but I thought I ought to blood the hands at last. Not that it did much good. The ship is in a bad way; and Harte rides me hard.’
‘Pray show me your honorary sword and the merchants’ piece of plate. I called upon Sophie, and she told me about them.’
‘Sophie?’ cried Jack, as though he had been kicked. ‘Oh. Oh, yes – yes, of course. You called upon her.’ As an attempt at diverting his mind to happier thoughts, this was not a success. After a moment he said, ‘I am sorry, they are not here. I ran short again. For the time being, they are in Dover.’
‘Dover,’ said Stephen, and thought for a while, running the narwhal’s horn through his fingers. ‘Dover. Listen, Jack, you take insane risks, going ashore so often, particularly in Dover.’
‘Why particularly in Dover?’
‘Because your often presence there is notorious. If it is notorious to your friends, how much more so to your enemies? It is known in Whitehall; it must be known to your creditors in Mincing Lane. Do not look angerly now, Jack, but let me tell you three things: I must do so, as a friend. First, you will certainly be arrested for debt if you continue to go ashore. Second, it is said in the service that you cling to this station; and what harm that may do you professionally, you know better than I. No, let me finish. Third, have you considered how you expose Diana Villiers by your very open attentions, in circumstances of such known danger?’
‘Has Diana Villiers put herself under your protection? Has she commissioned you to say this to me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I do not see what right you have to speak to me in this way.’
‘Sure, Jack, my dear, I have the right of a friend, have I not? I will not say duty, for that smells of cant.’
‘A friend who wants a clear field, maybe. I may not be very clever, no God-damned Macchiavelli, but I believe I know a ruse de guerre when I see one. For a long time I did not know what to think about you and Diana Villiers
–
first one thing and then another – for you are a devilish sly fox, and break back upon your line. But now I see the reason for this standing off and on, this “not at home”, and all this damned unkind treatment, and all this cracking-up of clever, amusing Stephen Maturin, who understands people and never preaches, whereas I am a heavy-handed fool that understands nothing. It is time we had a clear explanation about Diana Villiers, so that we may know where we stand.’
‘I desire no explanations. They are never of any use, particularly in matters of this kind, where what one might term sexuality is concerned – reason, flies out of the window; all candour with it. In any case, even where
this passion is not concerned, language is so imperfect, that…’
‘Any bastard can cowardly evade the issue by a flood of words.’
‘You have said enough, sir,’ said Stephen, standing up. ‘Too much by far: you must withdraw.’
‘I shall not withdraw,’ cried Jack, very pale. ‘And I will add, that when a man comes back from leave as brown as a Gibraltar Jew, and says he had delicate weather in Ireland, he lies. I will stand by that, and I am perfectly willing to give you any satisfaction you may choose to ask for.’
‘It is odd enough,’ said Stephen, in a low voice, ‘that our acquaintance should have begun with a challenge, and that it should end with one.’
‘Dundas,’ he said, in the small room of the Rose and Crown, ‘how good of you to come so soon. I am sorry to say I must ask you to be my second. I tried to follow your excellent suggestion, but I mishandled it – I did not succeed. I should have seen he was in a state of unhappy passion, but I persisted untimely, and he called me a coward and a liar.’
Dundas’s face changed to one of horror. ‘Oh, that is very bad,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Lord.’ A long, unhappy pause. ‘No question of an apology, I suppose?’
‘None whatsoever. One word he did withdraw,’ – Captain Aubrey presents his compliments to Dr Maturin, and begs to say that an expression escaped him yesterday evening, a common expression to do with birth, that might have been taken to have a personal bearing. None was intended, and Captain Aubrey withdraws that word, at the same time regretting that, in the hurry of the moment, he made use of it. The other remarks he stands by – ‘but the gratuitous lie remains. It is not easy of digestion.’
‘Of course not. What a sad, sad business. We shall
have to fit it in between voyages. I feel horribly responsible. Maturin, have you been out before? I should never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you. Jack is an old hand.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Well,’ said Dundas, looking at him dubiously, ‘I shall go and see him at once. Oh, what a damned unlucky thing. It may take some time, unless we can arrange it tonight. That is the wretched thing about the Navy: soldiers can always settle out of hand, but with us I have known an affair hang fire three months and more.’
It could not be arranged that night, for on the evening tide the Polychrest was ordered to sea. She bore away to the south-west with a couple of store-ships, carrying with her more than her usual load of unhappiness.
The news of their disagreement spread throughout the ship; the extent and the deadly nature of it were quite unknown, but so close an intimacy could not come to a sudden end without being noticed, and Stephen watched the reactions of his shipmates with a certain interest. He knew that in many ships the captain played the part of a monarch and the officers that of a court – that there was eager competition for Caesar’s favour; but he had never thought of himself as the favourite; he had never known how much the respect paid to him was a reflection of the great man’s power. Parker, who revered authority far more than he disliked his captain, drew away from Stephen; so did the featureless Jones; and Smithers did not attempt to conceal his animosity. Pullings behaved with marked kindness in the gun-room; but Pullings owed everything to Jack, and on the quarterdeck he seemed a little shy of Stephen’s company. Not that he was often put to this trial, however, for convention required that the principals in a duel, like bride and bridegroom, should see nothing of one another before they reached the altar. Most of the old Sophies shared Pullings’ distress; they looked at him with anxious constraint, never with unkindness; but it was clear
to Stephen that quite apart from any question of interest, their prime loyalty lay with Jack, and he embarrassed them as little as he could.
He spent the chief of his time with his patients – the lithotomy called for radical measures: a fascinating case and one that called for hours of close surveillance – reading in his cabin, and playing chess with the master, who surprised him by showing particular consideration and friendliness. Mr Goodridge had sailed as a midshipman and master’s mate with Cook; he was a good mathematician, an excellent navigator, and he would have reached commissioned rank if it had not been for his unfortunate battle with the chaplain of the Bellerophon.
‘No, Doctor,’ said he, leaning back from the board, ‘you may struggle and wruggle as you please, but I have him pinned. It is mate in three.’
‘It is muchwhat like,’ said Stephen. ‘Must I resign?’
‘I think you must. Though I like a man that fights, to be sure. Doctor,’ he said, ‘have you reflected upon the phoenix?’
‘Not, perhaps, as often as I should have done. As I remember, she makes her nest in Arabia Felix, using cinnamon for the purpose; and with cinnamon at six and eight-pence, surely this is a thoughtless thing to do?’
‘You are pleased to be facetious, Doctor. But the phoenix, now, is worth your serious consideration. Not the bird of the tales, of course, which cannot be attempted to be believed in by a philosophical gentleman like you, but what I might call the bird behind the bird. I should not care to have it known in the ship, but in my opinion, the phoenix is Halley’s comet.’
‘Halley’s comet, Mr Goodridge?’ cried Stephen.
‘Halley’s comet, Doctor; and others,’ said the master, pleased with the effect of his words.
‘And when I say opinion, I might say fact, for to a candid mind the thing is proved beyond the slightest doubt. A little calculation makes it plain. The best authors give 500, 1416, and 7006 years as the proper intervals between phoenixes;