‘Oh, I shall plead guilty at once,’ said Stephen. ‘And I shall add that I was sitting in the powder-magazine with a naked light at the time, imagining the death of the King, wasting my medical stores, smoking tobacco and making a fraudulent return of the portable soup.
What solemn nonsense it is’ – laughing heartily – ‘I am surprised so sensible a man as you should attribute any importance to the matter.’
‘Oh, I do not mind it,’ cried Jack. ‘How you lie,’ said
Stephen affectionately, but within his own bosom. After
a longish pause Jack said, ‘You do not rate post-captains
and admirals very high among intelligent beings, I believe?
I have heard you say some tolerably severe things about
admirals, and great men in general.’
‘Why, to be sure, something sad seems to happen to your great men and your admirals, with age, pretty often: even to your post-captains. A kind of atrophy, a withering-away of the head and the heart. I conceive it may arise from . .
‘Well,’ said Jack, laying his hand upon his friend’s dimly-seen shoulder in the starlight,
‘how would you like to place your life, your profession and your good name between the hands of a parcel of senior officers?’
‘Oh,’ cried Stephen. But what he had to say was never heard, for away on the horizon towards Tangiers there was a flash flash-flash, not unlike the repeated dart of lightning. They leapt to their feet and cupped their ears to the wind to catch the distant roar; but the wind was too strong and presently they sat down again, fixing the western sea with their telescopes. They could distinctly make out two sources, between twenty and twenty-five miles away, scarcely any distance apart – not above a degree: then three: then a fourth and fifth, and then a growing redness that did not move.
‘There is a ship on fire,’ said Jack in horror, his heart pumping so hard that he could scarcely keep the steady deep-red glow in his object-glass. ‘I hope to God it is not one of ours. I hope to God they drown the magazines.’
An enormous flash lit the sky, dazzled them, put out the stars; and nearly two minutes later the vast solemn long rumbling boom of explosion reached them, prolonged by its own echo off the African shore.
‘What was it?’ asked Stephen at last.
‘The ship blew up,’ said Jack: his mind was filled with the Battle of the Nile and the long moment when L’Orient exploded, all brought back to him with extraordinary vividness – a hundred details he thought forgotten, some very hideous. And he was still among those memories when a second explosion shattered the darkness, perhaps even greater than the first.
After this, nothing. Not the remotest light, not a gun-flash. The wind increased steadily, and the rising moon put out the smaller stars. After a while some of the lanterns began to go down; others remained, and some even climbed higher still; Jack and Stephen stayed where they were. Dawn found them under their rock, with Jack steadily sweeping the Gut – calm now, and deserted – and Stephen Maturin fast asleep, smiling.
Not a word, not a sign: a silent sea, a silent sky and the wind grown treacherous again – all round the compass. At half-past seven Jack saw Stephen back to the hospital, revived himself with coffee and climbed again.
In his journeys up and down he came to know- every wind in the path, and the rock against which he leaned was as -familiar as an old coat. It was when he was going up after tea on Thursday, with his supper in a sailcloth bag, that he saw Daiziel, Boughton of the Hannibal and Marshall bounding down the steep slope so fast that they could not stop: they called out ‘Calpe’s coming in, sir,’ and blundered on, with the little dog running round and round them, very nearly bringing them down, and barking with delight.
Heneage Dundas of the fast-sailing sloop Calpe was an amiable young man, much caressed by those who knew him for his shining parts and particularly for his skill in the mathematics; but never before had he been the best-loved man in Gibraltar. Jack broke through the crowd surrounding him with brutal force and an unscrupulous use of his weight and his elbows: five minutes later he broke out again and ran like a boy through the streets of the town.
‘Stephen,’ he cried, bursting open the door, his shining face far larger and higher than usual. ‘Victory! Come out at once and drink to a victory! Give you joy of a famous victory, old cock,’ he cried, shaking him terribly by the hand. ‘Such a magnificent fight.’
‘Why, what happened?’ asked Stephen, slowly wiping his scalpel-and covering up his Moorish hyena.
‘Come on, and I will tell you as we drink,’ said Jack, leading him into the street full of people, all talking eagerly, laughing, shaking hands and beating one another on the back: down by the New Mole there was the sound of cheering. ‘Come on. I have a thirst like Achilles, no, Andromache. It is Keats has the glory of the day – Keats has borne the bell away. Ha, ha, ha! That was a famous line, was it not? In here. Pedro! Bear a hand there!
Pedro, champagne. Here’s to the victory! Here’s to Keats and the Superb! Here’s to –
Admiral Saumarez! Pedro, another bottle. Here’s to the victory again! Three times three!
Huzza!’
‘You would oblige me extremely by just giving the news’
–
said Stephen. ‘With all the details.’
‘I don’t know all the details,’ said Jack, ‘but this is the gist of it. That noble fellow Keats –
you remember how we saw him shoot ahead? – came up with their rear, the two Spanish first-rates, just before midnight. He chose his moment, clapped his helm a lee and dashed between ’em firing both broadsides – a seventy-four taking on two first-rates! He shot straight on, leaving his smoke-cloud
between ’em as thick as peasoup; and each, firing into it, hit the other; and so the Real Carlos and the Hermenegildo went for each other like fury in the dark. Someone, the Superb or the He nenegildo, had knocked away the Real
Carlos’ foretopmast, and it was her topsail that fell over the guns and took fire. And after a while the Real Carios fell
on board the Hermenegildo and fired her too. Those were the two explosions we saw, of course. But while they were burning Keats had pushed on to engage the San Antonio, who hauled her wind and fought back like a rare plucked ‘un; but she had to strike in half an hour for, do you see, Superb was firing three broadsides to her two, and pointing
’em straight. So Keats took possession of her; and the rest of the squadron chased as hard as ever they could to the north-north-west in a gale of wind. They very nearly took the Formidable, but she just got into Cadiz; and we very nearly lost the Venerable, dismasted and aground; but they got her off and she is on her way back now, jury-rigged, with a stuns’l boom for a mizenmast, ha, ha, ha! – There’s Dalziel and Marshall going by.
Ahoy! Daiziel ahoy! Marshall! Ahoy there! Come and drink a glass to the victory!’
The flag broke out aboard the Pompée; the gun boomed; the captains assembled for the court-martial. –
It was a very grave occasion, and in spite of the brilliance of the day, the abounding cheerfulness on shore and the deep chuckling contentment aboard, each post-captain put away his gaiety and came up the side as solemn as a judge, to be greeted with all due ceremony and led into the great
cabin by the first lieutenant.
Jack was already aboard, of course; but his was not the first case to be dealt with. Waiting there in the screened-off larboard part of the dining-cabin there was .a chaplain, a hunted-looking man who paced up and down, sometimes making private ejaculations and dashing his hands together. It was pitiful to see how carefully he was dressed, and how he had shaved until the blood came; for if half the general report of his conduct was true there was no hope for him at all.
The moment the next gun sounded the master-at-arms took the chaplain away, and there was a pause, one of those great lapses of time that presently come to have no flow at all, but grow stagnant or even circular in motion. The other officers talked in low voices – they, too, were dressed with particular attention, in the exact uniform regularity that plenty of prize-money and the best Gibraltar outfitters could provide. Was it respect for the court?
For the occasion? A residual sense of guilt, a placating of fate? They spoke quietly, equably, glancing at Jack from time to time.