“Oh, indeed?” said Jack, his eye still to his telescope. The rosy glow in his mind had
strange lurid edges to it now. Those were in fact the French navy’s most recent, very heavy frigates, the envy of the British dockyards. Buonaparte had all the forests of Europe at his command, splendid Dalmatian oak, tall northern spars, best Riga hemp; and although the man himself was the merest soldier, his ship-builders turned out the finest vessels afloat and he had some very capable officers to command them. Forty guns apiece. The Nereide had thirty-six, but only twelve-pounders: Boadicea and Sirius, with their eighteen-pounders, might be a match for the Frenchmen, particularly if the French crews were as new as their ships; but even so, that was a hundred and sixty guns to a hundred and ten to say nothing of the broadside weight of metal. Everything would depend on how those guns were handled. The other forces at the Cape hardly entered into the line of count. The flagship, the ancient Raisonable, 64, could no more be considered a fighting unit than the antique French Canonniere: he could not offhand recall the smaller vessels on the station, apart from the Otter, a pretty eighteen-gun ship-sloop: but in any case, if it came to a general action, the frigates alone must bear the brunt. The Nereide he knew of, the crack frigate of the West Indies station, and in Corbett she had a fighting captain; Pym he knew by reputation; but Clonfert of the Otter was the only captain he had ever sailed with . . . Across the round of his objective-glass travelled a purposeful Marine, mounted on a horse. “0 blessed form,” murmured Jack, following him behind a haystack with his telescope, “he will be here in twenty minutes. I shall give him a guinea.”
All at once the Indian Ocean, the Mauritius command, took on a new, infinitely more concrete reality: the characters of Admiral Bertie, Captain Pym, Captain Corbett and even Lord Clonfert assumed a great practical importance: so did the immediate problems of a new command. Although his intimacy with Stephen Maturin did not allow him to ask questions that might be judged impertinent, it was of such a rare kind that he could ask for money without the least hesitation. “Have you any money, Stephen?” he said, the Marine having vanished in the trees. “How I hope you have. I shall have to borrow the Marine’s guinea from you, and a great deal more besides, if his message is what I dearly trust. My half-pay is not due until the month after next, and we are living on credit.”
“Money, is it?” said Stephen, who had been thinking about lemurs. There were lemurs in Madagascar: might there not be lemurs on Reunion? Lemurs concealed among the forests and the mountains of the interior? “Money? Oh, yes, I have money galore.” He felt in his pockets. “The question is, where is it?” He felt again, patted his bosom, and brought out a couple of greasy two pound notes on a country bank. “That is not it,” he muttered, going through his pockets again. “Yet I was sure–was it in my other coat? did I perhaps leave it in London?–you are growing old, Maturin–ah, you dog, there you are!” he cried triumphantly, returning to the first pocket and drawing forth a neat roll, tied with tape.
“There. I had confused it with my lancet-case. It was Mrs Broad of the Grapes that did it up, finding it in a Bank of England wrapper that I had–that I had neglected. A most ingenious way of carrying money, calculated to deceive the pick-pocket. I hope it will suffice.”
“How much is it?” asked Jack.
“Sixty or seventy pound, I dare say.”
“But, Stephen, the top note is a fifty, and so is the next. I do not believe you ever counted them.”
“Well, never mind, never mind,” said Stephen testily. “I meant a hundred and sixty.
Indeed, I said as much, only you did not attend.”
They both straightened, cocking their ears. Through the beating of the rain came Sophie’s voice calling, “Jack! Jack!” and rising to a squeak as she darted into the observatory, breathless and wet. “There is a Marine from the port admiral,” she said between her gasps, “and he will not give his message except into your own hands. Oh, Jack, might it be a ship?”
A ship it was. Captain Aubrey was required and directed to repair aboard HMS Boadicea and to take upon himself the command of the said vessel, for which the enclosed order was to be the warrant: he was to touch at Plymouth, there to receive on board R.T.
Farquhar, Esquire, at the Commissioner’s office, and any further orders that might be transmitted to him at that place. These stately, somewhat inimical documents (as usual, Captain Aubrey was to fail not, at his peril), were accompanied by a friendly note from the Admiral, asking Jack to dine with him the next day, before going aboard.
Now that direct action was legitimate, it burst forth with such force that Ashgrove Cottage was turned upside-down in a moment. At first Mrs Williams clung tenaciously to her scheme for changing the parlour curtains, clamouring that it must be done–what would Lady Clonfert think?–and protesting that she should not be overborne; but her strength was as nothing compared with that of a newly appointed frigate-captain burning to join his ship before the evening gun, and in a few minutes she Joined her daughter and the distracted maid in brushing uniforms, madly darning stockings and ironing neck-cloths, while Jack trundled his sea-chest in the attic and roared down to know where was his neat’s-foot oil, and who had been at his pistols? adjuring them “to bear a hand,” “to look alive’, “to lose not a minute below there’, “to light along the sextant-case’.
Lady Clonfert’s arrival, so much in the forefront of Mrs Williams’s mind not an hour before, passed almost unnoticed in the turmoil, a turmoil increased by the howling of. neglected children, which reached its paroxysm as her coachman thundered on the door. A full two minutes of strenuous battering passed by before the door was opened and she was able to walk into the naked parlour, whose old curtains lay on one end of the settle and the new on the other.
Poor lady, she had but a sad time of it. She had dressed with particular care in garments designed not to offend Mrs Aubrey by being too fashionable or becoming yet at the same time to beguile Captain Aubrey, and she had prepared an artless speech about sailors”
wives, Clonfert’s respect and affection for his old shipmate, and her perfect familiarity with life aboard a man-of-war, together with some slight hints as to her acquaintance with General Mulgrave, the First Lord, and with Mrs Bertie, the wife of the Admiral at the Cape.
This she delivered to Stephen, wedged into a dim corner by the clock under a drip, with some charming asides to Sophie; and she was obliged to repeat it when Jack appeared,
trailing cobwebs from the attic and bearing his chest. It is difficult to sound artless twice in quick succession, but she did her best, for she was sincerely devoted to the prospect of escaping an English winter, and the idea of seeing her husband again filled her with a pleasurable excitement. Her confusion caused her bosom to rise and fall, a blush to overspread her pretty face, and from his corner Stephen observed that she was doing quite well against heavy odds–that Jack, at least, was not unmoved by her distress. Yet he also noticed, with regret, a certain stiffening in Sophie’s attitude, a constraint in her civil smile, and something near acerbity in her reply to Lady Clonfert’s suggestion that she too might darn the Captain’s stockings and make herself useful during the voyage. Mrs Williams’s stony reserve, her repeated sniff, her ostentatious busyness, he took for granted; but although he had long known that jealousy formed part of Sophie’s character–
perhaps the only part that he could have wished otherwise he was grieved to see it thus displayed. Jack had caught the signals as quickly as his friend–Stephen saw his anxious glance–and his cordiality towards Lady Clonfert, never very great, sensibly diminished; although he did repeat what he had said at the beginning–that he should be happy to carry her ladyship to the Cape. What had preceded that glance, to make it so anxious? Dr.
Maturin lapsed into a meditation upon the marriage state: monogamy, an aberration? How widely spread in time and place? How strictly observed? From this train of thought he was aroused by Jack’s strong voice stating that her ladyship was certainly aware of the tediousness of tiding down the Channel, that he strongly recommended her posting to Plymouth, that he begged stores and baggage might be kept to a minimum, and that once again he must urge the most exact punctuality however short the notice: “for his part he should gladly lose a tide to be of use, but on the King’s service he must not lose a minute.”