She was still there on Friday; Saturday and Sunday, for the monsoon, which had been blowing so true and steady all the time they were in Batavia, now gave way to breezes so contrary she was never able to weather that wretched headland. Jack tried everything a sailor could try: anchoring with three cables end to end to stem the flood and take advantage of the ebb; going to sea in search of a favourable wind among the Thousand Islands; beating up tack upon tack, with the Nutmeg running as fast through the sea as the utmost attention and consummate seamanship could drive her, but with no gain, because the entire body of water upon which she skimmed with such breathless care was moving westwards at an equal or even greater pace. Sometimes, when it fell calm, he tried sweeping, for the Nutmeg, though much bigger than most vessels that resorted to these massive great oars, was not too proud to win a mile or two towards the cape at the cost of sore and somewhat
ignominious labour. And sometimes he towed, with all the ship’s boats pulling their hearts out ahead. But most of the
}
time the air was in motion of some kind and he sailed: this gained him no casting, but he did learn a great deal about his
J
ship. She was neither brisk nor lively with the wind much abaft the beam, but on a bowline she was as fast and weatherly as a man could desire, almost as fast and weatherly as the Surprise, and without her tendency to gripe and steer wild if an expert hand were not at the wheel During the frequent and oh so unwelcome calms he and the master changed her trim until they hit upon the improbable lay that suited her best -the haif-strake by the stern they had begun with – and then the Nutmeg steered herself.
Yet even with a perfect trim she could not fly in the face of nature and sail against both wind and tide, and at breakfast on Sunday Jack said, I have very rarely acted on principle,
and on the few occasions when I have done so, it has always ended unhappy There was a girl that said Upon your word of
honour now, Mr Aubrey, do you think Caroline handsomer than me?” and on the principle that honour was sacred I said
well yes, perhaps, a little, which angered her amazingly and quite broke off our commerce, do you see And now, out of mere principle again, I stayed until Thursday for the Gover nors dinner – I am not blaming you, Stephen, not for a moment: though it is true that you can never be brought to understand that time and tide wait for no man – but when I think of all that double-reef topsail south-wester wasted, a wind that might have carried us as far as 112°East, why then I say be damned to principle.’
‘Is there any more marmalade?’ asked Stephen.
Jack passed it and went on, ‘But religion is another thing, if you understand me. I mean to rig church this morning, and I wonder whether it would be improper to pray for a fair wind.’
‘It is certainly allowable to pray for rain, and I know that it is quite often done. But as to wind . . . might not that have a most offensive resemblance to your present heathen practices? Might it not look like a mere reinforcement of your scratching backstays and whistling till you are black in the face? Or even,
God forbid, to Popery? Martin would tell us the Anglican usage. We Papists would of course beg for the intercession of our patron or some perhaps more appropriate saint: I shall certainly do so in my private devotions. Yet even without Martin, I believe you would be safe in forming, if not in uttering, a vehement wish.’
‘How I wish Martin were here: or rather that we were there, east of the Passage. How are they doing? How have they done? Will they be true to their time? Lord, how I wonder.’
‘Who is this Martin they are talking about in the cabin?’ asked Killick’s new mate, a man-of-war’s man from Wapping, left behind with six others from the Thunderer to recover from Batavia fever. He alone had survived; and as he had not only his proper discharge, smart-ticket and a commendation from his captain but had also sailed with Jack and Killick at various times in the last twenty years he had been taken on board at once. It was not that he was a particularly well-trained or genteel servant – indeed he was if anything even rougher than Killick – nor that he was an uncommonly expert seaman, being rated able only by courtesy; but he was a cheerful obliging fellow; and above all he was an old shipmate.
‘You ain’t heard of Mr Martin?’ asked Killick, stopping short in his polishing of a silver plate.
‘No, mate: never a word,’ said the mate, whose name was William Grimshaw.
‘Never heard of the Reverend Mr Martin?’
‘Not even of the Reverend Mr Martin.’
‘Which he had only one eye,’ said Killick; and then, reflecting, ‘No. Of course it was after your time. He was chaplain of Surprise in the South Sea, being a great friend of the Doctor’s. They went collecting wild beasts and butterflies on the Spanish Main – serpents, shrunken heads, dried babies – curiosities, you might say – which they put up in spirits of wine.’
‘I saw a lamb with five legs, once,’ said William Grimshaw. ‘Then when the Captain had his misfortune and took to privateering, Reverend Martin came along too, having had a misfortune likewise. Something to do with his bishop’s wife, they said.’
‘Bishops don’t have wives, mate,’ said Grimshaw.
‘Well, his miss, his sweetheart, then. But he came along as surgeon’s mate, not as parson, no parsons being wanted in a letter of marque.’
‘Nor in a man-of-war neither.’
‘And there he is as surgeon of Surprise at this wery moment, cutting up his shipmates – a fearless hand with a knife by now, having stuffed so many crocodiles and baboons and the like -and waiting for us, God willing, off of some islands beyond this Passage, a quiet, good-natured gent, not too proud to write a letter for a man or a petition for the ship’s company: and your petitioners will always pray. They went west about and we went east about, to meet on the far side of the world, do you see; and the skipper wishes the Reverend was here this minute to ask whether it is lawful to pray for a wind, or would it be Popery.’
‘Poor unfortunate buggers,’ said Grimshaw, dismissing the questions of prayer.
‘How do you make that out?’ asked Killick, narrowing his eyes.
‘Because why, if you sail steady westwards and you come to the line where the date changes, say if you cross it of a Monday, why, tomorrow is Monday too – and you have lost a day’s pay.’
Killick pondered, looking shrewish, discontented, suspicious: then his face lightened and he cried ‘But we been sailing steady eastwards, so if we cross it of a Monday, tomorrow is Wednesday and we have Tuesday’s pay for nothing, ha, ha, ha! Ain’t that right, mate?’
‘Right as dried peas, mate.’
‘God love you, William Grimshaw.’
This charming news spread round the ship, bringing about an effervescence of cheerfulness that lasted until the next day, so that when church was rigged Jack noticed a lack of the usual placid steady, even bovine attention, and after a few hymns and a psalm he closed his book, made a significant dismissive pause, and said ‘And those that see fit may form an humble, earnest wish, though not a presumptuous request, for a fair wind.’
He was answered by a surprising volume of sound: the
humming and buzzing usual in chapels (many of the West Country hands were Nonconformists), a general ‘Aye’, something not unlike ‘Hear him’ – a confused surge of agreement, but so loud that he was displeased.
So loud that many of the Nutmeg’s people were even more displeased, and they freely blamed their shipmates’ want of discretion for the truly shocking weather she had to endure for a period that seemed to go on and on, past all reason, with both watches on
deck much of the night and the warm, phosphorescent, tumultuous seas swirling deep in the waist of the ship and life-lines stretched fore and aft.
Jack had learnt the Nutmeg’s ways in light airs, calms and contrary breezes; now he found how she behaved in squalls, fresh gales, stiff gales, hard gales and gales so strong that she either scudded under a close-reefed foresail, if she had sea-room, her people keeping the most zealous watch for uncharted rocks; or if she had not, as she had not among the frightful reefs and scattered islands of the Macassar Strait, she lay to, doing so as neat and dry as a duck, under her main staysail. Not only did she lie to admirably, but even in a very strong blow she retained her weatherly virtues, coming up to within six points of the wind or even slightly more and making very little leeway; and this as she quite often had to do, when an unexpected island loomed up and they put the helm hard over to claw off the unwelcome shore.