He had spoken in a bantering tone, never dreaming of a serious reply, and he was astonished to hear Stephen say, ‘But I am in no way qualified to be a naval surgeon. To be sure, I have done a great deal of anatomical dissection, and I am not unacquainted
with most of the usual chirurgical operations; but I know nothing of naval hygiene, nothing of the particular maladies of seamen…’
‘Bless you,’ cried Jack, ‘never strain at gnats of that kind. Think of what we are usually sent – surgeon’s mates, wretched half-grown stunted apprentices that have knocked about an apothecary’s shop just long enough for the Navy Office to give them a warrant. They know nothing of surgery, let alone physic; they learn on the poor seamen as they go along, and they hope for an experienced loblolly boy or a beast-leech or a cunning-man or maybe a butcher among the hands – the press brings in all sorts. And when they have picked up a smattering of their trade, off they go into frigates and ships of the line. No, no.
We should be delighted to have you – more than delighted. Do, pray, consider of it, if only for a while. I need not say,’ he added, with a particularly earnest look, ‘how much pleasure it would give me, was we to be shipmates.’
The waiter opened the door, saying, ‘Marine,’ and immediately behind him appeared the red-coat, bearing a packet. ‘Captain Aubrey, sir?’ he cried in an outdoor voice. ‘Captain Harte’s compliment.’ He disappeared with a rumble of boots, and Jack observed, ‘Those must be my orders.’
‘Do not mind me, I beg,’ said Stephen. ‘You must read them directly.’ He took up Jack’s fiddle and walked away
to the end of the room, where he played a low, whispering scale, over and over again.
The orders were very much what he had expected: they required him to complete his stores and provisions with the utmost possible dispatch and to convoy twelve sail of merchantmen and transports (named in the margin) to Cagliari. He was to travel at a very great pace, but
he was by no means to endanger his masts, yards or sails:
he was to shrink from no danger, but on the other hand he was on no account to incur any risk whatsoever. Then, labelled secret, the instructions for the private signal – the difference between friend and foe, between good and bad:
‘The ship first making the signal is to hoist a red flag at the foretopmast head and a white flag with a pendant over the flag at the main. To be answered with a white flag with a pendant over the flag at the maintopmast head and a blue flag at the foretopmast head.
The ship that first made the signal is to fire one gun to windward, which the other is to answer by firing three guns to leeward in slow time.’ Lastly, there was a note to say that Lieutenant Dillon had been appointed to the Sophie, vice Mr Baldick, and that he would shortly arrive in the Burford.
‘Here’s good news,’ said Jack. ‘I am to have a capital fellow as my lieutenant: we are only allowed one in the Sophie, you know, so it is very important . . . I do not know him personally, but he is an excellent fellow, that I am sure of. He distinguished himself very much in the Dart, a hired cutter – set about three French privateers En the Sicily Channel, sank one and took another. Everyone in the fleet talked about it at the time; but his letter was never printed in the Gazette, and he was not promoted. It was infernal bad luck. I wonder at it, for it was not as though he had no interest: Fitzgerald, who knows all about these things, told me he was a nephew, or cousin was it? to a peer whose name I forget.
And in any case it was a very creditable thing – dozens of men have got their step for much less. I did, for one.’
‘May I ask what you did? I know so little about naval matters.’
‘Oh, I simply got knocked on the head, once at the Nile and then again when the Généreux took the old Leander:
rewards were obliged to be handed out, so I being the only surviving lieutenant, one came my way at last. It took its time, upon my word, but it was very welcome when it came, however slow and undeserved. What do you say to taking tea? And perhaps a piece of muffin? Or should you rather stay with the port?’
‘Tea would make me very happy,’ said Stephen. ‘But tell me,’ he said, walking back to the fiddle and tucking it under his chin, ‘do not your naval appointments entail great expense, going to London, uniforms, oaths, levees. . . ?’
‘Oaths? Oh, you refer to the swearing-in. No. That applies only to lieutenants – you go to the Admiralty and they read you a piece about allegiance and supremacy and utterly renouncing the Pope; you feel very solemn and say “to this I swear” and the chap at the high desk says “and that will be half a guinea”, which does rather take away from the effect, you know. But it is only commissioned officers – medical men are appointed by a warrant. You would not object to taking an oath, however,’ he said, smiling; and then feeling that this remark was a little indelicate, a little personal, he went on, ‘I was shipmates with a poor fellow once that objected to taking an oath, any oath, on principle. I never could like him – he was for ever touching his face. He was nervous, I believe, and it gave him countenance; but whenever you looked at him there he was with a finger at his mouth, or pressing his cheek, or pulling his chin awry. It is nothing, of course; but when you are penned up with it in the same wardroom it grows tedious, day after day all through a long commission. In the gun-room or the cockpit you can call out “Leave your face alone, for God’s sake,” but in the wardroom you must bear with it. However, he took to reading in his Bible, and
he conceived this notion that he must not take an oath; and when there was that foolish court-martial on poor Bentham he was called as a witness and refused, flatly refused, to be sworn. He told Old Jarvie it was contrary to something in the Gospels. Now that might have washed with Gambier or Saumarez or someone given to tracts, but not with Old Jarvie, by God. He was broke, I am sorry to say: I never
could like him – to tell you the truth, he smelt too – but he was a tolerably good seaman and there was no vice in him. That is what I mean when I say you would not object to an oath -you are not an enthusiast.’
‘No, certainly,’ said Stephen. ‘I am not an enthusiast. I was brought up by a philosopher, or perhaps I should say a philosophe; and some of his philosophy has stuck to me. He would have called an oath a childish thing – otiose if voluntary and rightly to be evaded or ignored
if imposed. For few people today, even among your tarpaulins, are weak enough to believe in Earl Godwin’s piece of bread.’
There was a long pause while the tea was brought in. ‘You take milk in your tea, Doctor?’
asked Jack.
‘If you please,’ said Stephen. He was obviously deep in thought: his eyes were fixed upon vacancy and his mouth was pursed in a silent whistle.
‘I wish. . . ‘said Jack.
‘It is always said to be weak, and impolitic, to show oneself at a disadvantage,’ said Stephen, bearing him down. ‘But you speak to me with such candour that I cannot prevent myself from doing the same. Your offer, your suggestion, tempts me exceedingly; for apart from those considerations that you so obligingly mention, and which I reciprocate most heartily, I am very much at a stand, here in Minorca. The patient I was to attend until the autumn has did. I had understood him to be a man of substance – he had a house in Merrion Square – but when Mr Florey and I looked through his effects before sealing them we found nothing whatever, neither money nor letters of credit. His Servant decamped, which may explain it: but his friends do
not answer my letters; the war has cut me off from my Little patrimony in Spain; and when I told you, some time ago, that I had not eaten so well for a great while, I did not speak figuratively.’
‘Oh, what a very shocking thing!’ cried Jack. ‘I am heartily sorry for your embarrassment, and if the – the res angusta is pressing, I hope you will allow me. . . ‘His hand was in his breeches pocket, but Stephen Maturin said ‘No, no, no,’ a dozen times smiling and nodding. ‘But you are very good.’