‘He is at the masthead, sir.’
So, it appeared, was everyone else who could command an eminence and a telescope.
Hammocks had not yet been piped up, but the watch below had come on deck of their own accord, and there they were, gazing at the distant island with great satisfaction, saying very little. Six bells, and John Brampton’s spell at the wheel was done: he was a young smuggler and privateersman from Shelmerston, one of the Sethian persuasion, but less rigid than his fellows, and in his cheerful way he called out ‘Good morning, sir,’ as he went forward.
‘Good morning, John,’ Stephen replied, and pausing, Brampton asked him whether he did not admire the Captain. ‘Never out. We knew he was not cracking on for sport; and there she lies!’
‘Where? Where?’
‘Right in with the island. Uncle Slade with his spyglass in the fore jack-crosstrees made her out directly, when the sun lit up her sails. You can’t deceive the Captain, ha, ha, ha!’
He was still laughing when he seized the foremast shroud and ran up to join his uncle.
‘Good morning, Doctor,’ said Jack, reaching the deck by way of a back-stay, his boyish agility making an odd contrast with his worn face. ‘What news of Reade?’
‘He is doing well so far,’ said Stephen. ‘No fever: some discomfort, but no very grievous pain – he can lie easy. Mr Martin is with him now, in the sick-berth.’
‘I am so glad,’ said Jack. ‘And I beg pardon for being aloft when I sent word: a sail had been sighted. But, however, you are come to see these cleats. Shall we step down to the upper deck?’
‘Would you first tell me about this island, and your sail?’
‘Why, it is Captain Cook’s Annamooka, exactly where he set it down.’
‘One of the Friendly Isles?’
‘Just so. Did I not mention it last night?’
‘You did not. But I rejoice to hear it. And what of your sail?’
‘It is right in with the shore. From the masthead you can still see it tolerably well with a glass: a European vessel, almost certainly a whaler – I saw a school of about twenty blowing at first light.’
‘How I hope you will sail straight in, take your prize and turn us ashore for a thorough examination of the island’s flora, fauna and . . .’
‘Coffee’s up, sir,’ said Killick.
‘Shall we go down?’ asked Jack; and on the upper deck he showed Stephen the after-hatchway, its coaming and its cleats. ‘A pin passed through this hole across the cleat, do you see, and grips the batten tight. It was not my invention but my predecessor’s. You remember Edward Hamilton?’
‘I believe not.’
‘Oh come, Stephen. Sir Edward Hamilton, who commanded the Surprise when she cut out the Hennione. The man who was dismissed the service for seizing his gunner up in the rigging.’
‘Must you not seize a gunner up in the rigging?’
‘Oh dear me, no. He is protected by his warrant, just as you are. Anyone else you may seize up, and flog too; but all you can do to an officer that holds a warrant or a commission is to confine him to his cabin until he is brought to a court-martial. Hamilton was well with the Prince of Wales, however, and he was reinstated quite soon … It is
whimsical enough to think that two captains of the Surprise should have been struck off and then brought back.’
Jack had invited Pullings and Oakes to breakfast, and since service matters were allowed to be discussed at this meal, the westward currents, the tide, the adverse breeze, the probable nature and nationality of the distant sail, the frigate’s urgent need of water, livestock, vegetables and coconuts were canvassed, together with the desirability of intensive work on all the rigging, running and standing; but Jack did talk about other things, and he did ask after Mrs Oakes. ‘She is very well, sir, I thank you,’ said Oakes flushing, ‘but she stumbled against a locker in the heavy weather, and she means to keep to her cabin for some time.’
Stephen excused himself quite early: apart from anything else this was as dull a breakfast as Jack had ever given, the host himself in poor spirits despite his landfall, guests obscurely oppressed, somehow shifty. Martin, relieved by Padeen and the little girls at eight bells, was already at the rail. ‘I give you joy of the Friendly Isles,’ he said, ‘and of the prospect of a noble prize. All the hands who have made the journey to the main jack-crosstrees assure me that she is an American whaler, very deep-laden with spermaceti and no doubt great quantities of ambergris. Do you suppose the Captain means to go straight for her in the Nelson fashion, take her, and give us a run on the island? How I hope so!’
‘So indeed do I. What mind is indifferent to a prize? And in addition to this splendid prize, a week of walking about on Annamooka – that indeed would be bliss. I believe it has a very curious chestnut-coloured cuckoo, and some rails, while the people are as amiable as can be, apart from a certain thievishness.’
‘I have heard that there is an owl in the Friendly Isles,’ said Martin.
‘There she blows!’ cried Stephen, together with a score of his shipmates: the familiar forward-pointing single jet, a hundred yards to windward, was followed by a black surging as the whale turned and dived, an ancient solitary bull with a lacerated tail. ‘An owl, Nathaniel Martin? An owl in Polynesia? You amaze me.’
‘I heard it on good authority. But here is the bosun, who has been to Tongataboo, no great way off. Mr Bulkeley,’ calling down into the waist, ‘did you see any owls in Tongataboo?’
‘Owls? God bless you, sir,’ replied the bosun in his carrying voice, ‘there was one tree near the watering-place so thick with owls you could hardly tell which was tree and which was owls. Purple owls.’
‘Did they have ears, Mr Bulkeley?’ asked Martin, as one who doubts the value of his question.
‘That I cannot take my oath on, sir; and I should hazard a lie if I said yea or nay.’
‘Ears or no ears,’ said Stephen after a while, ‘I fear it will be long before ever we see either prize or fowl. Quite early Captain Aubrey used that ominous, ill-sounding word still -the ship could still be seen from a certain lofty point. And at breakfast he explained to me that not only was this wind, this breeze, this poxed half-hearted zephyr, breathing directly from the island to us, but that in addition to an adverse but presumably temporary tide there was also a permanent current bearing us to the west. He said it was by no means impossible that we should beat to and fro, perpetually receding in spite of all our efforts –
see how the men brace the yard a little sharper, and haul on the bowline. Such zeal! They dearly love a prize.’
‘So do I,’ said Martin. ‘I do not believe I could be called a worshipper of Mammon, but prize-money is different, and I am now like the tiger that has once tasted human blood.
Yet I hope the Captain was making game of you, as the bosun was almost certainly making game of me just now.’
‘It may well be; but I remember how we have lain to or sailed up and down trying to get into a port before this, or even out of one, for weeks on end, hungry, thirsty, and discontented. Let us not be dismal, however: let us suppose that we sail in tomorrow, butcher the whalers to a man, take their goods from them, and carry our butterfly-nets and collecting-cases into those verdant groves.’
The Surprise sailed gently on, slanting in towards Annamooka; and as they leant there on the rail, gazing out over a sea that had now turned a royal blue with lighter paths wandering over its smooth surface, and talking of their earlier expeditions and their hopes of those so soon to come, it seemed to Stephen that he had the old Martin at his side, open, ingenuous, amiable. How the change had come about Stephen could not tell with any precision: perhaps it was connected with prosperity and family cares, with jealousy, with causes as yet unper-ceived; but in any event their former close bonds of friendship had certainly grown looser. This morning however they talked away without the least reserve. They saw an unknown tern, and speculated upon its affinities with terns they knew; they saw what might possibly have been a Latham’s albatross in the extreme distance; the sun shone down upon them with increasing force.
Once a boat was lowered down to tow the ship’s head round when she had not quite enough way on her to go about; once they were desired to move further aft so that the awning might be spread. ‘This would be a perfect day for Mrs Oakes to take the air,’