‘Yes, sir. But it was not my fault. A gang of men took me far into the mountains and kept me shut up. They beat me every Sunday, taking turns, until a monk said it was hardly right. And they were very cruel to me, sir: they cut me.’
Certainly he was very much reduced: and very deeply embarrassed. Most of those aboard had some knowledge of the countryside, some acquaintance with the practices of shepherds; and they were aware of his present condition.
‘Pass the word for Mr. Daniel,’ said Jack: and two moments later, ‘Mr. Daniel, here is a colleague for you, Algernon Wantage, master’s mate, who was detained in the mountains when the ship was called to Gibraltar, but who has now rejoined. Take him below, show him the new members of the berth, remind them of his seniority, and make him as comfortable as our limited space allows.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the one, and ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the other.
‘And now I come to think of it, Mr. Wantage,’ he called after them, ‘I believe we carried off your sea-chest and other belongings. Jason, tell one of the holders to rouse them out. Mr.
Harding, as soon as I have paid my duty-call on His Excellency, I believe we must talk to the port-captain. Doctor, you will be so very kind as to interpret for us, as you did before?’
Stephen bowed: but when they had put on formal clothes he said, ‘Interpret, is it? As I told you before I do not speak – not as who should say speak – Portuguese. Still less do I understand the language when it is spoke. No man born of woman has ever understood spoken Portuguese, without he is a native or brought up to comprehend that strange blurred muffled indistinct utterance from a very early, almost toothless, age. Anyone with a handful of Latin – even Spanish or Catalan – can read it without much difficulty but to comprehend even the drift of the colloquial, the rapidly muttered version. . .’
The captain of the port, however, was a master of the lingua franca spoken over most of the Mediterranean and even beyond, as well as the archaic Catalan still current in his mother’s part of Sardinia, and it took him very little time indeed to destroy Jack Aubrey’s hopes entirely, speaking with the utmost loquacity, sometimes in one language, sometimes in the other – the different versions each shedding a dismal light on the other.
He addressed himself entirely to Stephen, but at the same time he gazed upon Jack with unfeigned astonishment and concern. ‘Had not the gentleman seen with his own eyes that Coelho’s yard, the glory of Funchal, of Madeira, of the western world, was utterly destroyed? That there was not another in the whole island to be mentioned in the same breath? And that even Carteiro’s could not possibly accommodate anything above a hundred and twenty tons?’ The captain of the port shook his saddened head. He called for madeira of the famous year 1775, and when they had drunk a couple of glasses each, he observed in a gentle side-voice directed at Dr. Maturin, though his eyes still dwelt upon Jack, that ‘he wondered where the gentleman had been in his youth, and during all the years since then, not to know that at this time of the year there was not a seaman in Madeira, with two hands and both legs, to be had. The fleets bound for both the Indies, East and West, had sailed a little early, because of Nostradamus; and all who did not go with them were on the Banks for cod or in the tunny-boats along the African shore. And even the few odd remaining cripples could not possibly be tempted by a hydrographical voyage to survey the Horn and its terrible passages, with no possibility of taking a prize.’
Here Stephen did his discreet best to convey the notion that, in certain circumstances, prizes might not be altogether out of the question. ‘After all, there were always, or at least very often, pirates – legitimate quarry – beyond the Straits of Magellan.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ replied the port captain. ‘Prizes on the far side of the world. Beyond the Straits of Magellan: but, my dear sir,’ he added with civil triumph, ‘you will remember what happened to Magellan himself.’
‘Indeed,’ said Stephen, ‘and how I regret that great man’s untimely death. But I clearly see that I shall have to disillusion my superior officer: allow me to thank you however for your luminous, wholly convincing statement of the position, and to beg your acceptance of these few pairs of English worsted stockings.’
‘Well,’ said Jack, as they walked through the unburnt part of the town – some streets slightly charred on the left-hand side, but no outright ruin – ‘I suppose there is no help for it: but it was a damned unlucky stroke, the Indies fleets going off like that. Who is this Nostradamus?’
‘Oh, a sort of prophet, like our Old Moore; but not quite so wise. May I ask whether you have made up your mind what to do?’
‘Oh yes: I have no doubt of it. I should have liked some new breast-hooks here, in Coelho’s yard, and some more diagonal bracing; but I am reasonably sure that Surprise will carry us back to Seppings’ yard for an overhaul that will allow us to face the Horn without terror: at least without absolutely paralysing terror. And that, after all, is what I had wanted from the start.’
After a while, Stephen, speaking hesitantly, said, ‘My dear, have you reflected upon mainland Portugal and Atlantic Spain, with their famous ports, and shipwrights who turned out such beautiful vessels as the Santa Ana, which Nelson himself so much admired?’
‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘Harding and I turned the matter over before ever we shaped our course for Funchal: at the time the wind would have served for either, whereas now it is awkwardly east for the main. Yet I am sure our choice of Funchal would have been perfect, but for that infernal blaze. Certainly the Spaniards can build a noble first-rate, noble ships of the line; but they are not so happy with frigates, and in any event I do not think that a small English hydro-graphical vessel would be really welcome in a Spanish yard, nor very briskly attended to. And as for crew, I should not care for so large a proportion of Spaniards: there has been too much ill-feeling for too long. Whereas the Portuguese, in my experience, are just as good seamen, and kinder, less likely to fly into a passion. More easy-going, if you understand me. And then again, Funchal was accustomed to moderate-sized ocean-going yachts, vessels quite like the Surprise: which is not the case in Vigo, nor at the Groyne. No. What I think is the clever thing for us to do is to lie here for a few days while Chips, who knows the town well, will see if he can find some prime timber in the outlying stores, and if he can, to bring some master-shipwrights –
there will be many, many out of employ at the present, poor souls – and set them to work on our bows. Then hey for Seppings’ yard, a thorough overhaul, and a full crew of right West-country seamen . . .’ He would have added ‘and England, home and beauty, of course,’ but for the fear that the mention of the first two might bring the third into Stephen’s mind and wound him cruelly: his expression was already far from cheerful.
In fact the sombre look was caused by his knowledge of the extreme impatience of any revolutionary force and by his persuasion that if they did not come to a solid agreement with the Chileans they knew, having met them by appointment in this very town, an agreement with set dates, undertakings and statement of forces in being and above all if they did not make an appearance in their well-armed hydrographical ship – these first
Chileans might lose faith, might let their impatience overcome them, or – another strong probability – might be superseded by some new, even more enthusiastic and impatient body, with even less knowledge of the facts. All this amounted to little more than a presentiment: a somewhat more informed presentiment than most, but certainly nothing to be set against the considered opinion of two experienced sea-officers.
They walked along, each deep in his own thoughts, passing through the sad, dirty, worn-out people on either side, many of whom had obviously toiled all night: no gaiety whatsoever, so that the hoots of silly laughter at the far end of the street seemed more than usually offensive. Hoots of laughter, then another imitation of a man’s falsetto, and hoots again. The crowd cleared somewhat and Jack saw that the imitator was the heaviest, hairiest, most pimpled of his new midshipmen, Store, accompanied by the admiring smallest, a first-voyager called Shepherd. For the sake of his father, a former shipmate, Jack had invited Store to dinner and had been surprised by his uncouth, silent barbarity, until he remembered that Admiral Store – Rear-Admiral Sir Harry Store, to be exact – had spent almost the whole of the war on the Indian and South African stations. At present it was obvious that the reefers were following Wantage and a carpenter’s mate, some fifty yards ahead, and openly mocking them. He called out in his strong, sea-going voice. The tall youth turned, looking guilty, ashamed, defiant: he made his unsteady way back accompanied by the little one, but at least he had wit enough to stand up straight and pull off his hat. ‘Who gave you leave to come ashore?’ asked Jack.