‘No. We have not played at all, these many days and more.’
Jack agreed: then he said, ‘But here is something that will give you pleasure,’ and he passed two slips, both with figures neatly ranged and a resulting position that agreed within a few seconds. ‘The one is John Daniel’s, as you would expect from a capital hand
at the mathematics; but the other is young Hanson’s, and I am sure there was no copying.
What a pearl Mr. Walker must have been, the boy’s tutor, to have shown him how to take such a pretty altitude: though to be sure the Duke did treat him to as fine an instrument as I have seen. The two of them agree in setting us within a week’s sail of Madeira, and if this breeze holds, as I believe it will – or rather,’ he said, touching the wooden arm of his chair,
‘- as I hope it will, we shall be able to say that we have done the first leg in reasonably good time, in spite of a most unpromising start.’
The breeze did indeed hold fair, usually coming in over the starboard quarter as steadily as a trade-wind, which allowed the Surprise to spread a glorious array of royals and studding-sails that sent the water racing down her side, filling her people with such high spirits that when they were turned up in the last dog-watch they sang and danced on the forecastle to the sound of a fife and a drum and a small knee-harp with such spirit that it sounded like Bartholomew Fair, only more harmonious.
It was on just such an evening, when they were within a day or two of Madeira, that Jack Aubrey squared to his desk to continue his letter to Sophie and perhaps finish it so that all his papers of every kind might go with the next packet. ‘This is sailing indeed,’ he wrote,
‘sailing with the kindliest wind in a ship one loves and a crew most of whom one has known for years, and nearly all of them right seamen.’ Here he took a new sheet and continued, ‘It seems wickedly ungrateful to say so, but some of us miss that perpetual vigilance, that hawk-like scanning of the leeward horizon for a sail that may be an enemy or, praise be, a lawful prize. Yet of course this is peace-time, and peace-time in mild, favourable weather can, to a thankless mind, seem rather flat on occasion.’ But having paused to sharpen his pen – he had a razor-sharp little penknife that also split quills – he looked over these last words with a more critical eye, balled up the paper and took another sheet. ‘It is true that even some of our quite old shipmates can be a little difficult on occasion,’ he continued. ‘Your favourite Awkward Davies can be positively dogged, if crossed by a new hand: but in a boarding-party, or storming a shore-position, he is worth his weight in gold, heavy though he is. His huge bulk, his terrifying strength and activity, the awful pallor of his face and his way of foaming at the mouth when he is stirred, all make him a most dreadful opponent. What Stephen calls his berserker rage fairly clears the enemy’s decks before him. He also howls. But he has other sides: not only is he very useful when you must sway up the mast shorthanded, but in sudden emergencies too. Do you remember the pitifully shy boy Horatio Hanson you were so kind to at Woolcombe?
He shows remarkable promise as a navigator, but he is not much of a topman yet – how could he be? – and he got himself sadly entangled coming down from some improbable height – the fore-royal truck or something like that. Davies saw him, and shoving Joe Plaice aside – Joe is the boy’s sea-daddy – he fairly swarmed aloft, seized the young fellow’s shin and absolutely carried him by brute-force upside-down to the top, where he was safe, and so left him with an angry mutter …” He broke off. ‘Now, Stephen,’ he said rather pettishly, ‘what are you pottering about for?’
‘Pottering, is it? Have I not been searching every nook and cranny in this vile tub and the Dear knows she has a thousand of both systematically searching for my rosin, my only piece of rosin since an ill-conditioned rat ate the others. May I ask you to look in your pocket?’
‘Oh, Stephen,’ cried Jack, his look of righteous indignation changing to a flush as he brought the rosin out with his handkerchief. ‘I am so sorry – so very sorry. I do beg your pardon.’
‘Was you playing?’ asked Stephen as he picked fluff and hairs off the ball.
‘I had thought of it – took my fiddle out of its case, indeed, but then reflecting on all the paper-work Adams and I must have ready in Funchal, it appeared that I should get Sophie’s letter sealed up first.’
‘Give her my love, if you please,’ said Stephen; and pausing in the doorway he added, ‘I dare say you know the Ringle is coming up hand over fist?’
‘She has been reported from the masthead every watch since the horizon cleared; and with the glass quite steady I hope to reduce sail in an hour or two so that we may enter Funchal together before the evening gun.’
At first sight poor ravaged Funchal still had a blackened, desolate appearance, but from the maintop a closer view, helped by a telescope, saw that a great deal of repair had in fact been carried out, that Coelho’s famous yard though not busy, was working again, with piles of fresh timber clearly apparent, and that the Royal Navy’s depot was reasonably trim, with a store-ship lying off the wharf and lighters plying to and fro, while a Spanish packet rode at single anchor a cable’s length astern. The Surprise saluted the castle and took up her familiar moorings, with the Ringle under her lee. The castle returned as briskly as could be expected; and Stephen said privately to Jack, ‘Pray, my dear, let me be put on the strand in a small boat once darkness has fallen, to be taken off just one hour later.’
Darkness fell, helped by a run of clouds from the southwest and a small rain. Stephen was handed down the side as though he were a basket of singularly fragile china by seamen and officers who were accustomed, long accustomed, to his wild capers when going ashore in the mildest of swells, and he found himself sitting in the stern-sheets next to Horatio Hanson, who had taken to seafaring so thoroughly and naturally that he could be entrusted with the captain’s valuable gig and even more valuable crew of right seamen. ‘I forget, Mr. Hanson,’ he said, ‘whether you were aboard on the way north from Gibraltar or not?’ ‘No, sir: I am afraid I was not so fortunate.’ ‘Ah, indeed? Yet you seem to fit in quite naturally.’ ‘Perhaps, sir, because my father was a sailor.’ And raising his voice, ‘Give way, there, give way,’ running the boat well up the pebbles, while bow-oar and his mate handed Stephen dry-foot clear of the next wave. ‘Thank you, Evans; thank you, Richardson,’ he said; and louder, ‘Mr. Hanson, in just an hour’s time, if you please: I know our watches are in agreement to the second. And if you choose to return to the ship, I shall wait here a good seven minutes.’
He walked up and into the town, pausing under a reed awning that shed the rain for a cup of really powerful coffee and then following the carefully remembered turnings to a modest establishment in an indifferent, mercantile part of the town; modest, but remarkably well-guarded by the local equivalent of English pugilists, since it was frequented by dealers in precious stones who could be seen passing their wares wrapped in tissue paper from hand to hand, whispering to one another. And as Stephen had noticed before, those to whom the little parcels were handed seemed to divine their contents by some supernatural power since as far as he could make out they never opened the wrapping: nor did their conversation ever vary from a low (but not evidently secretive) monotonous discretion.
Another thing that he noticed, and noticed with a galvanic shock which he only just
managed to control, was the presence of his friend, colleague and ally, Amos Jacob, for whom he had intended to leave a message, hoping that it might be collected in a month or so.
They exchanged a fleeting, meaningless glance, and when Stephen had drunk up his glass of wine and paid his reckoning he walked out into the wet, deserted street: the drizzle had stopped but the cloud still hung low and he was glad when Jacob caught up with him, carrying an umbrella. They at once embraced patting one another on the back in the Spanish manner and continuing in that language, perfectly familiar to both but so usual in Funchal to excite no comment. ‘Sir Blaine sends you his kindest greetings,’ said Jacob,