– ‘partakes of the nature both of the Guernsey frock and of the free and easy pantaloon.’
The Lively had remained in commission throughout the peace; her people had been together many years, with few changes among the officers, and they had their own way of doing things. All ships were to some degree separate kingdoms, with different customs and a different atmosphere: this was particularly true of those that were on detached service or much by themselves, far from their admirals and the rest of the fleet, and the Lively had been in the East Indies for years on end – it was on her return during the first days of the renewed war that she had had her luck, two French Indiamen in the same day off Finisterre. When she was paid off, Captain Hamond
had no difficulty in manning her again, for most of his people re-entered, and he even had the luxury of turning volunteers away. Jack had met him once or twice -a quiet, thoughtful, unhumorous, unimaginative man in his forties, prematurely grey, devoted to hydrography and the physics of sailing, somewhat old for a frigate-captain -and as he had met him in the company of Lord Cochrane, he had seemed rather to want colour, in comparison with that ebullient nobleman. His first impression of the Lively did not alter during the ceremonies of mustering and quarters: she was obviously a most competent ship with a highly efficient crew of right man-of-war’s men; probably a happy ship in her quiet way, judging from the men’s demeanour and those countless very small signs that a searching, professional eye could see – happy, yet taut; a great distance between officers and men.
But as he and Stephen were sitting in the dining-cabin, waiting for their supper, he wondered how she had come by her reputation as a crack frigate. It was certainly not from her appearance, for although everything aboard was unexceptionally shipshape and man-of-war fashion, there was no extraordinary show of perfection, indeed nothing extraordinary at all, apart from her huge yards and her white manila cordage: her hull and portlids were painted dull grey, with an ochre streak for the gun-tier, her thirty-eight guns were chocolate-coloured, and the only obvious piece of brass was her bell, which shone like burnished gold. Nor was it from her fighting qualities, since from no fault of her own she had seen no action with anything approaching a match for her long eighteen-pounders. Perhaps it was from her remarkable state of readiness. She was permanently cleared for action, or very nearly so: when the drum beat for quarters she might almost have gone straight into battle, apart from a few bulkheads and a minimum of furniture; the two quarterdeck goats walked straight down the ladder by themselves, the hen-coops vanished on an ingenious slide, and the guns in his own cabins were cast loose, something he had never seen before in an exercise. She had a Spartan air: but that in itself was not enough to explain anything, although it did not arise from poverty – the Lively was well-to-do; her captain had recently bought himself a seat in Parliament, her officers were men of private means even before their fortunate stroke, and Hamond insisted upon a handsome allowance from the parents of his midshipmen.
‘Stephen,’ he said, ‘how are your bees?’
‘They are very well, I thank you; they show great activity, even enthusiasm. But,’ he added, with a slight hesitation, ‘I seem to detect a certain reluctance to return to their hive.’
‘Do you mean to say you let them out?’ cried Jack. ‘Do you mean that there are sixty thousand bees howling for blood in the cabin?’
‘No, no. Oh no. Not above half that number; perhaps even less. And if you do not provoke them, I am persuaded you may go to and fro without the least concern; they are not froward bees. They will have gone home by morning, sure; I shall creep in during the middle watch and close their little wicket. But perhaps it might be as well, were we to sit together in this room tonight, just to let them get used to their surroundings. A certain initial agitation is understandable after all, and should not be discountenanced.’
Jack was not a bee, however, and his initial agitation was something else again. It was clear to him that the Lively was a closed, self-sufficing community, an entity to which he
was an outsider. He had served under acting-captains himself, and he knew that they could be regarded as intruders – that they could excite resentment if they took too much upon themselves. They had great powers, certainly, but they were wise not to use them.
Yet on the other hand, he might have to fight this ship; the ultimate responsibility, the loss of reputation or its gain was his, and although he was here only for the time, and although he was not the real owner, he was not going to play King Log. He must move with care, and at the same time with decision. . . a difficult passage. An awkward first lieutenant could prove the very devil. By the grace of God he had a little money in hand: he would be able to entertain them decently for the present, although he could not keep Hamond’s table, with half a dozen to dinner every day. He must hope for another advance from his agent soon, but for the moment he would not look poverty-stricken. There was a Latin tag about poverty and ridicule – elusive:
no hand at Latin. He must not be ridiculous; no captain could afford to be ridiculous.
‘Stephen, oh my dear fellow,’ he said to the tell-tale compass over his cot (for he was in his sleeping-cabin), ‘what induced you to put on that vile thing? What a singular genius you have for hiding your talent under a bushel – a bushel that no one could possibly have foreseen.’
In the gun-room, however, another sound of things was heard. ‘No, gentlemen,’ said Mr Floris, the surgeon. ‘I do assure you he is a great man. I have read his book until it is dog-eared – a most luminous exposition, full of pregnant reflections, a mine of nervous expressions. When the Physician of the Fleet came to inspect us, he asked me whether I had read it, and I was happy to show him my copy, interleaved and annotated, and to tell him that I required my assistants to get whole passages by heart. I tell you, I long to be introduced to him. I long for his opinion on poor Wallace.’
The gun-room was impressed; it had a deep respect for learning, and but for that unfortunate remark about East Indiamen it would have been ready to accept the wool garment as a philosopher’s vagary, a knitted Diogenes’ tub.
‘Yet if he has been in the service,’ said Mr Simmons, ‘what are we to make of his remark about the East Indiaman? It was very like a direct affront, and it was delivered with a strangely knowing leer.’
Mr Floris looked at his plate, but found no justification
there. The chaplain coughed, and said that perhaps they should not judge by appearances – perhaps the gentleman had had a momentary absence – perhaps he meant that the Indiaman was the very type of sea-going luxury, which indeed it was; a well-appointed Indiaman was to be preferred, in point of comfort, to a first-rate.
‘That makes it worse,’ observed the third lieutenant, an ascetic young man so tall and thin that it was difficult to see where he could sleep at length, if not in the cable-tier.
‘Well, for my part,’ said the senior Marine, the caterer to the mess, ‘I shall drink to his health and eternal happiness in a glass of this excellent Margaux, as sound as a nut, whatever the parson may say. Such an example of courage as coming aboard like Badger-Bag, with a narwhal-horn in one hand and a green umbrella in the other, has never come under my observation. Bless him.’
The gun-room blessed him, but without much conviction, except for Mr Floris; and they went on to discuss the health of Cassandra, the last of the Lively’s gibbons, the last of that numerous menagerie which she had borne away from Java and the remoter islands of the eastern seas. They did not discuss their acting-captain at all: he had come with the reputation of a seaman and a fighter; of a rake and of a protégé of Lord Melville. Captain Hamond was a supporter of Lord St Vincent; and he had gone to Parliament to vote with St Vincent’s friends; and Lord St Vincent, who hated Pitt and his administration, was working to impeach Lord Melville for malversation of the secret funds and to get him out of the Admiralty. The Lively’s officers all shared their captain’s views – strong Whigs to a man.