The Mauritius Command Read online

  THE MAURITIUS COMMAND

  Patrick O'Brian is the author of the acclaimed Aubrey-Maturin tales and the biographer of Joseph Banks and Picasso. His first novel, Testimonies, and his Collected Short Stories have recently been reprinted by HarperCollins. He translated many works from French into English, among the novels and memoirs of Simone de Beauvoir and the first volume of Jean Lacouture's biography of Charles de Gaulle. In 1995 he was the first recipient of the Heywood Hill Prize for a lifetime's contribution to literature. In the same year he was awarded the CBE. In 1997 he was awarded an honurary doctorate of letters by Trinity College, Dublin. He died in January 2000 at the age of 85.

  The Works of Patrick O'Brian

  The Aubrey/Maturin Novels

  in order of publication

  MASTER AND COMMANDER

  POST CAPTAIN

  HMS SURPRISE

  THE MAURITIUS COMMAND

  DESOLATION ISLAND

  THE FORTUNE OF WAR

  THE SURGEON'S MATE

  THE IONIAN MISSION

  TREASON'S HARBOUR

  THE FAR SIDE OF THE WORLD

  THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL

  THE LETTER OF MARQUE

  THE THIRTEEN-GUN SALUTE

  THE NUTMEG OF CONSOLATION

  CLARISSA OAKES

  THE WINE-DARK SEA

  THE COMMODORE

  THE YELLOW ADMIRAL

  THE HUNDRED DAYS

  BLUE AT THE MIZZEN

  Novels

  TESTIMONIES

  THE CATALANS

  THE GOLDEN OCEAN

  THE UNKNOWN SHORE

  RICHARD TEMPLE

  CAESAR

  HUSSEIN

  Tales

  THE LAST POOL

  THE WALKER

  LYING IN THE SUN

  THE CHIAN WINE

  COLLECTED SHORT STORIES

  Biography

  PICASSO

  JOSEPH BANKS

  Anthology

  A BOOK OF VOYAGES

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road,

  Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

  www.HarperCollins.co.uk

  This paperback edition 2003

  Previously published in B-format paperback

  by HarperCollins 1996

  Reprinted three times

  Previously published in paperback by HarperCollins 1994

  Reprinted twice

  Also published in paperback by Fontana 1979

  Reprinted ten times

  First published in Great Britain by

  HarperCollinsPublishers 1977

  Copyright © The estate of the late Patrick O'Brian CBE 1977

  Patrick O'Brian asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  ISBN 978-0-00-649918-3

  Set in Imprint by

  Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd.

  Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Clays Ltd, St. Ives plc

  All rights reserved. no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To Mary Renault

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Sometimes the reader of a novel, particularly a novel set in another age, likes to know whether the events have any existence outside the author’s mind, or whether, like the characters, they are quite imaginary.

  There is no doubt a great deal to be said for complete freedom within a context of historical accuracy, but in this case the groundwork of the tale, a little-known campaign in the Indian Ocean, is factual; and as far as the geography, the manoeuvres, the ships taken, burnt, sunk or destroyed, the battles, triumphs and disasters are concerned, the writer has kept close to contemporary accounts, to the log-books and despatches of the officers who fought the actions, and to the Admiralty records. Apart from the necessary fictions at the beginning and the very end, he has not done anything to neaten history except for the omission of a few confusing, unimportant ships whose fleeting presence was neither here nor there; nor has he thought fit to gild the lily by adding in any way to the Royal Navy’s pugnacious resourcefulness in time of adversity.

  P.O’B.

  Chapter One

  Captain Aubrey of the Royal Navy lived in a part of Hampshire well supplied with sea-officers, some of whom had reached flag-rank in Rodney's day while others were still waiting for their first command. The more fortunate had large, comfortable houses overlooking Portsmouth, Spithead, St Helens, the Isle of Wight, and the constant procession of men-of-war; and Captain Aubrey might have been among them, since as a commander and as a young post-captain he had done so well in prize-money that he was known in the service as Lucky Jack Aubrey. But want of a ship, the failure of his agent, his ignorance of business, and the sharp practice of an attorney had reduced him to half-pay and no more; and in fact his Cottage lay on the northern slope of the Downs, not far from Chilton Admiral, and the rising hill shut out all the sea, together with most of the sun.

  This cottage, though picturesque among its ash trees and even romantic, ideally suited for two in the early days of his marriage, was neither large nor comfortable; it had always been low-ceilinged, pokey and inconvenient, but now that it also contained two babies, a niece, a ruined mother-in-law, some large pieces of furniture from Mapes Court, Mrs Williams's former home, and a couple of servants, it was something like the Black Hole of Calcutta, except that whereas the Hole was hot, dry and airless, Ashgrove Cottage let in draughts from all sides, while the damp rising from the floor joined the leaks in the roof to form pools in many of the rooms. These people Captain Aubrey maintained on nine shillings a day, paid half-yearly and often long after the anxiously-awaited date; and although in his mother-in-law he had a remarkable economist to help him, the effort of doing so had imprinted an expression of abiding worry on a face that nature had meant to look cheerful—an expression that sometimes had a touch of frustration in it as well, for Captain Aubrey, a scientific as well as a natural born sailor, devoted to hydrography and navigation, was deeply concerned with a plan for finding the longitude at sea by the moons of Jupiter, and although he ground the mirrors and lenses for his telescope himself he would dearly have loved to be able to spend a guinea or two on brass-work from time to time.

  At some distance below Ashgrove Cottage a deep lane led up through the fungus-smelling woods. The heavy autumnal rains had turned the clayey bottom into a quagmire, and through this quagmire, sitting sideways upon his horse with his feet so withdrawn from the mud that he appeared to be crouching on its back, like an ape, rode Dr. Maturin, Captain Aubrey's closest friend, the surgeon in many of the ships he had commanded, a small, indefinably odd and even ill-looking man with pale eyes and a paler face, topped by the full-bottomed wig that marked him as a physician, if a somewhat old-fashioned one. He was, for him, unusually well dressed in a snuff-coloured coat with silver buttons and buckskin breeches; but the effect was spoilt by the long black sash that he wore wound three times round his waist, which gave him an outlandish air in the English countryside. On his saddle-bow lay a net, filled with a variety of mushrooms—bolets of all kinds, blewits, chanterelles, Jew's ears—and now, seeing a fine flush of St Bruno's collops, he sprang from his horse, seized a bush, and scra
mbled up the bank. As he did so an uncommonly large black and white bird lifted from among the trees, its vast wings labouring in the calm. Maturin's hand darted into the folds of his sash, whipped out a little spy-glass and presented it well before the bird, now harried by a pair of crows, crossed the valley and vanished over the hill that divided Ashgrove Cottage from the sea. With great satisfaction he stared after it for a while and then lowered his glass to the cottage itself. To his surprise he noticed that the little home-made observatory had been moved a considerable distance to the right, a good furlong, indeed, to a point where the ridge dropped fifty feet. And there, standing by its characteristic dome and overtopping it as Captain Gulliver might have overtopped a temple in Lilliput, stood Captain Aubrey, resting an ordinary naval glass upon the dome and peering steadfastly at some object far remote. The light was full on him; his face was sharp and clear in Maturin's telescope, and with a shock the Doctor saw not only that look of anxiety but also the marks of age and unhappiness. Stephen Maturin had thought of Aubrey as powerful resilient cheerful youth itself for so long that this change and the slow, weary motion as the distant figure closed the instrument and stood up, his hand pressed to an old wound in his back, were unusually distressing. Maturin closed his glass, picked the mushrooms and whistled his horse, a little Arab that came like a dog, looking affectionately into his face as he made his awkward journey down the bank with his hatful of collops.

  Ten minutes later he stood at the door of the observatory. Captain Aubrey's bottom now protruded from it, entirely filling the gap. 'He must have his telescope as nearly horizontal as it will go, and he bending double over it,' reflected Dr. Maturin. 'There is no weight lost in these posteriors, however: would still tip the beam at fifteen stone.' Aloud he said, 'Hola, Jack.'

  'Stephen!' cried Jack, shooting out backwards with surprising nimbleness in so large a man and seizing his friend by both hands. His pink face was scarlet with pleasure, and a slight answering flush appeared in Maturin's. 'How very happy I am to see you, old Stephen! How are you? Where have you been? Where have you been all this time?' But recollecting that Dr. Maturin, as well as being a medical man, was also an intelligence agent—that his movements were necessarily obscure—that his appearance might well be connected with the recent Spanish declaration of war upon France—he hurried on, 'Looking after your affairs, no doubt. Splendid, splendid. You are staying with us, of course. Have you seen Sophie?'

  'I have not. I paused at the kitchen door, 'asked the young woman was the Captain at home, and hearing domestic sounds within—the massacre of the innocents came to my mind—I merely left my offering and my horse and came along. You have moved the observatory.'

  'Yes. It was no great task, however: the whole contraption don't weigh three hundredweight. Killick and I just unshipped the dome—it is copper from the old Diomed that the Dockyard let me have—and then we clapped on a couple of purchases and rolled it up in a forenoon.'

  'How is Killick?'asked Stephen. Killick had been Jack's servant these many years; the three had been shipmates in several commissions, and Stephen valued him.

  'Very well, I believe. I had news of him from Collard of Ajax; he sent a shark's backbone walking-stick for the twins. I had to turn him away, you know.'

  Stephen nodded and said, 'Did the observatory not answer by the house, so?'

  'Yes, it did,' said Jack hesitantly. 'But I tell you what it is, Stephen: from here you can see the Wight and the Solent, the tip of Gosport and Spithead. Quick, come and have a look—she will not have moved yet.'

  Stephen lowered his face to the eyepiece, shading it with his hands; and there, inverted on a pale luminous background, hung a misty three-decker, almost filling the disc. As he shifted the focus she sprang sharp and clear into view. Brilliantly clear: her sails, top gallants down to courses, limp in the flat calm: the cable out of her hawsehole as her boats ahead carried out the warps to bring her to her mooring. Whilst he gazed he heard Jack's explanations—this was his new six-inch speculum—three months' grinding and buffing—finished off with the finest Pomeranian sludge—Miss Herschel's help invaluable—he had taken off a shade too much on the rim and had very nearly given up heart when she put him in the way of recovering it—admirable woman.

  'Why, it is not the Victory,' cried Stephen as the ship began to move. 'It is the Caledonia. I can see the Scotch arms. Jack, I can positively see the Scotch arms! At this distance! You are the speculum-maker of the world, so you are.

  Jack laughed with pleasure. 'Well do you see, it is the purest day for viewing,' he said modestly. 'Never a shimmer even by the water's edge. How I hope it will hold out until tonight. I will show you such a double star in Andromeda, less than a second of arc apart. Think of that, Stephen. Less than a second apart! With my three-inch glass I could never resolve anything much better than two. Should you not like to see a double less than a second apart?'

  'Sure, it must be prodigious. But for my part I should as soon watch the shipping. Such life, such activity, and we Olympian above it all. Do you not spend hours and hours up here?'

  'I do, Stephen, I do indeed. But I beg you will not mention it at the house. Sophie don't mind my stargazing, however late—and we shall have to sit up until three this morning before I can show you Jupiter—but staring at the Solent ain't astronomy. She don't say anything, but it makes her low in her spirits to think I am pining for the sea.'

  'Do you pine much, Jack?' asked Stephen, but before Captain Aubrey could answer their attention was distracted by a clamour from the cottage, by Mrs Williams's hoarse martial voice, the shrill, defiant replies of the servant she was rebuking. Sometimes the motionless air carried the words up the hill with perfect clarity, and they heard the cry 'a foreign gentleman left them in my kitchen' several times repeated, but generally the passionate voices overlaid one another, and they were further confused by the echo from the hanging wood on the other side of the valley, by the wail of children, and by the repeated slamming of a door.

  Jack shrugged his shoulders: yet after a pause he looked benevolently down at his friend, surveying him. 'You have not really told me how you are, Stephen,' he said. 'How do you do in fact?'

  'Amazingly well, I thank you, Jack. I took the waters at Caldas de Bohi not long ago, and derived great benefit from them.' Jack nodded: he knew the place, a village in the Pyrenees not far from Dr. Maturin's high sheepwalk; for Stephen, though an Irishman, had property in those parts, coming down to him from his Catalan grandmother. 'And as well as growing as supple as a fawn,' continued Dr. Maturin, 'I was able to make a number of valuable observations on the cretins of Bohi. Bohi is largely inhabited by idiots, my dear.'

  'Bohi is not the only place, not by a long chalk. Look at the Admiralty, and what do you see? A general as First Lord, that is what you see. Would you believe it, Stephen? And the first thing this infernal redcoat does, is to take away one of the captain's eighths—he reduces our prize-money by a third, which is stark, raving lunacy. And then, quite apart from the idiots in Whitehall, this village has half a dozen; they squeak and gibber in the market place. And in sober earnest, Stephen, I am sometimes cruelly worried by the twins. They do not look over bright to me, and I should take it very kind, was you to survey them privately. But I dare say you would like to look at the garden first?'

  'I should like it of all things. And the bees.'

  'Why, as to the bees, they seem to have piped down these last few weeks. That is to say, I have not been very close since I tried to take their honey, but I have not noticed them about. It must be more than a month since I was stung. But if you would like to see them, let us take the upper path.'

  The hives stood in a trim row on white painted stools, but never a bee was to be seen. Stephen peered into the entrances, saw the telltale cobweb, shook his head and observed, 'It is the fell wax-moth.' He prised a skep from its stool and held it out, inverted, showing the dirty wreck of combs, with the vile grubs spinning their cocoons.

  'The wax-moth!' cried Jack.
'Is there something I should have done?'

  'No,' said Stephen. 'Not that I know of.'

  'I would not have had it happen for the world. I am so concerned. Sophie and I valued them extremely, as your present.'

  'Never mind,' said Stephen. 'I shall bring you some more, of a bolder stock. Pray let us view the garden.'

  In the Indian Ocean Captain Aubrey had dreamed of a cottage, with a little land to it: rows of turnips, carrots, onions, cabbages and beans; now his dream was realized. But it had taken no account of the black fly, the wireworm, the turnip-beetle, the leather-jacket, the green-fly and the black, the cabbage white. The rows were there, half an acre of them, dug as straight as a ruler in the poor, shallow, spewy, earth, and in them stood some dwarfish plants. 'Of course,' said Jack, 'there is nothing to be seen at this time of the year; but I mean to get three to four loads of dung on to the land this winter, and that will make a marvelous difference. I have already put some to my Brunswick cabbages, beyond Sophie's rose-garden. This way.' As they skirted the meagre potatoes he pointed over the hedge and said, 'That is the cow.'

  'I thought it must be a cow: for milk, I make no doubt?'

  'Just so. Vast great quantities of milk, butter, cream, veal: that is to say, we look forward to them presently. At the moment she happens to be dry.'

  'Yet she does not look gravid. Rather the reverse, indeed: lean, Pharaonic, cadaverous.'

  'Well, the fact of the matter, Stephen,' said Jack, staring at the cow, 'the fact of the matter is that she refuses the bull. He is game enough, oh Lord, yes; but she will have nothing to say to him. Then he flies into a hellfire passion, bellowing and tearing up the ground; and we go without milk.'