The Surprise sailed between them and the Frenchman, backed two of her topsails and lay there rocking gently.
Jack hailed the Frenchman with the usual cry of the sea, ‘What ship is that?’ his words echoed by Stephen Maturin.
A remarkably handsome young man on the quarterdeck
–
post-captain’s uniform and cocked hat, which he raised – replied, ‘Ardent, of the Imperial Navy.’
At this there was a universal and singularly impressive cry of ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ from the Ardent’s company.
‘My dear sir,’ Jack went on, returning the salute, ‘France is now ruled by His Most Christian Majesty Louis XVIII
–
by my master’s ally. I must ask you to hoist the appropriate colours and accompany me to Malta.’
‘It grieves me to disappoint you, sir,’ said the Ardent’s captain, now very pale with anger, ‘but it would be contrary to my duty.’
‘It grieves me to insist, but if you do not comply we shall be obliged to use force.’
During this time, lengthened by the need for translation, the Algerians had been making short boards: they now lay on the Surprise’s larboard bow and quarter and their people were shrieking orders or advice.
‘Port-lids, both sides,’ called Jack.
The gun-crews had been waiting for the word, and now
the red-painted lids all flew up as one, while two seconds later the guns ran out with a deep echoing thump.
The same happened aboard the Frenchman. ‘Messieurs les Anglais,’ called the Ardent’s captain, ‘tirez les premiers.’
Who in fact fired the first shot was never decided, for once there had been a chance explosion aboard the polacre-settee, both sides went to it as fast as ever they could, a most enormous shattering din that echoed from the castle and the mole, gunfire that covered the immediate shore with a dense cloud of white smoke shot through and through with stabbing orange jets of flame.
At first Surprise’s fire was rather slow – she had not enough hands to fight both sides at once: but very soon the slightbuilt Algerines found they could not bear the weight of her shot and they retreated out of range.
At first the roar of gunfire on the Ardent’s side had been much increased by the shore-batteries, firing eighteenpounders; but even in the tumult of battle the Surprises caught the rapid decline, and those with the odd seconds to spare nodded to one another, smiling, and said, ‘The Jollies.’
And scarcely had the Marines silenced the last of the batteries’ guns than three well-directed shot, fired from Surprise’s aftermost guns on the downward roll, pierced the Ardent’s side, striking her light-room. There was a small explosion, the beginning of a fire, and then some seconds later a second explosion, enormously greater. A vast column of smoke and flame shot into the sky, darkening the sun.
The aftermost third of the frigate was wholly shattered: the wreckage sank directly and the rest followed in a slow hideous lurch, settling on the bottom with only her foretopmast showing. Yet even before she had settled the sea was torn and lashed by falling debris – her whole maintop with several feet of the mast, many great spars, scarcely broken, countless blocks and unrecognizable great smouldering lumps of timber: most of it fell somewhat inshore, but smaller pieces were still raining down minutes later, some trailing smoke.
‘Avast firing,’ cried Jack in the unnatural deafened silence that followed.
‘House the guns. Mr Harding, lower what boats we have left’ – the launch on the booms was pierced through and through – ‘and bid Pomone come within hail.’
He ran below, where Stephen was just straightening after having placed a splint on a torn and broken arm that Poll was quickly, expertly bandaging. ‘The Doctor will soon put you right, Edwardes,’ he said to the patient, and drawing Stephen aside he asked him privately how urgent he thought their mission to Spalato. ‘Of the very first urgency,’ said Stephen. Jack nodded. ‘Very well,’ said he. ‘What is our damage?’
‘Harris shot dead with a musket-ball. Six splinterwounds, one dangerous; and two men hurt by falling blocks.’
A very, very modest butcher’s bill. Jack said a word to each of the men waiting to be treated and returned to the deck. Pomone had already come abreast. ‘Captain Vaux,’
he called, ‘have you suffered much?’
‘Very little, sir, for such a brisk turn-to, short though it was. Four powder-burns; one gun overset, four pair of shrouds cut and damage to the running rigging. Some men hurt by falling blocks and timber. But our boats are all sound.’
‘Then pray lower them down. Pick up what survivors you can and recover our Marines. Land the prisoners at Ragusa
– the new Ragusa up the coast – and then follow me to Spalato without the loss of a minute.’
During the later part of their voyage to Spalato, rendered tedious by capricious winds varying from a furious bora, shrieking down from the north and blowing the foretopmast staysail from its boltrope to very gentle breezes right aft that often died away to a flat calm, and by the hazardous nature of the Dalmatian coast with its many islands, not to say vile reefs, Stephen spent much of his time aloft, at the topmast cross-trees.
With practice he had grown used to the climb
to the maintop, though nobody liked to see him make the attempt, however smooth the calm; and he asserted that he could certainly rise even higher, to the cross-trees, with perfect safety. This however was never countenanced, and Jack required John Daniel to accompany the Doctor if ever he showed an inclination to view anything from a greater height than the carriage of a bow-chaser.
Daniel had sailed these waters in a ship belonging to Hoste’s squadron and once he had overcome his shyness he not only told Stephen the names of the various headlands, promontories and islands but also described some of the actions in which he had taken part, often giving an exact account of the number of round-shot fired and the weight of the powder expended.
Stephen liked the young man, open, friendly and candid, and one day, as they were sitting up there, he said, ‘Mr Daniel, I believe you attach a particular importance to number?’
‘Yes, sir, I do. Number seems to me to be at the heart of everything.’
‘I have heard others say so: and one gentleman I knew in India told me that there was a very special quality in primes.’
‘To be sure,’ said Daniel, nodding. ‘They give one great pleasure.’
‘Can you explain the nature of that pleasure?’
‘No, sir: but I feel it strongly.’
‘Number as the perception of quantity is no doubt a pitifully limited aspect of its true nature; but how many feet, would you say, is it from here to the deck?’
‘Why, sir,’ said Daniel, glancing down, ‘I should reckon a hundred and twelve. Or shall I say a hundred and thirteen, which is prime?’ He looked at Stephen’s face, expecting the pleasure he felt himself; but Stephen only shook his head.
‘There are some unfortunates to whom music brings no sort of delight: I fear that I am excluded not only from the
joy of prime numbers and surds but from the mathematics as a whole. I could wish it were otherwise. I should like to join the company of mathematicians, of people like Pascal, Cardan . .
‘Oh, sir,’ cried Daniel, ‘I am no mathematician in that glorious sense. I just like to play with numbers – fix the ship’s position from a quantity of observations, with as small a cocked hat of error as possible, calculate the rate of sailing, the compound interest on ten pounds invested at two and three quarters per cent a thousand years ago, and games like that.’
‘In an early bestiary,’ said Stephen after a long pause, ‘an antiquarian of my acquaintance once showed me a picture of an amphisbaena, a serpent with a head at each end. I forget its moral significance but I do remember its form – its immensely enviable power of looking fore and aft’ – he slightly emphasized the nautical term and went on, ‘All this bell I have been twisting and turning like a soul in torment, trying to make out
the Pomone behind and the Ringle, God bless her, together with the fabled city of Spalato in front. My buttocks are a grief to me.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Daniel. ‘I believe I could suggest a solution, was you to tell me which you had rather see first.’
‘Oh, Ringle without a doubt.’
‘Then I will turn about, facing aft; and should Pomone heave in sight before sunset, or whenever you choose to go down on deck, I will give you the word. But before I turn let me beg you to look at Brazza again, the big island well beyond the point of Lesina: then to the left of Brazza you have some low-lying land: and when we are a little closer you will see a narrow passage between it and Brazza. Indeed, you could see it now, with your glass.’