Book 6 - The Fortune Of War Read online

'I confess all,' cried Jack. 'I shifted backstays, I slept out of my ship, I kept false musters, I failed to submit my quarterly returns, I allowed stove casks to be thrown overboard, and I blasted Alice B. Sawyer from the water with both my broadsides, treble-shotted. I throw myself upon the mercy of this honourable court.'

  'Note that,' said Brenton to one of his assistants; then, 'Captain Aubrey, do you recognize these papers?'

  'Of course I do,' said Jack, in an ordinary voice. 'The one is my commission and the others—let me have a look at them.' They looked very like the packets that Admiral Drury had asked him to take home, together with some of his own victualling notes. The smaller dark man brought the sheaf, and Jack, who had noticed that he was writing, plucked the notebook from his hand and read 'The prisoner, apparently in liquor, acknowledges that he is Captain Aubrey, states that he is a Roman Catholic and makes similar allegations about the British Board of Admiralty; admits that when in command of the Leopard he fired both broadsides at the brig Alice B. Sawyer.'

  The door gave a sudden jerk, butting against Winslow's chair: Winslow leapt up with a tremulous howl: the door opened wide, and Mr Bulwer of the Royal Navy appeared.

  'Bulwer,' cried Jack, 'I am delighted to see you. Now, gentlemen, you must excuse me: there is an urgent letter that I must finish.'

  'Not so quickly, Captain Aubrey; not so quickly, if you please,' said Mr Brenton. 'I have a whole raft of questions yet. You, sir,'—to Bulwer—'you may wait in the lobby.'

  Jack had made an awkward movement in shaking Bulwer's hand; his arm hurt damnably. The peevishness of convalescence rose in a sudden tide: and in any case these were dreary lunatics, not nearly so quick or lively as Butcher Bates; Sir Jahleel Brenton was not a patch on the Emperor of Mexico, and this was a dreary game—he was tired of it. 'Mr Bates, there,' he cried. 'Friend Zeke, Brother Zeke.' The huge mad glowing face instantly showed at the door, excited, all alive, growing rather wild, a white line of spittle between its grinning lips. 'Good Mr Bates, pray show these gentlemen the door. Show them the way to Mrs Kavanagh: she will give them all a comfortable warm draught.'

  'Jack,' said Stephen, coming in with a parcel, 'I have bought us woollen undergarments, just one set apiece—the winter is passing fast—and bonnets with flaps, to protect the ears. Why, Jack, what's amiss?'

  'I must tell you some damned bad news,' said Jack. 'Did you hear the bands playing all over the town, and the people cheering, this afternoon?'

  'How could I miss it? I thought they were celebrating the capture of the Java all over again: it was much the same din, with three bands playing "Yankee Doodle" and three "Salem Heroes, Rise and Shine".'

  'They were celebrating a victory, true enough; but it was a different victory, a fresh victory. Their Hornet has sunk our Peacock. Engaged her off the Demerara river and sunk her in fourteen minutes.'

  'Oh,' said Stephen. There was a curious stab at his heart: he had not known how much he felt for the Navy.

  'You may say what you like,' went on Jack, in a flat, dogged voice. 'You may say their Hornet—you remember her, Stephen, the little ship-sloop that was lying in San Salvador—that their Hornet had a two hundred and ninety-seven-pound broadside and the Peacock only one hundred and ninety-two, but it is still a very bad business. To sink her in fourteen minutes! They killed young Billy Peake, too, and knocked out thirty-seven of his men, as against only three Americans. No wonder they are thumping on their drums. And anyhow, the whole point of war is to bring more guns to bear on your enemy than he can bring to bear on you; or to point them better. The whole point is to win: it is not a game. Bulwer brought the news, so upset he could hardly speak; and he showed me this paper.'

  Stephen looked at it: a card addressed to Captain Lawrence of the Hornet by the five surviving officers of the Peacock and reproduced by the Boston newspaper: '. . . we ceased to consider ourselves prisoners; and everything that friendship could dictate was adopted by you and the officers of the Hornet to remedy the inconvenience we would otherwise have experienced from the unavoidable loss of the whole of our property and clothes owing to the sudden sinking of the Peacock.' He said, 'I am sure that what they say is very true: but it makes a somewhat abject publication.'

  Jack stared out of the window: he could see the American men-of-war down there, dressed all over for the victory; and it was only by the grace of God that he did not see the American flag flying over the British—the Peacock lay in five-fathom water in the mouth of that distant river, the Guerrière and Java at the bottom of the Atlantic; and the Macedonian was in New York. He thought of elaborating his ideas on the nature of war—on the change that had come over the Navy since Nelson's time—the wanton stupidity of the administration—the over-confidence of well-connected commanders—the God-damned spit-and-polish—a whole series of reflections that had filled his mind for a great while now; but he was too weary, too low. He said, 'Oh, there was another damned thing that happened today. Some officials from their Navy Department came to see me. They were not announced and I thought they were just some more of our lunatics, particularly their leader, a Dutch-built civilian with a wall-eye; and when he said he was Jahleel Brenton I was sure of it. So I humoured them and played the fool with their questions until Bulwer came, and then I put them out, because I wanted to finish a letter to Sophie for Bulwer to take.'

  'You gave him my parcel, I trust?' asked Stephen. He was speaking of his diary, packed, sealed, and addressed to Sir Joseph Blaine at the Admiralty, together with a covering note to his colleague in Halifax.

  'Oh yes. I could not forget your parcel. I wrote my letter on it, and when I watched Bulwer going aboard, through my glass, I noticed he had it under his arm. It was he who told me they really had a Jahleel Brenton, a man who has to do with the exchange of prisoners. Apparently the name is quite usual in these parts; our Brenton came from Rhode Island, I believe.'

  'What was the nature of their questions?'

  'They wanted to know whether the Leopard had fired on an American merchantman to bring her to: the Alice B. Sawyer, as I recall. I don't think we did, but I should have to look at the log to be sure. And then they wanted me to explain some papers I had wrapped up in my commission: victualling notes, as far as I recollect, and some private letter the Admiral asked me to carry home.'

  They sat there in the gathering twilight: sounds of rejoicing and the occasional roar and crack of a rocket reached them through the window: and at last Jack said, 'Do you remember Harry Whitby, who had Leander in the year six? You treated him for some complaint or other.' Stephen nodded. 'Well, when he was off Sandy Hook, he fired to bring some American merchantmen to, to see whether they had any contraband aboard. A man was killed, or died, or at all events lost the number of his mess: Whitby swore it was not Leander's fault, because her shot passed a full cable's length ahead of the American's bows. However, the Americans swore it was, and they moved heaven and earth to have him brought to trial for murder in their own country. It seems that the ministry even thought of handing him over, but in the end they only had him court-martialled. He was acquitted, of course, yet to pacify the Americans he was never given another ship, not for years and years. He was on shore, unemployed, until in some way he came by proof that the man had not in fact been killed by Leander's fire. Now it occurs to me, that they might be trying the same kind of caper in this case: but in this case there is no question of their having to persuade Government to hand me over—I am here.'

  'Such inveterate malignance, brother? I find it hard to credit. I do not believe you made any American ship stop this last voyage at all.'

  'Oh, I dare say it is only because I am hipped—the blue devils put such ideas into your mind. But still, it would explain the delay in exchanging me; and then again, they hate the very name of Leopard, naturally enough. I am connected with her; and any stick will do to hang a wicked dog. The American sailors we have met are good seamen, brave fellows, and generous—generous to a fault: I should never suspect them of anything like that. But
these civilians, these officials . . .'

  'Lord, they are sitting in the dark, the creatures,' cried Bridey Donohue. 'Doctor, there is a lady for you. Will I light the lamp, now?'

  Through the open door, from some way away, came the sound of a laugh, a gurgling laugh, intensely amused, that went on and on. They both smiled, quite involuntarily; but then Jack, sinking back, said, 'That is Louisa Wogan. I should have known that laugh anywhere. But, Stephen, I could not cope with visitors just now. Pray be a good fellow, and make my compliments and excuses, will you?'

  Chapter Five

  Louisa Wogan had been put into a waiting-parlour: for once Dr Maturin's visitor was not wandering about the corridors in the Asclepia's usual haphazard way. But the door had been left open and the Asclepia had come to her; the Emperor of Mexico and a couple of millionaires were gathered in the parlour, laughing merrily. They were polite lunatics, however, and when Mrs Wogan sprang up, ran to Stephen, took him by both hands and cried, 'Dr Maturin, how glad I am to see you!' they filed out on tiptoe, each with his finger to his lips.

  'How are you?' she went on. 'You have not changed in the least.'

  Nor had she: still the same pretty young woman—black hair, blue eyes, lithe, like a plump boy, lovely complexion: she was wearing the sea-otter furs that Stephen had given her on Desolation, down there towards the southern pole, and they had the happiest effect upon her looks. 'Nor have you, my dear,' said he, 'except to improve in bloom: your native air, no doubt, and proper nourishment. Tell me, how did you support the voyage?' He had last seen her in a tolerably advanced state of pregnancy, and he feared for the child.

  'Oh, pretty well, I thank you. The baby was born in a most appalling tempest, while we were going to and fro off Cape Horn—the men were all aghast—kept the deck, all of them, though the weather was quite unspeakable. But Herapath was very good; and afterwards everything was delightful. Such a pleasant run northwards from Rio, and the baby was so good. She had long curling dark hair from the very start!'

  'And Mr Herapath?'

  'He is very well: but he dared not come to see you, and I have left him at home with Caroline. But come, we cannot talk here; I mean to take you back. They do let you out, do they not?' Stephen nodded. 'Then let someone fetch your greatcoat; it is amazingly cold outside, with a biting wind.'

  'I have no greatcoat. We are to be exchanged so soon that it is not worth the while; and I feel no inconvenience from the cold. Captain Aubrey charges me with his best compliments, and he is much distressed at being unable to pay them himself.'

  'Oh, him,' said Mrs Wogan, in a tone which made it clear to Stephen that the visit was intended for Dr Maturin alone: at the same time he recalled that the conditions of Mrs Wogan's captivity aboard the Leopard were such that she could have no conception of their intimacy. But recollecting herself she asked politely after Captain Aubrey's health, and hoped that he should soon be well.

  They went out into the front hall, where the porter came from his booth to open the door for them, an immensely tall and massive Red Indian, dressed in a suit of European clothes, one of the few unsmiling faces that worked in the Asclepia: invariably grave, sculptured, and apparently mute. Stephen addressed a civil 'Ugh' to him, and as usual he received no reply, not even the slightest change of expression; but for the first time he did notice the lever that controlled the door, a comparatively simple arrangement, yet presumably enough to keep the madder patients in.

  Spring had come to Boston, spring at its most virulent, and as they walked across the Common an icy wind from Cambridge blew small shattered green leaves into the half-frozen mud, while nearly all the Americans they passed, red, black, or bluish-grey, had streaming colds: but neither Maturin nor Wogan noticed it. They were lost in a flood of reminiscence—their voyage, the comforters she had knitted him, the stockings; the battle, the ship near sinking, the frigid refuge of Desolation Island; seal-skins, warmth and food at last; the coming of the American whaler in which Wogan and Herapath had made their escape. How was Mr Byron? Mr Babbington? Mr Babbington's dear fool of a dog? Eaten, alas, by the natives of the Friendly Islands; but they had offered a maiden in exchange. What had happened to the Gypsy woman and her baby, and to Peg? The one had found her husband at Botany Bay, the other a dense pack of lovers, women being in such short supply. And as they talked Stephen observed that Mrs Wogan showed no reserve of any kind towards him; she spoke as to an old friend, with the same openness and confidence of their days aboard the Leopard: with even more, perhaps, as though their friendship had matured with time. He was glad of it, because he was really fond of Wogan; he admired her courage, he liked her prattle, and he found her an agreeable companion; but he was surprised. She was after all an intelligence-agent (though not a very good one) and he had, in the naval phrase, 'stuffed her up' with false information of a singularly lethal nature: and as far as he could tell, this stratagem had borne fruit in the form of a trail of dead or discredited spies. Yet there she was, warm, pressed close to his side, leaning on his arm, apparently devoid of resentment. Then, partly as a result of what she let fall, and of what she did not say, and partly from his own reflections, it came to him that this was because she, thought him guiltless: he had been an unwitting tool, manipulated by the wicked Captain Aubrey, that bluff-seeming Macchiavel. Or had she never even learnt from the vague, the woollen-minded Herapath that the papers had passed to him through Stephen's hands?

  'Watch out!' she cried, plucking him from under the wheels of a dray. 'Really, my dear, you must watch out, and keep to the sidewalk.' They returned to that interesting period of their stay on Desolation when the whaler was ready to depart: she described her preparations with the utmost candour and with a reminiscent glee, and she said, 'I so very nearly told you: I was sure you would not mind, being an Irishman and a friend to liberty—to America. Did you not guess, when you saw my seaman's trousers? Would you have helped me, if you had known?'

  'I believe I should, my dear,' said he.

  'I was sure of it,' she said, squeezing his arm. 'I told Herapath so, but Lord, what a fuss he made about it—his honour, you know, and all that. Apart from anything else he said he owed you money: I always knew Northerners worshipped the dollar, but I would never have believed anyone could have made such a coil about small change—in the South, of course, it is quite different. I had to screech and bawl like a fishwife to shift him: oh Lord!' At the recollection she began to laugh, that absurd infectious laugh of hers that always gave Stephen pleasure; and now people turned in the street and smiled at her. A pause, with a few more inward gurgles of mirth, and then suddenly she cried, 'But you never told me you know Diana Villiers!'

  'You never asked,' said Stephen. 'You know her too, I collect?'

  'Heavens, yes,' said Mrs Wogan. 'I have known her this age and more. We are amazingly close friends. Well, we were in London, anyway; and I love her dearly. As I dare say you know, she is the particular friend of Harry Johnson, a man I know very well; we both come from Maryland. They will be in Boston on Wednesday. I long for you to meet him: he loves birds, too. When I reached the States at last I told them all about you, and Diana cried out, "But that is my Maturin!" and Harry Johnson said, "It must be the same Maturin that wrote the paper about boobies"—could it be boobies?'

  They passed O'Reilly's hotel, and two British officers, who knew Stephen, looked at him with open envy. They saluted, and Mrs Wogan gave them a flashing smile. 'Poor fellows,' she remarked. 'It is dreadful being a prisoner. I must get Mrs Adams to invite them.'

  'It is not so much the Englishmen that you dislike, then, but rather their Government?'

  'That's right,' said Mrs Wogan. 'Though of course I hate some Englishmen too: but it is really their Government I detest, and I dare say it is the same with you. Do you know, they hanged Charles Pole, the friend of mine in the Foreign Office I told you about long ago. Such a cowardly, despicable thing to do—they might have shot him. Here we are,' she said, steering him into a muddy street of small brick hous
es with lean hogs searching along its gutter. 'Are we not squalid? It is the best poor Herapath can do, for the present.'

  Poor Herapath was waiting for them in a sparsely furnished room, little less squalid than the street, and full of smoke. He greeted Stephen with a painful mixture of embarrassment and affection, hesitating to offer his hand until Stephen grasped it. He had aged since they parted on Desolation Island and from his emaciated appearance Stephen supposed that he had returned to the abuse of opium. Yet he was essentially the same Herapath, and while Louisa went to fetch their baby he showed Stephen his translation of Li Po with an eagerness that brought the days of the Leopard's sickbay vividly to mind.

  The baby was an ordinary specimen of its kind, probably good at bottom; but it was angry at not having been fed, and while its parents argued the point in voices necessarily raised above the usual tone, it roared and howled again. Stephen gazed at its red and angry face, the successive or sometimes mingled expressions of woe and rage, and reproached himself for wishing it never had been born; he also noticed that Herapath was somewhat less inept at handling it, and that the little creature paid more attention to its father than its mother. Eventually, after the usual compliments, delivered in something near a shout, it was carried away, and Herapath said, 'I am exceedingly concerned, Dr Maturin, that I should have left you without paying my debt.'

  'Not at all,' said Stephen. 'I seized upon your property and sold your uniforms to Byron, who was naked, and much of your size; you left me the richer for the bargain.'

  'I am glad of that: it preyed upon my mind. After all your kindness . . .'

  'Pray, Mr Herapath, do you spend all your hours with Li Po? I had hoped you might perhaps study physic on your return: you have a real gift for medicine.'

  'And so I should, if I had the means. As it is, I have read Galen and what other books I can come at. But I hope that when my translation is published, the profits will allow me to return to Harvard and qualify myself as a physician. I have great hopes: Louisa has a friend, a childhood friend from the South, who has made interest with a Philadelphia publisher, and he gives me every reason to suppose that all will be well. The book may come out in a handsome quarto next year, with an octavo edition to follow, if the demand is great enough! In the meantime we live upon an allowance that my father is good enough to make me. But if only he would—' Herapath checked himself, coughed, and said, 'My father desires me to make you his best compliments, and he hopes for the honour of your company at dinner tomorrow.'