‘I was sifting with my potto, in the orlop,’ said Stephen, ‘she being a nocturnal creature. What amiable young fellows they are in the cockpit.’
‘Certainly. They are settling down now, growing far less obnoxious; and there are one or two may become seamen, given fifty years or so. But what a feat, to creep up from the orlop in your state of health. I trust they gave you a hand?’
‘Perhaps it was more a question of mutual support,’ said Stephen. ‘My strength is coming back hand over fist. Hand over fist.’ He repeated the nautical phrase with a certain complacency.
Yet although he lied shamefully with one half of his mouth, the other spoke Gospel truth: day after day this beautiful wind blew nobly, carrying the squadron out of the accursed Bight under a press of sail, once to the extent of skyscrapers aboard the Thames after her signal make more sail had been three times repeated, the third repetition emphasized with a windward gun; and day after day Stephen grew brisker, more agile, and (like the potto) greedier.
Many of the sick from the inshore vessels were now aboard the Bellona and other ships of the squadron, most with fevers of one kind or another – tertians, double tertians, remittents and quartans for the most part, though there were three cases of the yellow jack – and very soon Dr Maturin was making at least his morning rounds, with Square in attendance to help him up on deck, where he would stand for half a glass or so, revelling with Jack, Tom and all hands present in the squadron’s pace as the breeze came whistling
in either over the starboard or the larboard bow, no longer a soldier’s wind right aft as it had been the first day they sank the shore, but never heading them either, so that they beat steadily towards the Line, making legs a whole watch long.
‘This has never been known in the memory of the oldest Guineaman,’ said Mr Woodbine, the master, ‘and there are some hands who say your potto has brought the ship good luck.’
A Marine officer on the quarterdeck added, ‘My servant Joe Andrews tells me that many of the old African hands say there is nothing like a potto for luck: and, after all, there is a potto’s field in the Bible, is there not?’
‘Is it true,’ Jack asked Stephen at supper, ‘that Barker and
Overly are on the mend?’
‘It is, too,’ said Stephen, who had sat with them for hours, first persuading their neighbours that the yellow fever was not infectious – they would not ipeak to the poor men else, nor breathe their breath, but remained turned utterly away – and then assuring the patients themselves that they had a very fair chance if they held on with all their might and never gave way to despair. No one could possibly have had more authority in this instance, and although the third man, very far gone, died almost at once, Barker and Overly were likely to find another way to Heaven.
‘Ah,’ said Jack, nodding his head, ‘that was a famous stroke, bringing your potto aboard.’
‘Why, your soul to the Devil, Jack Aubrey, for a vile wicked pagan and an infamously superstitious dog, to be so weak,’
cried Stephen, nettled for once.
‘Oh, I beg pardon,’ said Jack, blushing. ‘I did not mean that at all. Not at all. I only meant it comforted the hands. I am sure your physic did them a power of good, too. I make no sort of doubt of it.’
Beating up, beating steadily up into winds mostly west of south, often changeable but never still – none of those wicked clock-cairns of the Gulf with its dense fever-bearing mists drifting off the shore – and by the time they raised St Thomas, a cloud-capped peak soaring above the horizon at seventy leagues in the south-south-east a half east, Stephen had put on a stone and his breeches would stay up without a pin.
‘There is our salvation,’ cried he, having been called from a peaceful sleep to view the peak in question.
‘How do you mean, our salvation?’ asked Jack suspiciously. He had often been led out of his way or had been attempted to be led out of his way by remote islands said to harbour a cousin of the phoenix, a very curious wren, or the loveless bowers of parthenogenetic lizards (this was in the Aegean), and he had no intention of landing Dr Maturin on St Thomas for another of his timeless rambles: a seaman’s eye could already make out the particular cloud-formation of the longed-for south-east trades a great way off on the starboard bow.
‘My dear Commodore, how can you be so strange? Is it not
I that have been telling you this mortal week and more that
I have barely a drachm of cinchona, of Jesuit’s bark, left in
the dispensary at all? Have not my fever-cases drunk it up day and night? Did not other ships borrow several Winchester
quarts? Was not a whole carboy broke by a great oaf I shall not name? And is not St Thomas the island of the world for bark of the finest quality, guaranteed to clear the sick-
berth out of hand? And not only bark, but the kindly fruits of the earth, whose lack is now becoming evident?’
‘It will mean the loss of a day,’ said Jack. ‘Though I must admit that I did hear some obscure, muttered complaints about bark, both in quantity and quality.’
‘Jesuit’s bark is the one sovereign specific against fever,’ said Stephen. ‘We must have Jesuit’s bark.’
In circumstances that he could no longer exactly recall, probably during a feast at the Keppel’s Head in Portsmouth, Jack had once said that ‘a Jesuit’s bark was worse than his bite,’ a remark received with infinite mirth, cordial admiration. He smiled at the recollection, and looking at his friend’s earnest, guileless face – no parthenogenetic lizards there – he said ‘Very well. But it must be touch and go – just the time to hurry ashore, buy a dozen bottles of bark and away.’ ‘And don’t I wish that may be the case,’ he added to himself.
It was not, of course: it never was the case in any but a British port. First there was the matter of the salute: none of His Majesty’s ships might salute any foreign fort, governor or local dignitary without having first made certain that the same number of guns would be returned. This meant sending in an officer, accompanied by an interpreter – fortunately Mr Adams had a certain amount of Portuguese. Then there was the question of pratique: after the fifteen covenanted guns had boomed to and fro across Chaves Bay, a man from the captain of the port came out in a handsome galley, and on hearing that the squadron was last from the Slave Coast he looked grave and said that since there had been an outbreak of the plague in Whydah three years ago they would have to perform quarantine before anyone could be allowed on shore. Stephen reasoned with him privately, so convincingly that the regulations were slightly eased: the Doctor and a boat from each ship might spend a few hours ashore, but no one was to go more than a hundred paces from the high-tide mark.
As most people in the squadron expected, the second lieutenant of the Thames and the young Marine officer from the Stately who had been Stephen’s neighbour at dinner took this
opportunity, the first, to settle their disagreement. They and their seconds went more than a hundred paces from the shore, but not much, there being a convenient coconut grove at hand. Here the ground was measured out, and at the drop of a handkerchief each young man shot the other in the belly. Each was carried back to his boat, and the question of the Stately’s manliness and fighting qualities remained undecided.
‘Did you know about this rencontre, Stephen?’ asked Jack that evening, when St Thomas was sinking on the southern rim of the sea and the Bellona making up for the loss of time with studdingsails aloft and alow, spread to the south-east trades.
‘Faith, I was there when the provocation was given.’
‘If you had told me, I might have prevented it.’
‘Nonsense. There was a direct offence, and the Stately’s Marine was bound to resent it. No apology was offered, no withdrawal; and this was the necessaty result, as you know very well.’
Jack could not deny it. He shook his head: ‘How I hope the young fellow don’t die. If he do, poor Duff is like to hang himself. Do you think he will recover? The Stately, I mean.’
‘The Dear knows. I have not seen him. It was over before I had done with the apothecary, and all I saw was their blood on the strand. But an abdominal,wound very often has a fatal issue, if the viscera are injured.’