He gave no more orders. The Surprises lay out, bet fall, sheeted home, hoisted and braced the topsails with perfect unity, as though they had all served together throughout a long commission. The frigate gathered way, plucked the anchor from its bed and moved smoothly up the Tagus.
‘If you can bring her to one of the moorings in the middle reach in time for me to have dinner in Black Horse Square, you shall have an extra five guineas,’ said Jack as he handed the ship over to the pilot.
‘By three o’clock?’ said the pilot, looking at the sky and then over the side. ‘I believe it may be done.’
‘Even earlier, if possible,’ said Jack. He was an old-fashioned creature in some ways, as his hero Nelson had been; he still wore his hair long and plaited into a clubbed pigtail, not cut in the short modern Brutus manner; he put on his cocked hat athwartships rather than fore and aft; and he liked his dinner at the traditional captain’s two o’clock. But tradition was now failing him; naval habits were beginning to ape those of the land, where dinner at five, six, and even seven was becoming frequent; and at sea most post-captains, particularly if they had guests, dined at three. Jack’s stomach was even more conservative than his mind, but at present he had trained it to hold out with tolerable good humour until half past two.
The hands had their dinner (two pounds of salt beef, one pound of ship’s bread and a pint of grog) as soon as the ship was over the worst of the bar; the members of the gunroom had theirs at one (it smelt to Jack like uncommonly good roast mutton) and when Belem was clear on the larboard bow they came on deck, rosy and comfortable, to view the tower and Lisbon itself, white in the distance beyond.
Jack went below to see whether a biscuit and a glass of madeira would quieten the wolf within, and there he found Stephen with an almanack and a small paper of calculations.
‘I dare say you are working out when we shall pick up the trades,’ he said. ‘Will you join me in a glass of madeira and a biscuit? We had a very early breakfast.’
‘With abi my heart. But the trade winds I leave to you entirely: what I am looking for is the saint’s day upon which my daughter will most probably be born. These things cannot be foretold to the day nor even to the week, so I shall have to spread my offerings pretty wide; but on the most likely, most physically orthodox day, what clouds of incense will go up! What mounds of pure beeswax! And in looking through this almanack I see that it was on Saint Eudoxia’s day, when the Ethiopian Copts so strangely celebrate Pontius Pilate, that Padeen would have been hanged but for your great kindness. I shall have a Mass said for his intention as soon as we get ashore.’
‘It was no great kindness I do assure you. When I went they looked very grave because they thought I wanted a sinecure or a place at court for a friend, but when I said it was only a man’s life they cheered up amazingly, laughed, told me the weather had been delightful these last days, and gave me the paper out of hand. But tell me, why are you so sure that Diana is going to be brought to bed of a girl?’
‘Can you imagine her being brought to bed of anything else?’ Jack could perfectly well imagine it, but he had so often heard Stephen speak of his future delight in the company of this little hypothetical daughter that he only said, ‘The pilot tells me there are no other men-of-war in the river, which is just as well – there is always a certain amount of awkwardness. He also tells me that the post office is shut today, which is an infernal bore.
Have you any idea of what to order for dinner?’
‘Cold green soup, grilled swordfish, roast sucking-pig, pineapple and the little round marchpane cakes whose name escapes me with our coffee.’
‘Stephen, you will deal with the quarantine-officer, will you not?’
‘I have prepared a little douceur in this purse, which I must
remember to transfer to the fine clothes Killick is laying out for me. And that reminds me, I must look out for a servant to replace Padeen at last. Killick will wither quite away if he has to go on looking after us both.’
‘I think any newcomer would wither away even quicker under the effect of his ill-will. He has grown so used to it since poor Padeen was sent away that he looks upon you as his own property, and he would resent anyone else. The only thing he would bear would be some lumpkin to stand behind you at dinner; with the best will in the world he cannot stand behind both of us at the same time and it drives him distracted. But why are you putting out fine clothes? It is only a tavern dinner at Joao’s.’
‘Because I must call at the palace and ask for an audience with the Patriarch. On the way back I shall look in at my bankers’ correspondent.’
The dinner at Joao’s had passed off very well, for although the port was in the Portuguese taste, somewhat thin, sharp and even astringent, the coffee was the best in the world; Dr Maturin’s reception by the Patriarch himself had been kind and gracious beyond expectation; and now he was walking towards what English sailors called Roly Poly Square, where his bankers’ Lisbon correspondents had their place of business. He was conscious of a sense of positive well-being; the sun shone upon the broad river and its countless masts; and he was happy for Sam. But he had a feeling that he was being observed. ‘Those criminals, intelligence-agents and foxes who last, who survive to have offspring, develop an eye in the back of their heads,’ he reflected; and when he had finished dealing with his letter of credit and some other matters he was not surprised at
being accosted on the doorstep by a decent-looking man in a brown coat who took off his hat and said, ‘Dr Maturin, I presume?’
Stephen also took off his hat, saying, ‘Matunn is indeed my name, sir.’ But he showed no inclination to stop, and the other, hurrying along beside him, went on in a low urgent tone,
‘Pray
forgive me, sir, for this want of ceremony, but I come from Sir Joseph Blaine. He is just arrived at the Quinta de Monserrate, near Cintra, and he begs you will come to see him. I have a carriage close at hand.’
‘My compliments to Sir Joseph, if you please,’ said Stephen. ‘I regret I am not at leisure to wait upon him, but trust I may have the pleasure of a meeting at either the Royal or the Entomological society when next I am in London. Good day to you, sir.’ He said this in so decided a tone and with so very cold a look in his pale eyes that the messenger did not persist, but stood there looking wretched.
‘Damned villain,’ said Stephen as he crossed the square and began to walk down the Rua d’Ouro. ‘To come without even a pretence of credentials, supposing that I should hurry off into the hills and beg Taillandier to cut my throat’ – Taillandier being the principal French agent in Lisbon, and usually much more professional in his methods.
‘Hola, Stephen,’ called Jack from the other side of the street. ‘Well met, shipmate.
Come and help me choose some taffeta for Sophie. I want some so fine it will go through a ring. I am sure you understand taffeta, Stephen.’
‘I doubt there is a man in the whole of Ballinasloe that understands it better,’ said Stephen. ‘And if there is blue taffeta to be had, I shall buy some for Diana too.’
They walked back to the quay carrying their parcels, and since Jack, not knowing how long they would be, had not taken his own gig ashore, they were about to hail a boat when a party of the Surprise’s liberty men, gathering about the launch true to their hour, caught sight of them the whole breadth of the square away and roared out, ‘Never waste your money on a skiff, sir. Come along o’ we.’
Jack went along o’ they in the democratical corsair fashion quite happily, though he was just as glad that there were no serving officers in their formal barges to watch him: though in fact, apart from their first free, uninhibited invitation the Shelmerstonians were as prim and mute as any long-serving man-of-war’s men throughout the crossing.
It was clear that Jack was right in saying that Killick regarded Stephen as his own property. He at once took him down to the coach and made him take off his fine English broadcloth coat, crying out in a shrill nagging tone, ‘Look at these here great slobs of grease, so deep you could plough a furrow in them: and your best satin breeches, oh Lord! Didn’t I say you was to call for two napkins and never mind if they stared? Now it will be scrub-scrub, brush-brush for poor bloody Killick all through the night watches; and even then they will never be the same.’