negligently perform the duty imposed upon him, or forsake his station, upon pain of death.’
Mrs Oakes and the little girls being present he skipped Article XXIX, which dealt with sodomy by hanging the sodomite, but he came out strong on XXXVI: ‘All other crimes not capital . . . which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished according to the laws and customs in such cases used at sea,’ ending with a glare at the congregation that reminded them of the more brutal customs used at sea, such as keel-hauling, and that caused Emily, who was less stout than Sarah and who had seen Jemmy Ducks’ change of countenance, to start grizzling again.
After this and the midday observation he dismissed them to eat their dinner with what appetite they could summon with the help of grog, and began the most recent in a long, long series of measured miles on the windward side of his quarterdeck.
Heart of Oak beat for the diminished gunroom dinner: Martin retired to his cabin with two concealed biscuits: the Captain paced on and on in his elegant white waistcoat, as grave as a hanging judge. It did not foretell a particularly cheerful dinner-party.
Yet Jack had a high notion of hospitality: apart from anything else, on his first introduction to the Navy he had served under a nephew of the amiable Admiral Boscawen, a commander who carried on his uncle’s tradition, famous throughout the service – a tradition that suited the natural bent of Captain Aubrey’s genius, so that when Killick came to tell him that the Doctor was square-rigged and powdered, that his Honour’s coat was hanging on the back of his chair, and that his guests were at single anchor, he brightened at once, hurried down the companion-ladder and into what was officially his sleeping-place, now for so small a party turned into his dining-cabin, with its usual blaze of silver (Killick’s joy) among the orchids and his own coat hunched at the head of the table. He put it on, splendid with gold lace and epaulettes, gave the table and the great cabin a quick glance and walked into the coach, where his meagre store of gin, bitters and madeira stood ready to receive his guests.
They arrived in a body, and a little civil war of declining precedence could be heard on the half-deck: the war was lost before it began, however, and they walked in according to established order. Mrs Oakes, the Scarlet Woman, as the Sethians and some others called her, came first, in a modified version of her wedding-dress; she dropped Aubrey the prettiest straight-backed curtsy, exactly timed to the frigate’s roll, and made room for Tom Pullings, almost as glorious as a post-captain; then came Stephen, who as a mere surgeon, a warrant-officer, had no lace at all on his plain blue coat, though he was allowed
an embroidered button-hole to his collar; and last of all Oakes, who had no precedence of any kind and whose only ornament was the extreme brilliance of his polished buttons.
He was nevertheless the most cheerful of the band, smiling and chuckling to himself; he had obviously fortified himself for the encounter with grog, and when Jack asked Clarissa what he might bring her she said she would be happiest if she might be allowed to share her husband’s madeira in so wifely a manner that the married men, even Killick and his mate, smiled inwardly. But when on the stroke of the bell they moved into the dining-cabin Clarissa was seated on Jack’s right, with Pullings opposite her and Stephen at her side; Oakes was on Pullings’ left, removed from her by a broad expanse of tablecloth. It is true that he often looked at her with a doglike devotion, and her glance sometimes made him call ‘Belay’ when Killick had not even half filled his glass.
Yet neither being stinted of his wine nor the foreboding atmosphere in the ship affected his spirits and it appeared to Stephen, his vis-a-vis, that something must very recently have passed between him and Clarissa: a new understanding, perhaps physically ratified.
‘Doctor,’ he said, leaning over the table with a smile. ‘You are a very learned cove; but do you know what it is, that the more you cut of it, grows still the longer?’
Stephen considered, with his head on one side, took a sip of wine, and in the expectant silence he asked ‘Would it be celery, at all?’
‘No, sir. Not celery,’ said Oakes, with great satisfaction.
Others suggested hay, a beard, nails; and Killick whispered in Stephen’s ear ‘Try horseradish, sir.’ But none would do and in the end, as soup was clearing away, Oakes had to tell them that the more you cut of a ditch the longer the ditch grew. They confessed it; even Pullings, rising from his state of guilt at the frigate’s present condition, said it was very clever – one of the cleverest things he had heard; and Jack looked at Oakes with a new esteem. On the half-deck, as the fish was coming aft, Killick could be heard explaining the apparent paradox to his mate and Jack Nasty face.
Oakes wore his triumph modestly throughout the fish, a noble creature like a bonito but with crimson spots; and during this time Jack explained the theory of trade winds to Clarissa, while Pullings listened with a fixed look of polite attention and Stephen attended to the fish’s anatomy. ‘Doctor,’ said Oakes, having wiped his plate, ‘do you remember the Bathurst tavern in Sydney? Well, there was a soldier that used to come down with a couple of friends and we played halfpenny whist; and after every two or three rubbers he would call for a pipe of tobacco. Then one day, no pipe. “Ain’t you going to smoke?” we asked him. “No,” says he. “I lit my pipe last night with a broadsheet ballad folded lengthways, and there has been a singing in my head ever since. I am sure it is the ballad still.”‘
Stephen noticed an anxious expression on Clarissa’s face, but her husband, enchanted by the reception of his piece, missed her look and plunged on into an account of a man who wore his hair over his shoulders and who, on being asked by a bald companion why he let it grow so long, answered, it was to see if his hair would run to seed, that he might sow it on bald pates.
‘Very good, very good, Mr Oakes,’ cried Jack, beating his hand on the table. ‘A glass of wine with you, sir.’
During the roast pork he drank to each of his guests, particularly to Clarissa, whose looks he thought much improved from their exposure to the sun and the breeze. ‘So returning to my trade winds, ma’am,’ he went on, ‘presently I hope we shall meet those blowing from
the north-east; and then you will see what the ship can do, for we shall have to beat to windward, tack upon tack, and she is a good plyer – there is nothing she loves better than sailing close-hauled into a fine steady gale.’
‘Oh I should love that,’ said Clarissa. ‘There is nothing so – so exalting as clinging on with both hands when the ship leans right over and the spray comes dashing back right along the side.’ She spoke with unfeigned enthusiasm and he gave her an approving look – more than approving, indeed, and he quickly dropped his eyes in case his admiration should be seen. ‘Doctor,’ he called down the table, ‘the bottle stands by you.’
Oakes had been silent for some time. He was silent while the plum-duff was passing round; he was silent while it was being eaten; but on swallowing his last spoonful he raised his glass and smiling happily round at the company he said
‘So long as we may, let us enjoy this breath
For naught doth kill a man so soon as death.’
On the other hand there was little merriment on the forecastle in the last dog-watch though the evening was calm, beautiful and in every way fit for the dancing so usual at this time of day on a Sunday: only the little girls played the northern version of hopscotch they had learned from the Orkney-men – played it quietly, watched by the seamen with barely a comment.
There was if anything less on the quarterdeck, and when Stephen came up a little before sunset he found Davidge, the officer of the watch, standing by the barricade, looking haggard, middle-aged, wretched, and Clarissa sitting in her usual place by the taffrail, quite alone.
‘I am so glad you have appeared,’ she said. ‘I was growing as melancholy as a gib cat, which is ungrateful after such a splendid dinner; and very strange too, because I never minded being by myself when I was a girl and I longed for nothing so much as solitude in New South Wales. Perhaps I feel it here because I do so dislike being disliked . . . Reade and Sarah and Emily – we were such friends, and I cannot think how I have offended them.’