‘Perhaps the miserable slaves may be worthy of consideration too,’ observed Stephen.
‘Oh, certainly; and I should very much dislike being a slave myself. But Nelson did say that if you abolished the trade. . .’ He broke off, saying ‘However,’ for this was one of the few points on which they wholly disagreed. ‘Do you think, Stephen,’ he went on after a moment during which the Ringle shot across their wake – she, being the Bellona’s tender, was not required to keep to any particular station, so long as she was always within hail, and Reade made the most of her delightful powers – ‘Do not think that I am murmuring or discontented or ungrateful for having this splendid command. But I have thought, and reflected, and pondered. . .’
‘Brother,’ said Stephen, ‘you grow prolix.’
‘.
. . and I believe it is too splendid for the work it is given.
Besides, there are several things I have disliked about it almost from the beginning: it was booted abroad like any football, and the newspapers had pieces like “We learn from a gentleman very close to the Ministry that extremely strong measures against the odious traffic in Negroes have been decided to be made, and the gallant Captain Aubrey, determined that Freedom shall reign by sea as well as by land, has sailed with a powerful squadron”, and the wretch names them all with complement and number of guns. And that paper, with the Post and the Courier, also pointed out, very truly, that this was the first time line-of-battle ships had ever been sent on such a mission. “A very great effort to stamp out this vile commerce in human flesh was to be made, which redounded much to the something of the Ministry.” I read that in Lisbon; and then there were dozens more of the same kind. There has been a great deal of fuss and unnecessary talk, often very personal and unpleasant – flashy. How can we be expected to take them by surprise if it is shouted from the housetops? But what I really meant to say was that whether there is good news or no, I am sure as you can be of anything at sea that there will be little wind or none at all, and I mean to ask the post captains to dinner. You cannot have an even half-efficient squadron without there is reasonable good understanding.’
‘If you wish to reach a good understanding with the Purple Emperor, you have but to tell him of Lord Nelson, slavery and the Royal Navy. His surgeon consulted me about the imperial health: I went across to look at the patient, and he gave me his views on our mission: it was the greatest nonsense to try to guard a great stretch of coast from nortb to south with a squadron of our size. And even if we were confined to the general area of Whydah for example, no ship of the line and very few frigates could catch a slaver, except in very heavy weather. They were nearly all long low schooners, very weatherly, built above all for speed and handled by capital seamen. But even if that was not the case, what would be the point? The poor creatures, coming from all sorts of tribes in the interior, with no common language between them and often deadly hatred, were, upon being rescued, put down in Sierra Leone or some other crowded well-meaning place and told to
till a plot – people who had never tilled anything in their lives and who ate different kinds of food. No, no. It was far better, far kinder, to let them take the rapid and easy middle passage, be landed quickly in the West Indies and sold to men who would not only look after them – anyone with any sense of his own interest takes care of what has cost him dear – but who might also make Christians of them, which was the kindest thing of all, since the slaves would be saved, while all those left in Africa or taken back to Africa must necessarily be damned. He then repeated your piece about the abolition of the slave-trade being the destruction of the Navy, and ended by saying that slavery was approved in Holy Writ. He was, however, firmly determined to carry out his orders to the very best of his ability, that being the duty of an officer.’
‘What did you say to that, Stephen?’
‘Faith, I said nothing – there were few intervals into which I could have slipped a word – but from time to time I made a noncommittal movement of my head. Then I prescribed him a dose that may have a mollifying effect: it will certainly purge his more malignant humours.’
‘Perhaps he will be better company. It must be a weary life, being in a permanent state of rage or at least at half-cock.’ Jack’s ear caught the little ping of the chiming and repeating watch in Stephen’s pocket. ‘The last dog,’ he cried, and walking into the cabin he rang for a midshipman. ‘Mr Wetherby,’ he said, ‘be so good as to carry my compliments to Captain Pullings and say that I should like to know the distance made good since the noon observation.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the young gentleman, and he came back in under a minute with a slip of paper. Jack looked at it, smiled, stepped into the master’s day-cabin for a last check, and hurried to the iron box in his locker – pierced iron, weighted with lead, for documents that must not be taken, that must sink on being thrown overboard, sunk at once, beyond recovery: signals, codes, official letters. His secret orders were the most voluminous he had ever received, and he saw with keen pleasure that they included the remarks and observations of those commanders who had preceded him since 1808 with the same missions, for his own acquaintance with the coast was almost entirely confined to sailing past it as far off and as quickly as possible, an extraordinarily unhealthy part of the world and, close in, with variable winds or calms, and distressing currents.
But when he had turned them over he ran his eye down the orders themselves, and half way along his face glowed bright with pleasure. With extreme rapidity his glance seized the fact that having harrassed the slavers, he was at a certain date and in a given longitude and latitude, to assemble the ships named in the margin and steer an appropriate course to intercept and destroy a French squadron that would sail from Brest at a given date, at first heading for the Azores and then in or about twenty-five degrees of west longitude changing course for Bantry Bay. All this was accompanied by a mass of qualifications, but Jack was used to them; he had grasped the essence in a moment and his eyes ran down to the paragraph that had ended so many of his orders: that in this undertaking he was to consult and advise with Dr Stephen Maturin (through whom more precise dates and positions might later be conveyed through suitable channels) on all points that might have a political or diplomatic significance. Disregarding the assurance (their Lordships’ graceful finishing touch) that he must not fail in this or any part of it as he would answer the contrary at his peril, he called Stephen in from the great stern-gallery, the most engaging piece of naval architecture known to man, in fact. But hardly had the
Doctor turned before the radiance in Jack’s face, smile, eyes dropped by two or three powers:
the French clearly intended another invasion of Ireland, or liberation as they put it, and he felt a little shy of broaching the matter. Stephen had never made his views vehemently, injuriously clear, but Jack knew very well that he preferred the English to stay in England and to leave the government of Ireland to the Irish.
Stephen saw the change in his face – a large essentially red face in spite of the tan in which his blue eyes shone with an uncommon brilliance, a face made for good humour –
and the papers in his hand.
‘You know all about this, I am sure, Stephen?’ Stephen nodded. ‘Anyhow, there is a paper for you’ – holding it out – ‘Shall we take a turn on the poop?’
Privacy, even for a commodore of the first class with a post-captain under him and a rear-admiral’s hat, was a rare bird in the man-of-war, that intensely curious and gossiping community, above all in a man-of-war with such more than usually inquisitive hands as Killick and his mate Grimble, whose duties took them into holy places and who were extraordinarily knowing about which grating on which deck and with which wind was likely to carry voices best.
The poop, a fine lordly sweep of about fifty feet by twentyeight, was soon cleared of the signal yeoman and his friends and Jack and Stephen paced the deck athwartships for a while.