‘A few sprains and rope-burns,’ said Stephen, ‘and one flesh-wound – a strip of gastrocnemius – more spectacular than grave. As I sewed it up I reflected upon gangrene –
always a possibility – and upon an interesting treatment that I discussed aboard the flag…’
Yet as he spoke he remembered his friend’s odd squeamishness about some aspects of medicine and even more of surgery and broke off to exclaim at the smoke-bank from their exercise, still remarkably solid and coherent there away to leeward. ‘A satisfactory exercise, I trust?’
‘Tolerably so, I thank you, for what very little it amounts to – scarcely more than two full broadsides. Still, with so many well-trained crews it was reasonably accurate and pretty brisk, roughly the equivalent of two and half minutes. And after all the Royal George sank the Superbe in Quiberon
Bay with only two broadsides – very heavy weather indeed and not one of her six hundred people saved.’
They fell silent, both thinking of an earlier command, the Leopard, which sank a Dutch man-of-war in the high southern latitudes, also with the loss of all hands. One or two messengers reached the Captain, who dealt with them in a firm, competent, official voice; then, turning to Stephen, he said in an undertone, ‘I am so looking forward to our concert tomorrow.’
So was Stephen; but he was concerned for the prime performer, the oboe, the essence of their meeting. From the dispensary, far aft on the orlop deck, where he and William Smith spent some of the next forenoon grinding quicksilver, hog’s lard and mutton suet together to make blue ointment, he could hear Geoghegan practising in the nearby midshipmen’s berth, playing scales, changing his reeds, and venturing upon some of the more remarkable flights open to a well-tempered oboe. The Bellona had a reasonably good-natured set of midshipmen and master’s mates, a dozen of them, mostly the sons of friends and former shipmates; certainly the younger members of the berth showed no obvious signs of oppression, and although Geoghegan was probably the youngest there, just old enough to be admitted to the berth rather than entrusted to the gunner with the youngsters, he clearly never hesitated to play serious, difficult music there. This was the more curious because of his somewhat anomalous position: he had been borne on the books of several ships commanded by his father’s friends or relatives, in order to gain nominal sea-time without actually going afloat – a fairly common practice, but one that brought the young gentlemen aboard with so little knowledge of their profession that they were something of a burden to their shipmates, often unpopular, sometimes cruelly-treated butts. Yet this was not the case with Geoghegan. ‘Of course, he is a very good-
looking boy,’ observed Stephen. ‘Perhaps that has something to do with it. One has an innate, wholly disinterested kindness for beauty.’
The ointment was now made and Smith carried off a
suitable number of gallipots for their syphilitic patients:
Stephen shut and double-locked the dispensary door (seamen were much given to dosing themselves) and hearing the main body of reefers leave their berth with a sound like that of a herd of mad cattle, he walked in.
‘Good day, sir,’ said Geoghegan, leaping up.
‘And a very good day to you, Mr Geoghegan,’ said Stephen. ‘Please may I see your instrument again?’
It was a beautiful oboe, formed from the most elegant dark, dark wood; but neither praise of its appearance nor of its lovely tone seemed to give much pleasure, and Stephen returned to their earlier talk of Bantry Bay, the country round it, including the Reverend Mr Geoghegan’s parish, and their common acquaintances. The boy was perfectly polite, perfectly well bred, but it was clear that he did not wish for any close contact at this moment nor any comfort for his evident anxiety. In the civilest way he was saying that he was not to be manipulated, nor to be made to be easy in his mind when he was not easy in his mind, however kind the intention.
‘He is a respectable boy,’ said Stephen, walking off, ‘but I could wish he were not quite so tense. Were it not for some illogical and even perhaps superstitious reluctance -respect for innocence? – I should prescribe fifteen or even twenty drops of laudanum.’ Laudanum, the alcoholic tincture of opium, a delightful tawny liquid that had floated Dr Maturin through many a bout of the most extreme anxiety and distress, though at a moral and spiritual cost that eventually became exorbitant: it was now replaced by moderate use of the Peruvian coca-leaf.
The boy was tenser still when he appeared at the door of the Captain’s cabin, carrying his oboe in a green baize bag, as the last stroke of five bells in the afternoon watch was struck. The berth had done him proud. Not only was he as popular as a boy who was no seaman could very well be,
•
but his appearance would reflect upon the credit of the after-cockpit as a whole, including Callaghan and three other master’s mates and that almost god-like figure William Reade, who had so often sailed with the Captain before, losing an arm in battle in the East Indies, and now his hair, having been very strongly brushed, was tied so tight behind that it stretched his features into a look of astonishment, while his face shone pink from an almost entirely superfluous shave; the brass buttons on his best blue coat outshone even those on his Captain’s uniform, while the white patches on his collar, called by some quarterly accounts and by others the mark of Cain, would have put virgin snow to shame.
‘There you are, Mr Geoghegan,’ cried Jack. ‘I am very. happy to see you. Come and have a glass of sherry.’
After the sherry they sat down to a dish of codlings caught over the side that morning, to a pair of roast fowls with bacon and a great many sausages, to a noble apple pie and to the best part of a Cheddar cheese. The midshipmen’s berth usually dined at noon, and Geoghegan, after a hesitant beginning, laid into his food with a wolfish concentration, replying ‘If you please, sir,’ to any suggestion of more. ‘The young gent has ate eleven potatoes,’ said Killick to his mate, passing the empty dish. ‘Go and see if the wardroom left any.’
At last, when the cloth had been drawn and the King’s health drunk in a glass of port suited to a very young head, they took their coffee and ratafia biscuits (the sea-going equivalent of petits fours) in the great cabin, where the ‘cello, the viola and the fiddle leaned by their respective music-stands, well lit by the great stern-window – a suffused grey, near-brilliance, with the ship standing west-south-west under reefed topsails, making little more than steerage-way on a gently rolling sea.
‘Another cup, Mr Paisley?’ asked Jack. ‘Mr Geoghegan? Then in that case perhaps we should set to.’
They spread their scores, and as they did so Stephen remembered with some concern that in the F major quartet the opening notes were played by the oboe alone: but when, after the necessary squeaking and grunting as the stringed instruments tuned themselves, Jack smiled at Geoghegan and nodded, these same crucial notes came out clear and pure, with no over-emphasis – a beautiful round tone in which the strings joined almost at once. And almost at once they were a quartet, playing happily along with as nearly perfect an understanding as was possible on so short an acquaintance.
With scarcely a pause they swam through the elegant melancholy of the adagio, Jack Aubrey particularly distinguishing himself and Stephen booming nobly; but it was in the rondo that the oboe came wholly into its own, singing away with an exquisite gay delicacy infinitely enjoyed by all four. And to all four, in spite of the music before them, it seemed to last for an indefinite space before coming to the perfect simplicity of its end.
‘Well done, well done indeed,’ cried Jack, leaning forward and shaking Geoghegan’s hand.
‘What a glorious pipe you blow, upon my word and honour. I have rarely enjoyed music more. If ever, indeed.’
Geoghegan blushed extremely; but before he could answer there was an imperative knock at the door and Mr Edwards, the Captain’s clerk, came in with an untidy, disparate sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘here are the memorandums we were to send to the flag, just your rough notes. You said you would read them for me to copy fair. The boat is here – has been this half glass – and is growing outrageous.’
‘By God,’ cried Jack. ‘It clean slipped my mind. Gentle-men, forgive me, I beg. But had we gone on, we could
not possibly have done better: I thank you all very heartily indeed.’
They filed out, with proper acknowledgements and in due order of rank, Geoghegan standing back to let Stephen pass, looked at him with open affection, all constraint and tension