‘Come, brother,’ said Stephen in his ear, very like a dream. ‘Come below. You must come below – here is too much blood altogether. Below, below. Here, Bonden, carry him with me.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fanciulla
The Downs
20 September 04
My dear Sir,
By desire of your son William, my brave and respectable midshipman, I write a hasty line to inform you of our brush with the French last week. The claim of distinction which has been bestowed on the ship I commanded, I must entirely, after God, attribute to the zeal and fidelity of my officers, amongst whom your son stands conspicuous. He is very well, and I hope will continue so. He had the misfortune of being wounded a few minutes after boarding the Fanciulla, and his arm is so badly broken, that I fear it must suffer amputation. But as it is his left arm, and likely to do well under the great skill of Dr Maturin, I hope you will think it an honourable mark instead of a misfortune.
We ran into Chaulieu road on the 14th instant and had the annoyance of grounding in a fog under the cross-fire of their batteries, when it became necessary to cut out a vessel to heave us off. We chose a ship moored under one of the batteries and proceeded with all dispatch in the boats. It was in taking her that your son received his wound: and she proved to be the Ligurian corvetto Fanciulla of 20 guns, with some French officers. We then proceeded to attack the transports, your son exerting himself all this time with the utmost gallantry, of which we took one, sank one, and drove five ashore. At this point the Polychrest unfortunately sank, having been
hulled by upwards of 200 shot and having beaten five hours on the bank. We therefore proceeded in the prizes to the Downs, where the court-martial, sitting yesterday afternoon in the Monarch, most honourably acquitted the Polychrest’s officers for the loss of their ship, not without some very obliging remarks. You will find a fuller account of this little action in my Gazette letter, which appears in tomorrow’s newspaper, and in which I have the pleasure of naming your son; and since I am this moment bound for the Admiralty, I shall have the pleasure of mentioning him to the First Lord.
My best compliments wait on Mrs Babbington, and I am, my dear Sir, With great truth, sincerely yours,
Jno. Aubrey
PS. Dr Maturin desires his compliments, and wishes me to say, that the arm may very well be saved. But, I may add, he is the best hand in the Fleet with a saw, if it comes to that; which I am sure will be a comfort to you and Mrs Babbington.
‘Killick,’ he cried, folding and sealing it. ‘That’s for the post. Is the Doctor ready?’
‘Ready and waiting these fourteen minutes,’ said Stephen in a loud, sour voice. ‘What a wretched tedious slow hand you are with a pen, upon my soul. Scratch-scratch, gasp-gasp. You might have written the Iliad in half the time, and a commentary upon it, too.’
‘I am truly sorry, my dear fellow – I hate writing letters: it don’t seem to come natural, somehow.’
‘Non omnia possumus omnes,’ said Stephen, ‘but at least we can step into a boat at a stated time, can we not? Now here is your physic, and here is your bolus; and remember, a quart of porter with your breakfast, a quart at midday. . .
They reached the deck, a scene of very great activity: swabs, squeegees, holystones, prayer-books, bears grinding in all directions; her twenty brass guns hot with polishing; the smell of paint; for the Fanciullas, late Polychrests, had heard that their prize was to be bought
into the service, and they felt that a pretty ship would fetch a higher price than a slattern –
a price that concerned them
intimately, since three-eighths of it would be theirs
‘You will bear my recommendations in mind, Mr Parker,’ said Jack, preparing to go down the side.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ cried Parker. ‘All this is voluntary.’ He looked at Jack with great earnestness; apart from any other
reason, the lieutenant’s entire future hung on what his
captain would say of him at the Admiralty that evening
Jack nodded, took the side-ropes with a careful grasp and lowered himself slowly into the boat: a ragged, good-natured, but very brief cheer as it pushed off, and the Fanciullas hurried back to their scouring, currying and
polishing, the surveyor was due at nine o’clock
‘A little to the left – to the larboard,’ said Stephen. ‘Where was I? A quart of porter with your dinner: no wine, though you may take a glass or two of cold negus before retiring; no beef or mutton – fish, I say, chicken,
a pair of rabbits; and, of course, Venerem omitte.’
‘Eh? Oh, her. Yes. Certainly. Quite so. Very proper. Rowed of all – run her up.’ The boat ground through the
shingle. They ploughed across the beach, crossed the road into the dunes. ‘Here?’ asked Jack.
‘Just past the gibbet – a little dell, a place I know, convenient in every way. Here we are.’
They turned a dune and there was a dark-green post-chaise and its postillion eating his breakfast out of a cloth bag.
‘I wish we could have worked the hearse,’ muttered Jack.
‘Stuff. Your own father would not recognize you in that bandage and in this dirty-yellow come-kiss-me-death exsanguine state: though indeed you look fitter for a hearse than many a subject I have cut up. Come, come, there is not a moment to lose. Get in.
Mind the step. Preserved Killick, take good care of the Captain: his physic, well shaken, twice a day; the bolus thrice. He may offer to forget his bolus, Killick.’
‘He’ll take his nice bolus, sir, or my name’s not Preserved.’
‘Clap to the door. Give way, now; give way all together. Step out! Lay aloft! Tally! And belay!’
They stood watching the dust of the post-chaise; and Bonden said, ‘Oh, I do wish as we’d worked the hearse-and-coffin lark, sir: if they was to nab him now, it would break my heart.’
‘How can you be so simple, Bonden? Do but think of a hearse and four cracking on regardless all the way up the Dover Road. It would be bound to excite comment. And you are to consider, that a recumbent posture is bad for the Captain at present.’
‘Well, sir. But, a hearse is sure: no bum ever arrested a corpse, as I know of. Howsoever, it’s too late now. Shall you pull back along of us, sir, or shall we come for you again?’
‘I am obliged to you, Bonden, but I believe I shall walk into Dover and take a boat back from there.’
The post-chaise whirled through Kent, saying little. Ever since Chaulieu Jack had been haunted by the dread of tipstaffs. His return to the Downs, with no ship and a couple of prizes, had made a good deal of noise -very favourable noise, but still noise – and he had not set foot on shore until this morning, refusing invitations even from the Lord Warden himself. He was moderately well-to-do; the Fanciulla might bring him close on a thousand pounds and the transport a hundred or two; but would the Admiralty pay head-money according to the Fanciulla’s muster-roll when so many of her people had
escaped on shore? And would his claim for gun-money for the destroyed transports be allowed? His new prize-agent had shaken his head, saying he could promise nothing but delay; he had advanced a fair. sum, however, and Jack’s bosom had the pleasant crinkle of Bank of England notes. Yet he was nowhere near being solvent, and passing through Canterbury, Rochester and Dartford he cowered deep in his corner. Stephen’s assurances had little force with him: he knew he was Jack Aubrey, and it seemed inevitable that others too should see him as Jack Aubrey, debtor to Grobian, Slendrian and Co. for £1
1,012 6s 8d. With better reason it seemed to him inevitable that those interested should know that he must necessarily be summoned to the Admiralty, and take their steps accordingly. He did not get out when they changed horses; he passed most of the journey keeping out of sight and dozing – he was perpetually tired these days – and he was asleep when Killick roused him with a respectful but firm ‘Time for your bolus, sir.’
Jack eyed it: this was perhaps the most nauseating dose that Stephen had ever yet compounded, so vile that health itself was scarcely worth the price of swallowing it. ‘I can’t get it down without a drink,’ he said.
‘Hold hard,’ cried Killick, putting his head and shoulders out of the window. ‘Post-boy, ahoy. Pull in at the next public, d’ye hear me, there? Now, sir,’ – as the carriage came to a stop – I’ll just step in and see if the coast is clear.’ Killick had spent little of his life ashore, and most of that little in an amphibious village in the Essex mud; but he was fly; he knew a great deal about landsmen, most of whom were crimps, pickpockets, whores, or officials of the Sick and Hurt Office, and he could tell a gum a mile off. He saw them everywhere.