The Thirteen-Gun Salute Page 9

  'Sure, I only wished to be outside to release my saga,' said Stephen, 'and if I might be indulged in a glass of white wine I should happily watch you drink your tea. In a place designed by Beckford you should be able to rely on an honest brew.'

  'Did you ever read Vathek?'

  'I tried, on the recommendation of men whose taste I respected.'

  Sir Joseph drank his tea and Stephen his wine in an immensely long cool gallery on the north side of the house, with a flight of windows looking out on to gardens, lawns with three different streams flowing through the grass, copses, and on the rising ground beyond a noble wood, while the gallery's opposite wall held a great number of large pictures, mostly of the last age and mostly allegorical. In this sweep of space the two men sitting in English armchairs with a little table between them looked minute: they could speak without the least fear of being overheard.

  'Of course,' said Blaine, 'we plan a counter-mission, and we have a capital man to take charge of it. His name is Fox, Edward Fox: he was my guest once at the dinner of the Royal Society Club and afterwards you heard him read a paper on the spread of Buddhism eastward and its subsequent relations with Brahmanism and the Muslims.'

  'Certainly. A man of unusual parts.'

  'Yes. Of most unusual parts; and yet he has never been appreciated at his full value. Always acting, temporary appointments—always moved on to some other administration. Perhaps there is some fault of manner . . . a certain unorthodoxy . . . a certain bitterness from want of recognition. But there are undoubtedly remarkable abilities, and he might have been made for this particular undertaking. He is, by the way, a friend of Raffles, the Governor of Java, another interesting man.'

  'So I am told. I have not met the gentleman, but I have seen some of his letters to Banks: they think of founding a zoological society.'

  'Fox too was in Penang at one time, and it is from him that I have my information about Ledward in that respect.' A long silence followed; the room was so still that a turtle-dove could be heard a great way off. 'But naturally,' continued Blaine, draining his pot, 'we have to get our envoy there before the French have converted their man and signed their treaty. It can certainly be done, given equal diligence, because although they have a start, Fox and all other authorities assure me that with potentates of the Sultan's kind these things are never concluded without discussions lasting a month or two, and because, since we control the Sunda Strait, the French have to go very, very much farther round. It can be done: I mean they can be frustrated, undermined, done in the eye, and I will tell you how I think we should set about it. I have said how essentially important it is that this report about South America should be scotched, have I not?'

  'You emphasized it as strongly as possible'

  'Very well, then. Now according to my plan the Surprise will carry on with her avowable activities under her second in command and her present ship's company—the authorities' confidential arrangement for her hire will continue in force—and you and Aubrey will take the envoy to Pulo Prabang in the Diane, which has been bought into the service. We had meant to wait until there was a victory that could be announced together with the news of Aubrey's reinstatement—a question of saving official face—but now it is agreed that the country's interests will be better served by openly, publicly, almost ostentatiously reinstating him and giving him this command. What more convincing proof that you are neither of you going to Peru?'

  Stephen nodded.

  Blaine went on, 'But that is not all. Let us suppose that the Surprise makes her way into the Pacific in Captain Pullings' able hands—his name has come back to me—and there, having done what she ostensibly set out to do, she sails to some given rendezvous; and then let us suppose that the Diane, having dealt with the situation in Pulo Prabang, joins the Surprise at this rendezvous, so that you can return by South America, thus being enabled to make at least some of the discreet contacts that we had planned. What do you say to that, Maturin?'

  Stephen looked at him for some moments with an expressionless face; then he said, 'It is a grandiose scheme. I am in favour of it. But I cannot answer for Aubrey.'

  'No. Of course you cannot. Yet an answer must we have within two days, no more. Clearly, I do not know Aubrey as well as you, not by a thousand miles; but I have little doubt of what he will say.'

  Chapter Four

  Jack Aubrey's answer was yes, as Stephen had known very well it would be; but with what tearings of heart, what anxious self-questioning did he produce it at length, well on in the eleventh hour; and what sad, longing, perhaps guilt-stricken looks did he direct at the Surprise, already under sail far down there in the Tagus as he rode away, leaving his shipmates low-spirited, disappointed and in some cases even bereft. Some had been angry at first; many had said they had always known it would be an unlucky voyage; but no man had accepted Jack's offer to give him his wages and pay his passage home, and they had derived increasing comfort from the fact that it was the Diane that they personally had cut out, their own Diane, in which he was to sail, and that the two ships were to meet at a given rendezvous—a rendezvous made all the more solid and palpable by the Captain's wine and cold-weather clothes, which remained on board, together with crate after crate of the Doctor's books.

  Not only the hands but the officers took the parting hard. Pullings was devoted to Jack and the others had the greatest respect for him; and although they attributed less importance to Aubrey's private personal luck than did the foremost hands, it did not leave them indifferent by any means; furthermore, they knew very well how much easier it was to command a fierce, turbulent crew when there was a legendary figure aboard—legendary for courage, success and good fortune. However, Stephen was able to assure Pullings that he was virtually certain of a command if he brought the Surprise home safely; and both West and Davidge felt that in such a case they would have much better chances of reinstatement.

  Since Aubrey was to travel to his new ship by land and with the utmost haste he was unable to take any followers apart from his steward and coxswain, and the deserted, uncomplaining look of those he left behind was one of the hardest things about the whole operation.

  Yet it was clear to him—it was clear to everyone concerned—that this was still another of those naval occasions on which there was not a moment to be lost; and in a way it was just as well, since the incessant activity, and the extreme difficulty of travelling fast through Portugal and north-western Spain in a time of armed occupation and massive destruction, with the tide of war only just receding and liable to come flooding back at any time, took Jack's mind from his deserted ship and shipmates. But nothing, travel, guilt, extreme discomfort, could take away from the deep glow in his heart: if he could stay alive for the next couple of weeks or so, he would be gazetted and he would have a command—the charming promises would become infinitely more solid realities: changing from what his mind believed to what his whole person knew as a living fact. The fact, however, could not be mentioned, nor the glow acknowledged; even the inward singing must be repressed.

  They travelled in a variety of hired coaches and carriages, sometimes drawn by an improbable number of animals but always, however many or however few, running as fast as ever they could be induced to run. That is to say Sir Joseph, Standish, whom Jack had offered a lift after their explanation, the baggage, the musical instruments and the large number of documents Stephen needed travelled so, with Killick and Bonden (no great horsemen) sitting with the driver or up behind, except in the blinding rain of Galicia, when Sir Joseph made them come inside. Jack and Stephen rode: there were great numbers of lost, stolen, strayed cavalry horses from the various armies to be had and each travelled with a remount and a groom, pushing ahead in the evening to attend to supper and bed.

  It was hard going, on and on, always on and on, passing wonders without ever a pause—never so much as a glass of wine in Oporto itself—mud in the north, mud axle-deep, and once a band that tried to stop the coach but that scattered in the face of determi
ned professional pistol and carbine fire. Yet for Blaine it was nothing like such hard going as it had been on the way down: now he had a guide perfectly accustomed to the language and the manners of the people, familiar with the road and most of the towns, widely acquainted, so that they stayed at two country houses and one monastery as well as the best inns the country afforded. He was also now part of a formidable armed party, including powerful sailors capable of dealing with most situations, such as freeing a bogged wheel by means of a tackle seized to a stout tree, the fall running along a dry bank, so that all hands could bowse upon it. Indeed the travelling itself was almost pleasant and the evening was very much so: on his way down Sir Joseph, spending public money, had not exactly stinted himself, but he had a certain conscience, whereas Stephen, once he had overcome a reluctance to part with copper, flung gold about like jack-ashore, and Aubrey had never been less than lavish whenever he had anything to be lavish with. Having travelled like kings all day, they ran dinner and supper into one regal feast in the evening, and after it Standish would play to them.

  Sir Joseph was devoted to music; he appreciated Standish's playing at its true worth, and Stephen hoped that he might deal with the situation by finding the unhappy man some harmless minor position under Government. But this was not to be. One evening in Santiago Standish was playing a brilliant Corelli partita entirely from memory—not a hemidemisemiquaver of all the multitude out of place—when Jack, who had drunk a great deal of the thin, piercing white wine from the landlady's own vineyard, was obliged to tiptoe to the door. He opened it with the utmost precaution and a bulky officer in the uniform of the First Foot Guards fell into the room. He was covered with confusion—apologized most profusely for listening—fairly worshipped good music—Corelli, was it not?—congratulated the gentleman most heartily. When the music was done they invited him to stay and drink port with them. His name was Lumley; he was in charge of the regiment's depot in Santiago—they had already noticed a number of battered guardsmen creeping about the muddy streets—and as it so often happens in cases of this kind they found they had a large number of acquaintances in common. When the others had gone to bed he shared a last pot with Stephen, who gave him a discreet account of Standish and his position. 'Do you think he would be my secretary?' asked Colonel Lumley. 'The duties would be very light—my clerks do most of the paper-work—but I should give a great deal to have such a violin at hand.'

  'It seems to me quite probable,' said Stephen, and he might have added, 'Indeed, I believe the poor man would accept any work that would keep him alive rather than go aboard ship again, and in the Bay of Biscay at that', if he had not thought it liable to influence even a very benevolent employer; and Colonel Lumley had, at least in these circumstances, the kindest face. Instead he observed, 'So probable that I am sure it is worth making the offer.'

  The offer was made and accepted. The party set off as soon after dawn as the ostlers could be roused from their straw, with Standish standing by the stable gates in the drizzle waving until they were out of sight. His happiness, his relief, his sense of reprieve affected them all, even Bonden and Killick, who imitated post-horns on the back of the coach and made antic gestures at the passing peasants and soldiers most of the morning; but the mounting south-south-west wind veering to south-west with heavy rain damped their ardour, and presently Sir Joseph made them get inside again, where they sat stiff, mum and genteel until at last the gasping mules brought the carriage down through Corunna to the port.

  Here Jack and Stephen were waiting for them on the quay, beside the Nimble, the cutter that was to carry Sir Joseph and his party home.

  'This could not be better,' said Jack as he heaved the coach door open against the blast. 'It is almost sure to strengthen, and even if it don't we may well see Ushant by Thursday evening.'

  In the last grey twilight Blaine looked at the streaming, shining quay, the streaming, shining mules drooping their heads under the rain, the uneasy surface of the harbour, the steeply-chopped white water beyond, where the tide was ebbing against the Atlantic rollers. He made no reply, but took Jack's arm and staggered across the brow into the cutter, his eyes half-closed.

  Stephen settled with the coachman and his carbine-bearing companion, paid the grooms, telling them they might keep the horses, and so in his turn crossed the brow. The baggage had long since been whipped across by a line of seamen, and as soon as Stephen was aboard they cast off fore and aft, filled the jib and stood for the open sea.

  The two-hundred-ton Nimble, fourteen guns, was one of the largest cutters in the Royal Navy, and for those accustomed to doggers, hoys, galliots and smacks in general she seemed a behemoth, particularly when she had topgallants and even royals spread on her tall single mast; but for the rest of the world, especially those used to rated ships, she might have seemed designed for dwarfs. Even Maturin, who was rather a small man, stood bent, with bowed head, in the cabin. Yet as it so often happened in the Navy, she was commanded by one of the tallest officers the service possessed: he came in, having seen his cutter well clear of the land, and stood there, a pink-faced, smiling, anxious young man in a lieutenant's coat.

  'You are very welcome, gentlemen,' he said again. 'May I offer you a little something to stay you before supper? Sandwiches, for example, and a glass of sillery?'

  'That would be delightful,' said his guests, to whom it was clear that the sandwiches had already been cut and the wine put over the side in a net to cool.

  'Where is Sir Joseph?' asked the captain of the Nimble.

  'He turned in at once,' said Jack, 'because, says he, prevention is better than cure.'

  'I hope it answers, I am sure. Lord Nelson's coxswain told me the admiral used to suffer most cruelly for the first few days, if he had been ashore for a while. Stubbs'—directing his voice through a scuttle—'light along the sandwiches and the wine.'

  'The bubbly stuff is all very well,' said Jack, looking at the light through his glass, 'but for flavour, for bouquet and for quality, give me good sillery every time. Capital wine, sir: but now I come to think of it, I do not believe I caught your name.'

  'Fitton, sir. Michael Fitton,' said the young man with a shy, expectant look.

  'Not John Fitton's son?' asked Jack.

  'Yes, sir. He often spoke about you, and I saw you once at home when I was a boy.'

  'We were shipmates in three commissions,' said Jack, shaking his hand. 'Isis, Resolution, and Colossus, of course.' He looked down, for it was on the gun-deck of the Colossus, not three feet away from him, that John Fitton had been killed during the battle of St Vincent.

  At this moment Sir Joseph, whose cupboard opened into the cabin, called out in a choking voice for his servant, and when the hurrying to and fro was over Stephen said, gazing about, 'So this is a cutter. Well, I am prodigiously glad to have seen a cutter. Pray why is it so called?'

  At another time Jack might have replied that Stephen had seen cutters by the score, by the hundred, every time he came into home waters, and very often elsewhere, and that the rig had been carefully explained to him so that he should not confuse a cutter with a sloop; but now he only said, 'Why, because they go cutting along, you know. Skilfully handled'—smiling at young Fitton—'they are the fastest craft in the Navy.'

  'Should you like to see over her, Doctor, when it is raining a little less?' asked Fitton. 'She is remarkably large and elegant for a cutter—nearly seventy feet long—and although some people might say she wanted headroom, she is much broader in the beam than you would think: twenty-four feet, but for a trifle. Twenty-four feet, sir, I do assure you.'

  After supper Jack and the captain of the Nimble fell to a close discussion of the sailing of cutters, both with fore-and-aft and with square rig, in order to get the best out of them by as well as large; and although from time to time they remembered that Stephen was there and tried to make the question clear to him, he soon went to bed. He was in fact quite tired—he had reason to be—but before he went to sleep he reflected for a whi
le on diaries, on the keeping of diaries. The Nimble was now pitching to such an extent that Killick came in and took seven turns about him and his cot to prevent him from being tossed out or being flung against the deck-head, but even without the constriction it would have been impossible to make one of his habitual entries—cryptic entries, because of his strongly-developed sense of privacy, and selective entries, because of his connexion with intelligence.

  'Today I should have recorded no more than the weather, the helleborus foetidus when we stopped to mend a trace, and the handsomely expressed gentlemanly gratitude of the men, the wholly uneducated men, to whom we gave the horses. When first I met Jack I should have been very much more prolix. Or should I? I was terribly low in those days, after the obvious, inevitable failure of the rising, the infamous conduct of so very, very many people, and of course the loss of Mona; to say nothing of the intolerable miseries in France and the destruction of all our sanguine generous youthful hopes. Lord, how a man can change! I remember telling James Dillon, God rest his soul, that I no longer felt loyalty to any nation or any body of men, only to my immediate friends—that Dr Johnson was right in saying that the form of government was of no consequence to the individual—that I should not move a finger to bring about the millennium or independence. And yet here I am, hurrying through this wicked sea in an attempt however slight at bringing about both, if the defeat of Buonaparte can be considered the one and Catholic emancipation and the dissolution of the union the other. When I am at the Grapes I shall look at the diary of that year and see what in fact I said. Shall I remember the code?'

  At breakfast Michael Fitton said, 'Today, Doctor, if the rain stops, you will see the Nimble in all her glory: she is almost directly before the wind, with topsail and single-reefed square mainsail, and at the last heave she ran off eleven knots and the best part of a fathom.'