This, and the taste of salt on his lips, was a deep satisfaction; yet at the same time he knew that the frigate’s people were upon the whole low-spirited, disappointed and out of humour. He thought it very probable that some of the more dismal hands might already be using the words ‘an unlucky voyage’ or ‘a Jonah aboard’, which could become very dangerous indeed if they got a firm hold on the ship’s collective mind, always inclined to
fatalism – even more dangerous in a ship with no Marines, no Articles of War, no recourse to the service as a whole, a ship in which the Captain’s authority depended solely on his standing and his standing on his present as well as his past success. This he had not learnt from listening to their conversation nor from reports brought by confidential hands like Bonden or Killick or the equivalent of the master-at-arms or the ship’s corporal – he hated a tale-bearer – but from having spent most of his life afloat, some of It as a foremast-jack. His gauging of the ship’s mood was for the most part unconscious
– faintly recorded impressions of dutifulness rather than zeal, lack of coarse humorous remarks forward, the occasional wry look or contentious answer between shipmates, and the general
want of tone – but though it was largely instinctive it was surprisingly accurate.
‘There is little hope of any consolation in these waters unless we chance on an American,’
he reflected, ‘but at least for the rest of the month we shall have regular blue-water sailing, tack upon tack every watch until we reach the westerlies; plenty to keep them busy but not too much; and then presently we shall see the sun again.’
Far out into the Atlantic, long tack upon long tack, every day having the same steady routine from swabbing the decks at first dawn to lights out, its unchanging succession of bells, its wholly predictable food, nothing in sight from one horizon to another but sea and sky, both growing more agreeable, and the habit of sea-life exerted its usual force; cheerfulness returned to almost its old carefree level and as always there was the violent emotion and enthusiasm of the great-gun practice every evening at quarters – practice carried out with the full deadly charge and the ball directed at a floating target.
While the Surprise was making her westing Jack spent more in barrels of powder than ever he would have made in prize-money if the snow had been taken. He justified this to his conscience (for no one else, least of all Stephen, questioned the expense) by an appeal to the frigate’s very high standards of rapid, accurate fire, by the fact that all hands were somewhat rusty and the Orkneymen (some of whom had come aboard with crossbows) had very little notion of combined disciplined practice at all; but he knew very well that the thunderous roar, the stabbing flame in the smoke-cloud, the screech of the recoiling gun, the competition between watch and watch, and the ecstasy when a raft of beef-cask two hundred yards away flew suddenly to pieces in a flurry of white water and single staves flung high did a great deal towards restoring the general tone and bringing the Surprise back towards the state of a happy ship, the only efficient fighting-machine, the only ship that it was a pleasure to command.
Only in a few exceptional cases did this state arise spontaneously, as when a good set of foremast hands happened to
enter upon a dry, weatherly ship with efficient warrant-officers
– the bosun was often a most important figure where happiness was concerned – a decent group of seamanlike officers, and a taut but not tyrannical captain. Otherwise it had to be nursed along. The lower deck had its own way of dealing with really worthless hands, turning them out of their messes and leading them a horrible life; but there were others, stronger characters, men of some education, who could cause serious trouble if they chanced to be both awkward and discontented. In the Surprise at present, for example,
there were eight Shelmerstonians serving before the mast who had had commands of their own, while there were more who had been mates and who understood navigation.
The same applied, in rather a different way, to the wardroom or gunroom as the case might be. An ill-fitting member of that small society could upset the working of the whole ship to a remarkable degree; and the small failings that would not matter at all during a passage to Gibraltar might assume gigantic proportions in the course of a long commission – a couple of years blockading Toulon, for example, or three on the African station. And Jack was wondering whether he had been very wise in appointing Standish purser, almost entirely on the basis of the man’s excellent violin-playing and the recommendation of Martin, who had been acquainted with him at Oxford, and in spite of Standish’s want of experience.
Except for that excellence, Jack had rarely been more mistaken in a man: the modesty and diffidence that the penniless, unemployed Standish had brought aboard were now no longer to be seen; and the assurance of a monthly income and a settled position had developed a displeasing and often didactic loquacity. He was also, of course, incompetent. As Jack said in his letter to Sophie, ‘I had supposed anyone with common sense could become a tolerable purser; but I was wrong. He did make an attempt at first, but as he is seasick every time we hand topgallants and as he can neither add nor multiply so as to get the same answer twice, he soon grew discouraged and now he leaves everything to his steward and Jack in the Dust.
He is not without his good points. He is perfectly honest (which cannot be said of all pursers) and it was most gentlemanly in him not to let anyone know that he was a strong swimmer after I had pulled him out of the sea. And he listens attentively, even eagerly, when Stephen and Martin explain the ship’s manoeuvres to him, and the difference between the plansheer and the spirketting; but apart from these lectures (and it would do your heart good to hear them) when he is quiet, he talks, he talks, he talks, and always about himself. Tom, West and Davidge, who have had no more education than can be picked up aboard ship and who are not much given to reading, are rather shy of him, he being a university man, and Martin is wonderfully charitable; but this cannot last, because as well as being incompetent as a purser, he is also sadly foolish.’
Jack paused, remembering an incident during his most recent dinner with the gunroom, when he heard someone, in the midst of Standish’s long anecdote, say, ‘I did not know you had been a schoolmaster.’
‘Oh, it was only for a short time, when my fortunes were bow. That is a recourse we university men always have – in case of temporary embarrassment, you can always take refuge in a school, if you have a degree.’
‘Delightful task, to teach the young idea how to shoot,’ observed Stephen.
‘Oh no,’ cried Standish. ‘My duties were of a far higher order: I took them through Lily and the gradus. Another man came in and taught them fencing and archery and pistol-practice and that kind of thing.’
Jack returned to his pen. ‘But it is the music that particularly distresses me. Martin is not a gifted player, and Standish perpetually puts him right – shows him how his fingering is at fault and his bowing, and the way he holds his instrument, and his notion of the tempo, and his phrasing. He has already offered Stephen a few hints and I think that when he grows bolder he may do the same kind office by me. I was very much mistaken in
supposing I could play second fiddle to such a man and I shall have to find some decent excuse. The music is
indeed celestial (how such a man can so lose himself in it and play so well is beyond my comprehension) but I do not look forward to this evening’s bout at all. Perhaps there will be none. The sea is getting up a little.’
Jack paused, re-read the last page and shook his head. Sophie disliked fault-finding; it distressed her, and she had heard a very great deal of it when she was a girl. And fault-finding in a letter might well sound harsher than by word of mouth. He balled up the sheet and threw it into the waste-paper-basket, a mine of interest to Killick and those members of the crew who shared his confidence, and as he did so he heard Pullings cry ‘Stand by to hand foretopgallant,’ followed immediately by the bosun’s call.
There was no music that evening apart from some quiet rumbling over familiar paths by Aubrey and Maturin – an evenly-shared mediocrity – and an hour or so of their favourite exercise, which was improvisation on a theme proposed by one and answered by the other, which sometimes rose well above mediocrity because of their deep mutual comprehension, in this field at least. Standish sent his excuses – regretted that indisposition prevented him from having the honour, etc – and Martin in his double capacity of assistant surgeon and early acquaintance sat by the wretched purser’s side, holding a bowl.