side, therefore, he saw a sparse crew, togged to the nines but with a restraint upon them, and a thinly-peopled quarterdeck—few officers to greet him. 'Well done, by God,' he cried above the wail of bosun's calls piping him aboard, 'well done, the Shannon.' And then, 'Where is Captain Broke?'
'Below, sir,' said Mr Wallis. 'Wounded, I regret to say. Very badly wounded in the head. He is barely conscious.'
'Oh, I am sorry for that. Damme, I am sorry for that. Is he very bad? The head, you say? Are his intellects in trim—does he know about his famous victory?'
'Yes, sir, he does. I believe that is what keeps him going.'
'What does the surgeon say? Can he be seen?'
'They would not let me in this morning, sir, but I will send below and ask how he does.'
'Aye, do,' said the Admiral. A pause. 'Where is Mr Watt?'—referring to the first lieutenant, once a midshipman of his.
'Dead, sir,' said Wallis.
'Dead,' said the Admiral, looking down. 'I am most heartily sorry for it—a fine seamanlike officer. Did you suffer a great deal, Mr Falkiner?'
'We lost twenty-three killed and fifty-nine wounded, sir, a quarter of our people: but Chesapeake had above sixty killed and ninety wounded. Her captain died aboard us on Wednesday. May I say, sir,' he added in a low voice, 'that my name is Wallis? Mr Falkiner is in command of the prize.'
'Just so, just so,' said the Admiral. 'A bloody business, Mr Wallis, a cruel business: but worth it. Yes, by God, it was worth it.' His eye ran along the clean, orderly, though scarred deck, the boats, two of them already repaired, up to the rigging, and lingered for a moment on the fished mizzen. 'So you and Falkiner and what hands you had left brought them both in between you. You have done very well indeed, Mr Wallis, you and your shipmates. Now just give me a brief, informal account of the action: you shall put it in writing presently, if Captain Broke don't recover in time for the dispatch; but for the moment I should like to hear it from your own mouth.'
'Well, sir,' began Wallis, and then paused. He could fight extremely well, but he was no orator; the Admiral's rank oppressed him, so did the presence of an audience that included the only surviving American officer fit to stand—though even he was wounded. He brought out a lame, disjointed tale, but the Admiral listened to it with a glowing, visible delight, for with what he had heard before it fell into perfect shape, even more perfect than the rumours that had already reached him. What Wallis said confirmed all that he had heard: Broke, finding the Chesapeake alone in Boston harbour, had sent his consorts away, challenging her captain to come out and try the issue in the open sea. The Chesapeake had indeed come out in the most handsome, gallant manner: they had fought their battle fair and square, evenly matched, broadside to broadside, with no manoeuvring; and having swept the Chesapeake's quarterdeck clear, killing or wounding almost all her officers in the first few moments, the Shannon had raked her, boarded her, and carried her. 'And it was just fifteen minutes, sir, from the first gun to the last.'
'Fifteen minutes, by God! That I did not know,' said the Admiral; and after a few more questions he clapped his hands behind his back and paced up and down, silently digesting his satisfaction.
His eye caught a tall figure in a post-captain's uniform standing by the Marine officers and he cried, 'Aubrey! Why, it must be Aubrey, upon my life!' He stepped forward with his hand outstretched: Captain Aubrey whipped his hat under his left arm, edged his right hand from its sling, and gave the Admiral's as hearty a shake as he could. 'I was sure I could not mistake that yellow hair,' said the Admiral, 'though it must be years . . . a wounded arm? I knew you was in Boston, but how come you here?'
'I escaped, sir,' said Jack Aubrey.
'Well done,' cried the Admiral again. 'So you were aboard for this noble victory! That was worth an arm or two, by God. Give you joy with all my heart. Lord, how I wish I had been with you. But I am most damnably grieved for poor dear Watt, and for Broke. I must have a word with him, if the surgeon . . . Is your arm bad?'—nodding towards the sling.
'It was only a musket-ball in the Java action, sir. But here are the doctors, sir, if you wish to speak to them.'
'Mr Fox, how d'ye do?' said the Admiral, turning to the Shannon's surgeon, who had just come up the main hatchway with a companion, both of them in their working clothes. 'And how is your patient? Is he fit to receive a visit, a short visit'
'Well, sir,' said Mr Fox with a doubtful shaking of his head, 'we dread any excitement or mental exertion at this stage. Do you not agree, colleague?'
His colleague, a small sallow man in a blood-stained black coat, dirty linen and an ill-fitting wig, said, 'Of course, of course,' in a somewhat impatient tone. 'No visits can possibly be allowed until the draught has had its effect,' and he was moving away without another word when Captain Aubrey took him by the elbow and said in a private voice, 'Hold hard, Stephen: this is the Admiral, you know.'
Stephen looked at Aubrey with his strange pale eyes, red-rimmed now after days and nights of almost incessant exertion, and said, 'Listen now, Jack, will you? I have an amputation on my hands, and I would not pause to chat with the Archangel Gabriel himself. I have only stepped up to fetch my small retractor from the cabin. And tell that man not to talk so loud.' With this he walked off, leaving nervous smiles behind him, anxious looks directed at the Admiral: but the great man did not seem at all put out. He gazed about the ship and over the water at the Chesapeake and his deep delight showed clear beneath his immediate concern for the Shannon's captain and her missing officers and men. He asked Wallis for the muster-roll of the prisoners of war, and while it was being fetched he stood by an improvized hood over the cabin skylight with Jack Aubrey and said, 'I know I have seen that face before; but I cannot put a name to it.'
'He is Dr—' began Captain Aubrey.
'Stay. Stay. I have it. Saturnin—that's the man. Admiral Bowes and I were calling at the palace to enquire after the Duke, and he came out and told us how he did. Saturnin: I knew I should get it.'
'The very same man, sir. Stephen Maturin was called in to doctor Prince William, and I believe he saved him when all else had failed. A prodigious physician, sir, and my particular friend: we have sailed together since the year two. But I am afraid he is not quite used to the ways of the service yet, and he sometimes gives offence without intending it.'
'Why, he is no great respecter of persons, to be sure; but I am not at all offended. I don't take myself for God the Father, you know, Aubrey, although I have my flag; and anyhow, it would take a great deal to put me out of humour on such a day—Lord, Aubrey, such a victory! Besides, he must be a great man in the physical line, to be called in to the Duke. How I wish he may save poor Broke. Your servant, ma'am,' he cried, gazing with respectful admiration at an extraordinarily elegant young woman who suddenly appeared from the temporar
y hood, carrying a basin and followed by a weary, blood-spattered surgeon's assistant. She was pale, but in these surroundings her pallor suited her: it gave her a quite remarkable distinction.
'Diana,' said Captain Aubrey, 'allow me to name Admiral Colpoys: my cousin Mrs Villiers. Mrs Villiers was in Boston, sir, and she escaped with Maturin and me.'
'Your most humble, devoted, ma'am,' said the Admiral, bowing. 'How I envy you, having been in such a brilliant action.'
Diana put down her basin, curtsied, and replied, 'Oh, sir, I was kept below stairs all the time. But how I wish,' she said with a fine flash of her eye, 'how I wish I had been a man, to board with the rest of them.'
'I am sure you would have struck them dead, ma'am,' said the Admiral. 'But now you are here, you must take up your quarters with us. Lady Harriet will be delighted. Here is my barge, at your pleasure, if you choose to go ashore this minute.'
'You are very good, Admiral,' said Diana, 'and I should be most happy to wait on Lady Harriet, but what I am about will keep me some hours yet.'
'I honour you for it, ma'am,' said the Admiral, for a glance at the basin showed the nature of her occupation. 'But the moment you are ready, you must come up to the house. Aubrey, the moment Mrs Villiers is ready, you are to bring her up to the house.' His beaming smile faded as a high quavering shriek, almost inhuman in its agony, came up from the sickbay, piercing the noise of cheering like a knife: but he had seen a great deal of action—he knew the price there was to pay—and with little less good humour he added, 'That is an order, Aubrey, d'ye hear me?' Then, turning to the young lieutenant he said, 'Now Mr Wallis, let us go to our business.'