‘It is extremely ill-bred, extremely usual, and extremely difficult to turn aside gracefully or indeed without offence.’ Stephen spoke with more than common feeling, for since he was an intelligence-agent even quite idle questions, either answered or evaded, might start a mortal train of suspicion.
‘I have always disliked it,’ said Clarissa after a pause in which six bells sounded and clean round the ship look-outs called ‘All’s well’. ‘When I was young I formed the opinion that impertinent questions, arising from a desire to be talking or from vulgar curiosity, did not deserve true answers, so I used to say whatever came into my head. But I can’t tell you how difficult it is to maintain a lie for any length of time with any countenance, if it has assumed any importance and if you are bound to it. You skip from emergency to emergency, trying to remember what you said before, running along the roof-top at full speed: sadly wearing. So now I just say it is a subject I prefer not to discuss. What is that steadily repeated noise? Surely they cannot be pumping the ship at this time of night?’
‘It may be mutiny to reply, but in your private ear I will tell you that it is Captain Aubrey, alas.’
‘Oh dear. Cannot he be turned over? He must be lying on his back.’
‘He always lies on his back. His cot is so constructed that he cannot lie on anything else.
Many a time have I begged him to have it made longer, wider, deeper; but as regularly as a clock he replies that man and boy he has slept in that cot, and he likes what he is used to. In vain do I point out that with the years he has grown taller, broader, even more portly
– that in the course of nature he has changed to larger boots, larger small-clothes …” He sighed and fell silent: a long, companionable silence.
From well forward came Davidge’s voice – he had the watch. ‘Mr Oakes, there. Jump up to the foretop with a couple of hands and look to the windward laniards.’ After they had gone aloft Davidge turned, paused a while to write on the log-board and then came right aft.
‘Are you still here, Doctor?’ he cried. ‘Don’t you ever go to bed?’
This was said in a tone that Stephen had never heard from Davidge, drunk or sober: he made no reply, but Mrs Oakes said ‘For shame, Davidge. Doctor, pray give me your arm down those stairs. I am going to my cabin.’
On the companion-ladder they met Captain Aubrey hurrying on deck to see what was amiss in the foretop, the heaving on the first purchase having pierced through his sleep,
whereas the thunderous holystoning of the decks some hours later left him quite unmoved, wheezing gently now and smiling as though some particularly agreeable dream were going on behind his closed eyelids.
Morning after morning, now that the sweetening-cocks were left in peace, did their remote commander too sleep at his ease, making up for countless hours on deck at night – for though of course he kept no particular watch, a commander of Jack Aubrey’s kind might be said to keep the whole round of them, above all in dirty weather – and laying in stores of resistance for the hurricanes, lee-shores and uncharted reefs that must surely lie ahead, if past experience were anything to go by.
He slept, quite undisturbed by all the ordinary routine noises that accompanied the ship’s warm, calm, slow, un-adventurous progress towards Tonga, not rising up for his morning swim until the sun was well above the horizon and sometimes even missing his first breakfast. He slept a great deal these days, often stretching on the stern-window locker after dinner as well as keeping to his cot most of the night; and he dreamt a great deal.
Many of his dreams were erotic, some most specifically so, for New South Wales had proved cruelly frustrating; and he found that Clarissa entered not only his dreams, which he could not prevent, but also his waking mind to an unsuitable degree, which he could, and should. He was no more a rigid moralist than most full-blooded sanguine men of his age and service, but this was not a question of morals: it concerned discipline and the proper running of a man-of-war. No captain could make a cuckold of a subordinate and retain his full authority.
Jack knew this very well: he had seen the effects of the contrary behaviour on a whole ship’s company, that delicately-balanced, complex society. In any event, on principle he regarded naval wives as sacred, except in the rare event of one giving unmistakable signs that she did not wish so to be regarded: and Mrs Oakes had certainly never done anything of the kind. She was therefore doubly sacrosanct, never to be thought of in a carnal light; yet again and again licentious images, words and gestures would come into his mind, to say nothing of the far more licentious dreams.
He tended therefore to avoid the quarterdeck when she was there, sitting by the taffrail, sometimes tatting in an inexpert fashion but much more often talking to the officers who came aft to ask her how she did. He consequently missed several developments such as the beginning of Pullings’ and West’s intimacy with Mrs Oakes. They were both of them much disfigured, Pullings by a great sword-slash right across his face, and West by the loss of his nose, frost-bitten south of the Horn; they were diffident where women were concerned and for hundreds of miles they said nothing more than ‘Good day, ma’am’ or
‘Ain’t it warm?’ when they could not avoid it; but her open, candid friendliness and her simplicity had encouraged them, and in time they took to joining Dr Maturin, who quite often combined sitting with her and watching for Latham’s albatross (reported from these latitudes) now that his laborious deciphering was done and now that the sick-berth had returned to its usual fine-weather blue-water somnolence, all ordinary sources of infection left far astern.
In the nature of things Jack also missed Stephen’s words to Davidge the day after Davidge had sent Oakes into the foretop. That morning Stephen did not take his breakfast in the cabin, and when Killick heard that his place was to be laid in the gunroom he gave a satisfied nod. The two men at the wheel and the quartermaster had heard the words and they had been reported throughout the ship.
West, who had had the middle watch, was still asleep, but all the other officers were there when Stephen walked in and said ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
‘Good morning, Doctor,’ they all replied.
Stephen poured himself a cup of what passed for coffee in the gunroom and went on ‘Mr Davidge, how came you to speak so petulantly to me last night as to say “Don’t you ever go to bed?” ‘
‘Why, sir,’ said Davidge flushing, ‘I am sorry you should take it amiss. It was only meant in a rallying way – in the facetious line. But I see that it missed its mark. I am sorry. If you wish I will give you any satisfaction you choose to name when we are next ashore.’
‘Not at all, at all. I only wish to be assured that when you see me conversing with Mrs Oakes at the back of the poop you will allow me to finish my sentence. I might be on the very edge of an epigram.’
Well before the ship took her position by measuring the noonday height of the sun, almost all her company knew that the Doctor had checked Mr Davidge something cruel for speaking chuff in the first watch last night; had dragged him up and down the gunroom deck, flogging him with his gold-headed cane; had made him weep tears of blood. At this point Jack knew perfectly well that the dear Surprise was about to cross the tropic of Capricorn; but he had no notion of how her surgeon had savaged her second lieutenant.
Nor did he know until several days later that Martin was teaching Mrs Oakes to play the viola. A more than usually discordant shriek came aft when he and Stephen were getting ready to work their way through a Clementi duet, one of the many scores that had followed them half round the world with such perseverance. ‘Lord,’ said Jack, ‘I have heard poor Martin make many a dismal groan, but never on all four strings at once.’
‘I believe that was Mrs Oakes,’ said Stephen. ‘He has been trying to teach her to play the instrument for some time now.’
‘I never knew. Why did you not tell me?’
‘You never asked.’
‘Has she any talent?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Stephen. Tray do not, I repeat do not, endeavour to conceal my rosin in your breeches pocket.’