The Hundred Days (15 page)

‘Is this familiarity usual in the service?’ asked
the Caroline’s secretary.

‘Only in ship’s companies that have served long
together,’ said Stephen.

‘In a Russian ship, such a remark...’ began the
secretary, but he checked himself as they came to the next group, under
Whewell, the third lieutenant, and three comparatively mature midshipmen or
master’s mates. These hands, all prime seamen, managed the midship guns in a
way and at a speed that gave Jack the utmost satisfaction: many of them came
from that curious little port Shelmerston, when the Surprise was a letter of
marque. Stephen knew them and their families, had
treated them again and again for everything from the cruellest wounds and
scurvy to piles, with the usual seamen’s diseases in between. Many, if not most
of them he had always called by their Christian names. ‘Well, Tom,’ he said,
‘how are you coming along?’

  The
Commodore, the French captain and Mr Harding were well ahead, so some of Tom’s
wittier companions answered for him, in hoarse whispers - Tom had got a young
woman with child again - and there was a good deal of stifled mirth.

The ceremony carried on, past the forecastle-men,
the oldest, most highly-skilled seamen in the ship, then to the boys - the few
ship’s boys - under the master-at-arms, and so by way of the galley with its
gleaming cauldrons and coppers, which Jack ritually wiped, looking at his
spotless handkerchief, and so to the sick-berth, which Poll Skeeping and her
friends had reduced to such a supernatural state of cleanliness that the two
patients (bloody flux), pinned in their cots by tight-drawn, unwrinkled sheets,
dared neither speak nor move, but lay there as though rigor mortis had already
reached its height.

The sick-berth, however gratifying, was only a
preliminary to the climax of divisions; and when Jack, Stephen and
Christy-Palliere returned to the quarterdeck they found everything set out,
with chairs for the officers and a kind of lectern made of an arms-rack with a
union flag draped over it for the captain.

‘Shipmates,’ said he, with a significant look,
‘this Sunday I am not going to read a sermon. Let us just sing the Old
Hundredth. Mr Adams’ - to his clerk - ‘pray give the note.’

The clerk drew a pitch-pipe from
his bosom, blew the note loud and clear, and the ship’s company
fearlessly joined their captain in the psalm, a fine deep body of sound. The
frigate had a moderate breeze on her larboard quarter, with Pomone no great way
astern; and when the Surprises had uttered their full-throated amen, the
Pomones’ hymn reached them over the water, admirably clear. Jack stood
listening for a moment, then he squared to the lectern, opened the book the
clerk had brought him, and in a strong, grave voice he read the Articles of
War, right through to XXXV: ‘If any person who shall be in actual service and
full pay in his Majesty’s ships and vessels of war, shall cornmit upon the
shore, in any place or places out of his Majesty’s dominions, any of the crimes
punishable by these articles and orders, the persons so offending shall be
liable to be tried and punished for the same, to all intents and purposes, as
if the same crimes had been committed at sea, on board any of his Majesty’s
ships or vessels of war.’ And to XXXVI, the catch-all: ‘All other crimes,
committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in
this act, or for which no punishment is directed to be inflicted, shall be
punished according to the laws and customs in such cases used at sea.’

During this familiar series of articles (twenty-one
of which included the death penalty) Stephen had been reflecting on his quite
unusually happy morning and the evident good will that surrounded him as he
walked along the decks. He rarely saw many of his shipmates at any one time;
and for a long while now those that his duties or his leisure had brought him
into touch with had been grave and if not reserved then something like it -
concerned only with the matter in hand, unwilling to speak at length, even
embarrassed - no open expression of sympathy, still less of condolence, until
the horn was broken, when Bonden and Joe Plaice and a few others he had known for
a great while, said ‘it was a cruel hard thing - they were very sorry for his
trouble.’

That day Stephen dined in the gunroom, with Richard
as his guest. The sense of well-being continued. Black desolation underlay it,
as he knew perfectly well; but the two could exist in the same being. Some part
of the gunroom’s friendliness would certainly have been caused by the presence
of his guest, part of his happiness to the fact that he was speaking French
most of the time (a language in which he had been wildly happy, amorous and
even politically enthusiastic when he was a student in Paris), and part to the
excellence of the dinner; but there remained an overplus that he had to
attribute to his return to what was, after these many years, his own village,
his own ship’s company, that complex entity so much more easily sensed than
described: part of his natural habitat.

The long pause after the gunroom’s dinner, while
Jack and Christy-Pallière carried on with their conversation in the cabin, was
filled, as far as Stephen and Richard were concerned, with medical
consultation. ‘I do not in any way mean to criticize the Royal Navy’s food,’
said Richard, when they were alone. ‘An excellent dinner,
upon my word, and remarkably good wine. But what was that ponderous
mass, glutinous and yet crumbling, enveloped in a sweet sauce,
that came at the end?’

‘Why, that was plum duff, a great favourite in the
service.’

‘Well, I am sure it is very good if you are used to
it: but I fear that such very heavy cooking does not suit my digestion,
delicate from childhood. Frankly, sir, I think that I may die.’

After the usual questions, palpations and other
gestures, Stephen suggested a comfortable vomit: this was rejected with a
shudder, but a moderate glass of brandy was exhibited with some small
beneficial effect, and they spent the rest of their time playing a languid
series of games of piquet for love, keeping themselves
awake with coffee.

At last however they heard the bosun’s call and the
watch on deck manning the side; and a midshipman came below with the
Commodore’s compliments: Caroline’s barge was pulling across.

It was an affectionate farewell between the two
commanders, but both were hoarse with talking; and when Jack Aubrey turned from
the side after a last wave to ChristyPallière he looked tired and worn. ‘Can
you spare me a minute?’ he asked Stephen.

‘How I wish you had been with us,’ he went on as
they sat by the stern windows, watching the French ship haul her wind and head
for Mahon, followed by her shabby consort.

‘It would never have done.’

‘No. I suppose not ... but if only someone could have  taken notes. He
is a dear fellow and a capital seaman, but he does tend to ramble in his speech
and start false hares: and in any case it is, as he often said, an
extraordinarily complicated situation in the Adriatic - divided loyalties -
some good men on either side, but more waiting to see which way the cat jumps,
or as Christy put it “trying to reinsure themselves” in either event. And some
of course are just out for the main chance, privateering on their own account
or with Algerine renegadoes. Most of them think that Boney will win; and to be
sure he had collected an extraordinary number of followers...One of the things
that struck Christy most was the utter confusion in Paris. He went there last year,
and having made the proper declarations and sworn the same oaths all over again
at their Admiralty, and having complained in the right quarters about the
continued delay in payment for the repairing and refitting of Caroline in Ragusa, he attended a levee.
There were many people there, several of them men he had never seen who were
wearing naval uniform, sometimes of high rank, who stared at him: it was a
curious atmosphere of caution and jockeying for position - it was known that he
had come up from the Adriatic and some of his service acquaintances
avoided him. But when the king spoke to him quite kindly and told a naval
aide-de-camp to ask Monsieur Lesueur to receive him that day, there was a
singular change - he was no longer potentially dangerous to know. Yet the
change had not reached the Ministry: there he found a different set of
officials who did not know him, who did not know anything at all about him or
his ship - what was her name? What type of vessel? - and
who, looking at him with narrowed eyes, made him go through all the earlier
formalities once more. Monsieur Lesueur was not available, they said; but he
might be the next afternoon. So he was, and although he kept ChristyPallière
waiting for an hour and three quarters he did say that he was sorry for it -
that Christy would understand that at such times he was not master of his
movements - that the Ministry would very much appreciate a detailed report on
the position in the Adriatic, where it was feared that irregularities might be
taking place - and that Captain Christy-Palliere would be well advised to wait
on Admiral Lafarge.

‘Christy-Palliêre had served under Lafarge in his
youth:they had neither of them liked one another then
and they neither of them liked one another now. Lafarge’s face was still
scarlet from his last interview and in the same angry tone he asked
Christy-Pallière who the devil had given him leave to come up to Paris, and
brushing aside his explanation told him that His Majesty did not pay him for whoring
about in the capital and making interest for himself: his clear duty was to
return to his ship directly, to attend to her repair and refitting, and to
await further orders. The Admiral wished neither to listen to his excuses nor
to see him again.

‘Christy also told me that this Admiral Lafarge had
a half-brother and a cousin in the Adriatic, both of whom were said to
have been in communication with Bonaparte when he was on Elba; and that may be an
explanation. Just what it might explain I do not know: but I tell you what,
Stephen, my wits are strangely muddled - not only am I afraid of forgetting
half what Christy told me, but I am as far out of my depth in this devious kind
of business as he was: more so, indeed. When we had brought him back to his ship
- and a horrible journey he had of it, poor fellow - he said it would be easier
for him to explain the situation in the Adriatic, as far as he understood
it at all, if we were standing at the chart-table. Shall we do the same?’

‘By all means.’

‘Well, here is Castelnuovo, on the northern tip of
the Bocche di Cattaro: Caroline was being repaired and refitted in a perfectly
reputable yard just round the headland. Inside the bay there were two brigs of
war not far from completion. Now up to Ragusa Vecchio, and there is a
thirty-two-gun frigate almost ready for sea after a long refitting in two
different yards - almost ready but for some of the shortages that I had and a
near-complete lack of cables and hawsers: she is commanded by a fervent
Bonapartist. He is called Charles de La Tour, an odd sort of fellow - Christy
rather likes him, in a way. A pretty good seaman, and not at all shy: several
creditable actions, and it was he who made that dash at Phoebe, very nearly
cutting her out. But extremely romantic and a great admirer of Byron: he learnt
English on purpose. The only thing Christy cannot bear is this passion for
Bonaparte. La Tour knows the campaigns through and through and he is said to
carry one of the imperial gloves in his bosom. Yet he is of considerable family
and perfectly well bred. By the way, I should have said that although most of
the sea-officers up and down the coast are reasonably sure that Bonaparte will
win, not many have openly declared for him. This Ragusa Vecchio ship, which
according to rumour is paid for in part by a group of Algerines, is moored up
against the ruined castle. Now moving northward up the islands, there are at
least half a dozen small yards building cutters, xebecs and brigs, obviously
intended for privateering: yet recently work has almost stopped for want of
funds and material. But moving up to Spalato, there lies the Cerbère, pretty
well ready for sea, whose commander, never happy with the Empire or the
Emperor, would be perfectly willing to surrender to Louis XVIII’s allies if
they appeared in face-saving force and made a great deal of noise. On the other
hand, Christy was really anxious about the number of people who were sitting on
the fence and the amount of damage they could do if things looked just a little
better for Bonaparte - the havoc they could work on the supplies for the
Valetta yards: timber, cordage and everything that came down from the Dalmatian
shore.’

He paused. ‘And he was even more concerned with
some kind of a plot that he had heard of at third or second hand but that
neither he nor his best, most trustworthy informant thoroughly understood - the
informant’s English was most imperfect in any case and Christy’s Greek and
lingua franca worse. Yet imperfect though it was, the account impressed him very
deeply. It appears that the Mussulmans of the country are preparing to send a
very powerful, seasoned force of mercenaries north to prevent the junction of
the Austrian and Russian armies - if possible to make each side believe in the
treachery of the other - but in any case to delay their united march westward,
giving Napoleon time to bring up his reserves from the south-east and to
establish himself in a very strong position for battle. He felt that there was
an extreme urgency. That is why he put to sea, with most of his water and half
his cables still on shore.’

‘I am sure he is right,’ said Stephen. ‘So is the
Admiralty: that is why we are here. I think you know that Jacob, my nominal
assistant, was assigned to me by Sir Joseph? He has worked in our department
for years. He speaks the languages of these parts with extraordinary fluency.
What I should like you to do is to put him aboard the Ringle and desire William
Reade to carry him with all possible speed to Kutali - we have true friends in
that fine city, I believe - there to learn all that Sciahan Bey and his vizier,
the Orthodox bishop and the Catholic bishop, and all the private connexions he
may have can tell him, and then to return to us with the same extreme rapidity,
either in Malta or if I may suggest it, on our way up the Dalmatian coast.’