There is a legal expression where manors are concerned and I dare say you are acquainted with it:
“the lord’s waste”; and never was a truer description – hundreds, even thousands of acres that could be pasture or tillage under proper management but that in fact support no more
than a few goats and an ass, a little game that is a standing temptation to poaching, rarely resisted – land that produces nothing but poverty, idleness and vice.’
Stephen felt Lord Stranraer’s considering eye upon him. The Admiral had almost certainly lost the thread of his discourse and was now afraid of growing long-winded, boring, unconvincing: for his own part Stephen said nothing.
‘However,’ Stranraer went on, pouring more wine, ‘may I first hark back to your Spartans, the Spartans of Thermopylae, and then suggest the comparison between a rabble, with arms of a sort but with neither leaders nor discipline,
and these Spartans, or with a well-ordered regiment of
today; or perhaps more appropriately between a parcel of
fishing smacks with no clear organization – every skipper
for himself – and a first-rate man-of-war, thoroughly worked
up, well-manned and well-officered, the most formidable
engine of war the world has ever seen. Doctor, I will not be
troublesome with a wealth of details, but it seems to me that
there is a fair analogy here between a well-inclosed estate,
directed by men of education with capital, and the usual
village of small-holdings and an immense, largely unproduc
tive common. We are, after all, at war; and though this one
may soon be over, above all if we can keep the French bottled
up in Brest, there is sure to be another presently – foreigners are never to be trusted: look at Spain for example, with us,
against us, and now with us again until it suits their purpose to turn cat-in-pan once more. And with the present system
we simply do not grow enough corn: we do not produce
enough meat to feed the navy, the army and the civilians.
It seems to me and to many men of good will that just as it
was the duty of the Spartans to bring up their young men
to arms, so it is our duty to bring up farmers to feed the
fighting-men, farmers with two or three hundred acres, often carved out of unproductive common. There is no room for sentiment in wartime: and after all your village Strephons
with an oaten pipe were not very valuable creatures, if indeed they ever existed – I never came across any. There: forgive
me, Doctor. I have explained myself very badly, I am afraid.
But if you could put that point of view to your shipmate,
particularly the image of a first-rate in capital order on the one hand and a straggling village, with pot-houses, small-holdings and more poachers, half of them on the parish, than farm-hands, I believe you would act as a friend. I cannot do it myself. Not only am I an interested party, but in my disappointment at his news I spoke – I used some unguarded terms: and Griffiths is quite incapable. Yet this is a time when sailors as well as
neighbours should stand together. Victory – if it come’ – he rapped the table-top -‘will be very welcome, but it will be a hard time for the
service, with ships being paid off by the hundred, half-pay for almost everybody, and precious few commands: a time when a well-placed friend may prove. ..’ He did not finish his sentence but coughed, and his commanding old face, unused to such an expression, took on a look of acute embarrassment. ‘I am afraid I have been wearisome, Doctor, and I beg your pardon: but this is a point – a duty, as I see it -upon which I feel very strongly indeed. You will say that I am personally concerned, which is very true: yet I think I may place my hand on my heart and assert that I should be of the same opinion if neither I nor my nephew possessed an acre of land. Still, I know what assertions are worth, and I shall bore you no longer, except to observe that my secretary has some messages for you.’ He rang a bell, told the servant to pass the word for Mr Craddock, and said, ‘Doctor, thank you for listening to me so patiently: I shall leave you and Craddock together,’ and with a slight bow he walked out of the cabin.
‘Jack,’ said Stephen when they were back in the Bellona’s great cabin. ‘I admire your fortitude in making no reply.’
‘One of the first things one learns in the service is that any reply to a superior officer, any justification, protest and counter-accusation is absolutely useless: and if the superior wishes to destroy you, it is the best possible way of helping him to do so. No. It is a poor, shabby thing to blackguard a man who cannot answer; but I believe he was vexed to the very heart.’
‘He was, too,’ said Stephen, and they sat in silence for a while. It was a pleasant day, and the squadron, now well south of the Black Rocks, was standing across the bay under an easy sail, heading for the Saints, that deadly chain of reefs upon which so many ships had been wrecked.
‘We are going to pass through the Raz de Sein,’ said Jack, ‘and then the Admiral will haul his wind and rejoin the offshore squadron west of Ushant, leaving us with the Ramillies, a couple of frigates and a cutter or so: he will look in from time to time, perhaps bringing reinforcements.
Presently I will show you Dead Man’s Bay and the Pointe du Raz.’
Stephen gazed over the sea at the distant mainland; he felt the agreeable heave of the south-west swell, and he said,
‘Here’s space – here’s air – the vast sweep of the ocean -this glorious room –
servants and victuals a-plenty – no domestic worries of any kind – hundreds of miles from importunity – and as I understand it we simply go up and down in this spacious great bay –
delightful sailing, sure. Perhaps after dinner we may have some music.’
‘With all my heart,’ said Jack. ‘I have scarcely touched my fiddle this month and more. By the way, I have invited Harding and one of the new mids, a boy called Geoghegan, whose father was kind to us in Bantry. Poor fellow. He is quite clever with figures, and he plays a creditable oboe; but he cannot be taught to coil down a rope like a Christian.’
‘Listen,’ said Stephen, and once again it was apparent to Jack that his friend’s mind was, and had been, elsewhere. ‘Listen, will you now? The Admiral, in his artless approach, let fall some words having a certain misty reference to the future; and they seemed to me to chime with some of your indistinct deprecation to do with yellowing and your superstitious hatred of the colour itself, even. Be so good as to explain the matter in words adapted to the meanest understanding.’
‘I was telling Sophie about it only the other day,’ said Jack, ‘so I hope I shall make it plain: though things one has taken for granted all one’s life, like the flowing of the tide, are hard to explain to those who do not know the meaning of high tide or low, like the natives of Timbuktoo. Well now, formerly any man who was made a post-captain was sure of reaching flag-rank by seniority so long as he did nothing very wrong or refused service more than once or twice – by service I mean an offered command. When he reached the top of the captains’ list he would become a rear-admiral of the blue squadron at the next promotion, and hoist his flag at the mizen. This was the absolute crown of a sea-officer’s career, and he could die happy. If however
he lived on, he would, still by seniority, climb through the various grades and eventually become admiral of the fleet. But this tradition was broke in 1787, when a very deserving officer, Captain Balfour, was passed over. Since then nothing has been the same. Now many people are placed on the Navy List as retired captains, or if this is too flagrantly unjust then as rear-admirals, but of no squadron whatsoever and of course no command.
When this happens he is said to have been yellowed – to have been appointed to an imaginary yellow squadron. And if he has had the service at heart all his life he cannot but die unhappy. I am sure I should. It is an extremely public disgrace and your friends hardly know how to meet your eye.’
‘But my dear you are quite far from the top of the list. Sure you must have served some years more before you need worry about your flag?’