great blocks and minor bergs nearby and sending up vast jets of white seawater as they did so.
Stephen was standing just on the gangway, where a convenient stanchion allowed him to rest his telescope. He was not on the holy quarterdeck; and since all those who had ever been his patients felt that on neutral ground they were entitled to speak to him he was not surprised to hear a deep rumbling West-Country voice close to his ear saying,
‘There you are, sir: just on the quarter you may see what we calls a Quaker.’ Stephen looked, and there, poised on the wind like its betters, was a small undistinguished shabby brown albatross, Diomedea fuliginosa. ‘We calls him a Quaker because he is dressed modest.’
‘A very good name too, Grimble,’ said Stephen. ‘And what do you call the other one?’ – nodding towards a giant petrel just beyond.
‘Some says bone-breaker, and some says albatross’s mate, but most says Mother Cary’s goose. Goose, sir: not chicken. Her chickens you could put a dozen in your pocket.’
A pause, and in a lower tone, ‘If I may make so bold, sir, how does our Arthur come along?’
Arthur Grimble was one of the syphilitic gummata cases:
Stephen and Macmillan had operated to relieve the pressure on his brain. ‘The next few days will tell,’ said Stephen. ‘He is in no pain now, and he may recover. But do not tell his friends to be very hopeful: it was a last resort. And if he goes, he goes easy.’
‘No,’ said Captain Aubrey to the master, a few feet away. ‘I am afraid it is not possible.’ He had been looking hungrily at the blocks of ice, all pure fresh water, floating no great way off, sometimes half a mile from the parent island.
‘Not in this sea, sir,’ said Warren. ‘But was we to lie to for a while it would surely moderate. The surf on the island is a good third less than it was before dinner.’
Jack nodded. He looked at the oncoming waves: their tall crests were no longer being torn off so that flying water raced before them. ‘Mr Bennett,’ he said, ‘jump up to the masthead
with a glass and tell me what you see. Take your time and report to me below.
Doctor, will you join me in a pot of coffee?’
They were at their second cup when Bennett knocked on the door. ‘I am sorry to be so dishevelled, sir,’ he said. ‘I had made my hat fast with a piece of marline, but it absolutely parted – white Marline, too. I began right astern, sir, and made the sweep, but nothing did I see until one point on the starboard bow, where there was a mountain of ice, much the same size as this, about four leagues away; then three more smaller ones another point south. From the white water I thought there were some little islands after them, but I could not be sure of anything until I had come round to about due south, and there, stretching from the beam to the quarter, there were four, evenly spaced, three leagues off.’
‘Thank you, Bennett,’ said Jack. ‘Have a cup of coffee to warm you.’ And when he had gone, ‘Alas, it will not do. I bad hoped for a few more days of this glorious run. But it will not do. Although we are still too far west, I shall have to edge away. How I wish I had never spoken of calm: the wind has been dropping steadily ever since I said it.’
‘Perhaps your unwilling mind had already perceived the signs but refused to acknowledge them. How often have I not said “Ha, it is six months since I had a cold”, only to wake up the next day streaming and incapable of coherent speech?’
‘What an unfailing source of cheer and encouragement you are, upon my word, Stephen. A true Job’s muffler if ever there was one. And since you have now drained the pot I shall go on deck and change course. At least we shall be able to shake out a reef or two.’
A few minutes later Stephen heard pipes and the running of feet, cries of ‘Belay, belay’, and the frigate heeled as she brought the wind one point on her quarter, heading north-east.
The few movable objects in the cabin lurched across to starboard and Stephen, clinging to the arms of his chair, said, ‘He may say what he pleases, but I am convinced the ship is travelling faster than ever: the water fairly shrieks along the side.’
Yet the next day the heel was less, though the Diane now had a fine spread of canvas abroad – indeed she had sent up her topgallantmasts in the hope of spreading more. It lessened progressively, strake by strake; and by the day young Grimble was buried the ship scarcely heeled at all.
Even so, for the convenience of his Tristan collections Stephen continued sleeping below, and on the Thursday after their meeting with the ice he walked into the gunroom for breakfast. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, taking his place. ‘Mr Elliott, may I trouble you for the pot?’ And gazing about the table he added, ‘I see we have come out in splendour once more,’ for his eye had been caught, as it could scarcely have failed to be caught, by the mizenmast. In the Diane, as
in almost all frigates, it was stepped on the lower deck, in the middle of the gunroom itself, the table being built round it; but in the Diane, and this was unique in Stephen’s experience, some loving French hand had encased the mast with brass from the shining table-top to the beams, and had caused the brass to be covered with the best gold leaf.
Ordinarily this glory was concealed by a sleeve, fitted to protect it from the lady of the gunroom, a very stupid, very obstinate, very deaf old man who always polished everything metal with a wire brush; and it blazed out only on Sundays or particular feasts.
‘Yes,’ said the purser. ‘We killed our last pig the day before yesterday, and we have invited the Captain to dinner.’
Stephen was about to say that the Captain had a funeral service that morning, but reflecting upon the Navy’s attitude towards death – in battle the mortally wounded were often thrown overboard – he did not. Instead he observed that the ship’s progression now seemed charmingly smooth, ‘with little or none of the wild bounding about we have endured these many, many days, and unless I mistake almost no heel at all. I set my cup down with little anxiety.’
‘Not above a couple of strakes,’ said Fielding. ‘But then, Doctor, we are out of the forties, you know.’
The gunroom was of course quite right. Jack Aubrey had been present at too many of these occasions to be deeply
affected by the burial of a hand he scarcely knew; yet as they always did the words of the service moved him – My soul fleeth unto the Lord: before the morning watch, I say, before the morning watch – and so did the earnest attention with which the ship’s company followed them, and the grief of the dead man’s friends. ‘. . . our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the deep,’ he recited in his deep grave voice, and Arthur Grimble’s messmates slid him gently over the side, sewed into his hammock, with four roundshot at his feet.
He was not deeply affected, and he enjoyed his roast pork with the gunroom; yet even so the ceremony had cast enough of a damp on his spirits to make the modest conviviality of these dinners something of an effort. After it, having drunk the usual toasts and returned proper thanks, he paced out his usual moderate-weather three miles on the windward side of the quarterdeck, two hundred and forty turns fore and aft. Moderate weather, for they had quite suddenly passed into a new world, a world of smooth seas and uncertain winds. And their passage had been unfortunate: the Diane had barely reached thirty-nine degrees before the failing remains of the western breeze veered into the northeast and headed her; and now there was this most unlucky omen. Furthermore he had the gravest doubts about Amsterdam Island. His charts all agreed in laying down its latitude as 37047’S but they differed by well over a degree in longitude: most unhappily his two chronometers had also chosen this moment to disagree, and as the covered skies had not allowed him to make a lunar observation since they met the iceberg he was now obliged to steer for the mean of the recorded longitudes with the help of the mean of the times shown by the chronometers. This would never have been a satisfactory pursuit or one calculated to soothe an anxious mind, and now the breeze made it worse by obliging the Diane to sail close-hauled. She was a good honest sea-boat going large, but close-hauled she was heavy, slow, inclined to gripe, and unwilling to come up closer than six and a half points at the best.