had taken a toss on the companion-ladder and Pullings told Jack that he was uneasy about the soup.
Those near the door listened attentively for the Oakeses coming, but in this case there would be no steps on the ladder down to warn them as it had warned them of Jack’s approach, since the midshipmen’s berths, one of which the Oakeses inhabited, were only a short way along the passage that led from the gunroom door forward to the great screened-off expanse of the lower deck, deserted now, where the foremast-hands slung their hammocks. Even so, Adams’ quick ear caught the swish of silk and he opened the door to the splendid scarlet glow that Stephen had never yet beheld.
‘Upon my honour, ma’am,’ he said when it was his turn to greet her, ‘I have never seen you look so well. You fairly light up our dim and shabby dining-room.’
‘Dim and shabby dining-room,’ said the gunroom steward to Killick in a sea-going whisper,
‘Did you ever hear such wickedness?’
‘That is what we call a genteel compliment,’ said Killick. ‘Which it ain’t meant to be believed.’
‘It is all due to Captain Aubrey’s kindness,’ she said, smiling and bowing to Jack as she sat down. ‘Never was such glorious silk.’
The sound of chairs being drawn in, the arrival of the swordfish soup and the ladling of it out filled the gunroom with the pleasant confusion of sounds usual at the beginning of a feast; but presently they began to die away. The ill-feeling between Davidge and West was so great that even now, with their Captain present, they barely exchanged a word: Oakes, always more at home in a pot-house, was even more than usually mute, a dogged look on his pale face. Reade, on Stephen’s right, answered with no more than ‘Yes, sir’,
‘No, sir’, looking quite pitifully sad: whilst on his left, Martin maintained his reserved, though perfectly correct, attitude towards Clarissa throughout the soup. Stephen, Adams, and to some extent West made a reasonable amount of noise at the far end of the table about swordfishes they had known, the different kinds of swordfish, the inveterate enmity between the sword-fish and the whale, instances not only of ships but even ships’ boats being pierced, and the anguish of those sitting on the bottom, between the thwarts. Jack and Pullings found a good deal to say about tunny in the Mediterranean, with asides to Clarissa about the Sicilian and Moorish way of catching them.
The subject however had its limits, and although both Jack and Pullings would have been happy to engage Mrs Oakes, they were a little shy of doing so. There was the relief of taking soup plates away with a fine mess-deck clatter and bringing on the swordfish fritters, and during the interval both Stephen and Jack reflected upon the amount of ordinary dinner-table conversation taken up by ‘do you remember?’ or ‘were you ever at?’
or ‘you probably know Mr Blank’ or ‘as I dare say you are aware’, questions or implied questions that might offend the lady; or by personal recollections, in which she never indulged.
Stephen, Jack and even more Pullings felt the awful approach of silence, and Jack for one turned to his infallible standby: ‘A glass of wine with you, ma’am.’ Infallible, but not long-lasting; and he was grateful when West made some sudden, prepared observations about the saw-fish. Stephen took up this creature (such was the table’s indigence), and compelled both Oakes and Reade to acknowledge that they had seen its mummified head in an apothecary’s shop in Sydney and had speculated on the use of the saw.
Half-way through the fritters he found to his relief that Clarissa, who was not only beautifully dressed but who was also in looks, with colour in her cheeks and sparkling eyes -Clarissa, who had laid herself out to be amiable throughout the soup, had by now won her point: Martin’s reserve had been overcome and they were talking away at a great rate.
‘Oh, Mr West,’ she called across the table, ‘I was going to tell Mr Martin about your particular share in the Glorious First of June, but I am sure I would make some foolish landlubber’s blunder. May I beg you to do it for me?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ said West, smiling at her, ‘since you desire it, I will, though it don’t redound much to my credit.’ He considered, emptied his glass, and went on, ‘Everyone knows about the Glorious First of June.’
‘I am sure I do not,’ said Stephen. ‘And Mr Reade may not either; he was not born at the time.’ Roused from his unhappiness for a moment, Reade looked at him reproachfully but said nothing.
‘And I only know that you were wounded,’ said Clarissa.
‘Well, ma’am,’ said West, ‘just the most general lines, for those who may not have been born or who may never have seen a fleet action -‘ This was aimed at Davidge, who, until Jack took him aboard the Surprise, had seen very little action of any kind: his only acknowledgment of the hit was to drain his glass. ‘In May of the year ninety-four, then, the Channel fleet put to sea from Spithead, with Earl Howe in command, the union at the main: the wind had come round into the north-east at last and we all got under way directly, forty-nine men-of-war and the ninety-nine merchants that had gathered at St Helen’s, the East and West Indies convoys and those for Newfoundland – an uncommon sight, ma’am, a hundred and forty-eight sail of ships.’
‘Glorious, glorious,’ cried Clarissa, clasping her hands with unfeigned enthusiasm, and all the sailors looked at her with pleasure and approval.
‘So we tore down the Channel, and off the Lizard we sent the convoys away with eight line-of-battle ships and half a dozen frigates to look after them: six of those ships of the line were to cruise in the Bay for a very important French convoy from America. That left Lord Howe with twenty-six of the line and seven frigates. We lay off Ushant – I was a youngster in his flagship, the Queen Charlotte, at the time – while a frigate looked into Brest. She saw the Frenchmen, twenty-five of the line, lying in the roads. So we cruised awhile in thick weather, looked in again, and they were gone. Some recaptured prizes told us where they were heading, and since the six ships cruising in the Bay were strong enough to deal with the French convoy, Lord Howe pursued the French fleet with a great press of sail. But it was light, variable airs nearly all the time and thick weather, and we did not catch sight of them until the morning of May z8th, twenty-six of the line now, directly to windward. Well, they bore down to about nine miles from us and formed their line ahead, directly to windward; but they had the weather gage, and seeing they did not seem very anxious to use it and attack, all we could do was to work to windward and harass them as much as possible. The Admiral sent four of the most weatherly ships forward and there was something of an action; there was another the next day, when we did manage to get to windward of them, though in no very good order and too late in the afternoon to force any decisive battle – we had quite a sea running, and the Charlotte, with her lower-deck ports little more than four foot from the surface, shipped so much water she had to pump all night. And her mizen-yard was so wounded that for a while she could not tack. The day
after that the weather grew thicker and thicker – the French disappeared – and although the Admiral threw out the signal for our van ships to keep close order there were times when you could not see your second ahead or astern. But however it cleared a little by nine the next morning – this was the thirty-first, ma’am – and we saw how scattered we were. It was a very horrid sight, and we were very much afraid we had lost the Frenchmen. They came in sight about noon: some fresh ships had joined them, and as some of the ships had not behaved very sensibly in the last engagement, Black Dick – we called the Admiral Black Dick, ma’am, but though it sounds disrespectful, it was not so in fact, was it, sir?”
‘Oh dear me no,’ said Jack. ‘It was affectionate: but I should never have dared use it to his face.’
‘No. Well, Black Dick decided against an action that might last until darkness, and he hauled to the wind, steering the course he judged the French would follow. He was quite right. At dawn there they were on our starboard bow, about two leagues to leeward, in line of battle on the larboard tack. Moderate sea; breeze steady in the south by west. We bore down and then hauled to the wind again at seven, four miles from them. The Admiral signalled that he should attack the enemy’s centre – that he should pass through the enemy’s line and engage to leeward. Then we had breakfast. Lord, how I enjoyed my burgoo! When that was ate, we filled and bore down under single-reefed topsails in line abreast: they were in a close head and stern formation.’