‘Well, I am sure it is very good if you are used to it: but I fear that such very heavy cooking does not suit my digestion, delicate from childhood. Frankly, sir, I think that I may die.’
After the usual questions, palpations and other gestures, Stephen suggested a comfortable vomit: this was rejected with a shudder, but a moderate glass of brandy was exhibited with some small beneficial effect, and they spent the rest of their time playing a languid series of games of piquet for love, keeping themselves awake with coffee.
At last however they heard the bosun’s call and the watch on deck manning the side; and a midshipman came below with the Commodore’s compliments: Caroline’s barge was pulling across.
It was an affectionate farewell between the two commanders, but both were hoarse with talking; and when Jack Aubrey turned from the side after a last wave to ChristyPallière he looked tired and worn. ‘Can you spare me a minute?’ he asked Stephen.
‘How I wish you had been with us,’ he went on as they sat by the stern windows, watching the French ship haul her wind and head for Mahon, followed by her shabby consort.
‘It would never have done.’ –
‘No. I suppose not … but if only someone could have
taken notes. He is a dear fellow and a capital seaman, but he does tend to ramble in his speech and start false hares:
and in any case it is, as he often said, an extraordinarily complicated situation in the Adriatic – divided loyalties – some good men on either side, but more waiting to see which way the cat jumps, or as Christy put it “trying to reinsure themselves” in either event. And some of course are just out for the main chance, privateering on their own account or with Algerine renegadoes. Most of them think that Boney will win; and to be sure he had collected an extraordinary number of followers. . . One of the things that struck Christy most was the utter confusion in Paris. He went there last year, and having made the proper declarations and sworn the same oaths all over again at their Admiralty, and having complained in the right quarters about the continued delay in payment for the repairing and refitting of Caroline in Ragusa, he attended a levee. There were many people there, several of them men he had never seen who were wearing naval uniform, sometimes of high rank, who stared at him:
it was a curious atmosphere of caution and jockeying for position – it was known that he had come up from the Adriatic and some of his service acquaintances avoided him. But when the king spoke to him quite kindly and told a naval aide-de-camp to ask Monsieur Lesueur to receive him that day, there was a singular change – he was no longer potentially dangerous to know. Yet the change had not reached the Ministry: there he found a different set of officials who did not know him, who did not know anything at all about him or his ship – what was her name? What type of vessel? – and who, looking at him with narrowed eyes, made him go through all the earlier formalities once more.
Monsieur Lesueur was not available, they said; but he might be the next afternoon. So he was, and although he kept ChristyPallière waiting for an hour and three quarters he did say that he was sorry for it – that Christy would understand that at such times he was not master of his movements – that
the Ministry would very much appreciate a detailed report on the position in the Adriatic, where it was feared that irregularities might be taking place – and that Captain Christy-Palliere would be well advised to wait on Admiral Lafarge.
‘Christy-Palliêre had served under Lafarge in his youth:
they had neither of them liked one another then and they neither of them liked one another now. Lafarge’s face was still scarlet from his last interview and in the same angry tone he asked Christy-Pallière who the devil had given him leave to come up to Paris, and brushing aside his explanation told him that His Majesty did not pay him for whoring about in the capital and making interest for himself: his clear duty was to return to his ship directly, to attend to her repair and refitting, and to await further orders. The Admiral wished neither to listen to his excuses nor to see him again.
‘Christy also told me that this Admiral Lafarge had a half-brother and a cousin in the Adriatic, both of whom were said to have been in communication with Bonaparte when he was on Elba; and that may be an explanation. Just what it might explain I do not know: but I tell you what, Stephen, my wits are strangely muddled – not only am I afraid of forgetting
half what Christy told me, but I am as far out of my depth in this devious kind of business as he was: more so, indeed. When we had brought him back to his ship – and a horrible journey he had of it, poor fellow – he said it would be easier for him to explain the situation in the Adriatic, as far as he understood it at all, if we were standing at the chart-table. Shall we do the same?’
‘By all means.’
‘Well, here is Castelnuovo, on the northern tip of the Bocche di Cattaro: Caroline was being repaired and refitted in a perfectly reputable yard just round the headland.
Inside the bay there were two brigs of war not far from completion. Now up to Ragusa Vecchio, and there is a thirty-two-gun frigate almost ready for sea after a long refitting in two
different yards – almost ready but for some of the shortages that I had and a near-complete lack of cables and hawsers:
she is commanded by a fervent Bonapartist. He is called Charles de La Tour, an odd sort of fellow – Christy rather likes him, in a way. A pretty good seaman, and not at all shy: several creditable actions, and it was he who made that dash at Phoebe, very nearly cutting her out. But extremely romantic and a great admirer of Byron: he learnt English on purpose. The only thing Christy cannot bear is this passion for Bonaparte. La Tour knows the campaigns through and through and he is said to carry one of the imperial gloves in his bosom. Yet he is of considerable family and perfectly well bred. By the way, I should have said that although most of the sea-officers up and down the coast are reasonably sure that Bonaparte will win, not many have openly declared for him. This Ragusa Vecchio ship, which according to rumour is paid for in part by a group of Algerines, is moored up against the ruined castle. Now moving northward up the islands, there are at least half a dozen small yards building cutters, xebecs and brigs, obviously intended for privateering: yet recently work has almost stopped for want of funds and material. But moving up to Spalato, there lies the Cerbère, pretty well ready for sea, whose commander, never happy with the Empire or the Emperor, would be perfectly willing to surrender to Louis XVIII’s allies if they appeared in face-saving force and made a great deal of noise. On the other hand, Christy was really anxious about the number of people who were sitting on the fence and the amount of damage they could do if things looked just a little better for Bonaparte – the havoc they could work on the supplies for the Valetta yards: timber, cordage and everything that came down from the Dalmatian shore.’
He paused. ‘And he was even more concerned with some kind of a plot that he had heard of at third or second hand but that neither he nor his best, most trustworthy informant thoroughly understood – the informant’s English was most imperfect in any case and Christy’s Greek and lingua franca worse. Yet imperfect though it was, the account impressed him very deeply. It appears that the Mussulmans of the country are preparing to send a very powerful, seasoned force of mercenaries north to prevent the junction of the Austrian and Russian armies – if possible to make each side believe in the treachery of the other – but in any case to delay their united march westward, giving Napoleon time to bring up his reserves from the south-east and to establish himself in a very strong position for battle. He felt that there was an extreme urgency. That is why he put to sea, with most of his water and half his cables still on shore.’
‘I am sure he is right,’ said Stephen. ‘So is the Admiralty:
that is why we are here. I think you know that Jacob, my nominal assistant, was assigned to me by Sir Joseph? He has worked in our department for years. He speaks the languages of these parts with extraordinary fluency. What I should like you to do is to put him aboard the Ringle and desire William Reade to carry him with all possible speed to Kutali – we have true friends in that fine city, I believe – there to learn all that Sciahan Bey and his vizier, the Orthodox bishop and the Catholic bishop, and all the private connexions he may have can tell him, and then to return to us with the same extreme rapidity, either in Malta or if I may suggest it, on our way up the Dalmatian coast.’