and Tacitus tells us that one appeared under Sesostris, another under Amasis, another in the reign of the third Ptolemy, and another in the twentieth year of Tiberius; and we know of many more. Now let us take the periods of Halley’s, Biela’s, Lexel’s, and Encke’s comets and plot
them against our phoenixes, just allowing for lunar years and errors of computation in the ancients, and the thing is done! I could show you calculations, with respect to their orbits, that would amaze you, the astronomers are sadly out, because they do not take account of the phoenix in
their equations. They do not see that for the ancients the pretended phoenix was a poetical way of saying a blazing heavenly phenomenon – that the phoenix was an emblem; and they are too proud and sullen and dogged and want ing in candour to believe it when told The chaplain of the Bellerophon, who set up for an astronomer, would not be convinced. I stretched him out on deck with a heaving-mallet
‘I am quite convinced, Mr Goodridge.’
‘It ruined my career,’ – with a fiery look into the past – ‘It ruined my career; but I should do it again, the contumelious dog, the . . . however, I must not swear; and he was a clergyman.
Since then I have not told many people,
but in time I mean to publish – The Phoenix Impartially Considered, A Modest Proposal, by an Officer of Rank in
the Royal Navy – and that will flutter some dovecotes I could mention; that will bring them up with a round turn. My phoenixes, Doctor, tell me we may expect a comet in 1805; 1 will not give the month, because of a doubt in Ussher as to the exact length of the reign of Nabonidus.’
‘1 shall look forward to it with confident expectation,’ said Stephen; and he reflected, ‘I wish they could foretell an end to this waiting.’
‘I low strangely I dread the event,’ he said, sitting down by his patient and counting his respirations, ‘and yet how hard I find it to wait.’
In the far corner of the sick-bay the low murmur of conversation began again; the men were used to his presence, and to his absences – more than once a messmate had brought in the forbidden grog, walking right past the Doctor without being noticed – and he did not disturb them. At present two Highlanders were talking slowly to an Irishman, slowly and repetitively in Gaelic, as he lay there on his stomach to ease his flayed back.
‘I follow them best when I do not attend at all,’ observed Stephen. ‘When I do not strain, or try to isolate any word. It is the child in long clothes that understands, myself in Cahirciveen. They are of the opinion that we shall anchor in the Downs before eight bells.
I hope they are right; I hope I find Dundas.’
They were right, and before the way was off the Polychrest he heard the sentry hail a boat and the answering cry of ‘Franchise’ that meant her captain was coming aboard. The bosun’s pipe, the proper respect shown to a post captain, the stumping of feet overhead, and then ‘Captain Dundas’s compliments, and might he have a word with Dr Maturin, when at leisure?’
Discretion was of first importance in these matters, and Heneage Dundas, knowing how public a spoken word might be in a crowded sloop, had written his message on a piece of paper. ‘Will half past six on Saturday suit? In the dunes. I will come for you.’ He handed the paper, with a grave, meaning look. Stephen glanced at it, nodded, and said, ‘Perfect. I am obliged to you. Will you give me a lift ashore? I should spend tomorrow in Deal, should I not? Perhaps you would be so very kind as to mention it to Captain Aubrey.’
‘I have: we may go now, if you wish.’
‘I will be with you in two minutes.’ There were some papers that must not be seen, a few manuscripts and letters that he prized; but these were almost ready, and his necessary bag was at hand. In two minutes he followed Dundas up the companion-ladder and they rowed away over the
calm sea to Deal. Speaking in such a way as to be clear to Stephen alone, Dundas gave him to understand that Jack’s second, a Colonel Rankin, could not get down until tomorrow night – Friday; that he had seen Rankin earlier in the week, and that they had decided on an excellent spot near the castle often used for this purpose and convenient in every way. ‘You are provided, I suppose?’ he asked, just before the boat touched.
‘I think so,’ said Stephen. ‘If not, I will call on you.’
‘Goodbye, then,’ said Dundas, shaking his hand. ‘I must go back to my ship. If I do not see you before, then at the time we agreed.’
Stephen settled in at the Rose and Crown, called for a horse, and rode slowly towards Dover, reflecting upon the nature of dunes; upon the extraordinary loneliness surrounding each man; and on the inadequacy of language
– a thought that he would have developed to Jack if he had been given time. ‘And yet for all its inadequacy, how marvellously well it allows them to deal with material things,’ he said, looking at the ships in the roadstead, the unbelievable complexity of named ropes, blocks, sails that would carry the crowd of isolated individuals to the Bosphorus, the West
Indies, Sumatra, or the South Sea whaling grounds. And as he looked, his eyes running along the odd cocked-hat form of the Polychrest he saw her captain’s gig pull away from the side, set its lugsail, and head for Dover.
‘Knowing them both, as I do,’ he observed, ‘I should be surprised if there were much liking between them. It is a perverse relationship. That, indeed, may be the source of its violence.’
Reaching Dover, he went directly to the hospital and examined his patients: his lunatic was motionless, crouched in a ball, sunk even below tears; but Macdonald’s stump was healing well. The flaps were as neat as a parcel, and he noted with pleasure that the hair on them continued to grow in its former direction.
‘You will soon be quite well,’ he said, pointing this out to the Marine. ‘I congratulate you upon an excellent healthy constitution. In a few weeks’ time you will rival Nelson, spring one-handed from ship to ship – happier than the Admiral in that you have your sword-arm still.’
‘How you relieve my mind,’ said Macdonald. ‘I had been mortally afraid of gangrene. I owe you a great deal, Doctor: believe me, I am sensible of it.’ Stephen protested that any butcher, any butcher’s boy, could have done as much – a simple operation – a real pleasure to cut into such healthy flesh – and their conversation drifted away to the likelihood of a French invasion, of a breach with Spain, and to the odd rumours of St Vincent impeaching Lord Melville for malversation, before it returned to Nelson.
‘He is a hero of yours, I believe?’ said Macdonald.
‘Oh, I hardly know anything of the gentleman,’ said Stephen. ‘I have never even seen him.
But from what I understand, he seems quite an active, zealous, enterprising officer. He is much loved in the service, surely? Captain Aubrey thinks the world of him.’
‘Maybe,’ said Macdonald. ‘But he is no hero of mine. Caracciolo sticks in my gullet. And then there is his example.’
‘Could there be a better example, for a sea-officer?’
‘I have been thinking, as I lie here in bed,’ said Macdonald. ‘I have been thinking of justification.’ Stephen’s heart sank: he knew the reputation of the Scots for theological discussion, and he dreaded an outpouring of Calvinistical views, flavoured, perhaps, with some doctrines peculiar to the Royal Marines. ‘Men, particularly Lowlanders, are never content with taking their sins upon their own heads, or with making their own law; a young fellow will play the blackguard, not because he is satisfied that his other parts will outweigh the fact, but because Tom Jones was paid for lying with a woman – and since Tom Jones was a hero, it is quite in order for him to do the same. It might have been better for the Navy if
Nelson had been put to a stable bucket when he was a wee bairn. If the justification that a fellow in a play or a tale can provide, is enough to confirm a blackguard, think what a live
hero can do! Whoremongering – lingering in port – hanging officers who surrender on terms. A pretty example!’ Stephen looked at him attentively for signs of fever; they were certainly there, but to no dangerous degree at present. Macdonald stared out of the window, and whatever he may have seen there, apart from the blank wall, prompted him to say, ‘I hate women. They are entirely destructive. They drain a man, sap him, take away all his good: and none the better for it themselves.’ After a pause, ‘Nasty, nasty queans.’