Patrick O'Brian - The Hundred Days

‘There, sir,’ called the lookout some way along the yard. ‘Just abaft the preventer-stay.’ And there indeed, just for a moment, was a white blur: perhaps two white blurs. Then the low cloud hid them entirely.

‘Joe,’ said the Commodore, who had known the lookout from childhood, ‘what did you make of them at best?’

‘Just when I hailed, sir, they were pretty clear. I should have said a right man-of-war, a medium frigate: trim, though foreign. And maybe a merchantman in her wake. Under all plain sail. But when I see them again they had altered course, working to windward; and I am reasonable sure the frigate heaved a white flag aboard, as though for a parley, like.’

Jack nodded, smiling: the white flag, showing either submission or an absence of hostile intent or a wish to speak was often used as a ruse de guerre to obtain intelligence or even sometimes a tactical advantage: in any case he was not going to present his squadron on the lee-bow of any potential enemy. Yet before he called down the orders that would do away with such an uncomfortable situation, a tear in the low cloud and a certain diffused moonlight showed him the two strangers fairly clear. They were not indeed under a press of sail, but they had more abroad than Surprise or Pomone, and they were certainly steering a course that would presently give them the weather-gauge, with all the advantages it conferred - power to attack or to decline battle as they saw fit, and a sense of general comfort. He also saw, though only as a squarish pallor, the white flag that Joe Willett had mentioned; but he paid little attention, his mind being taken up with ensuring that in these variable airs and currents and Pomone’s imperfections, first light would find the squadron well to windward of the strangers.

Below him, as he revolved the possibilities, the Marines beat the retreat, hammocks were piped down, and at eight bells the watch was mustered: all these operations were carried out correctly, but with a most uncommon degree of levity - jocose remarks, open laughter, antic gestures with the hammocks.

It was the master, Mr Woodbine, who had the first watch: Jack told him that the squadron should very gradually increase sail - no appearance of anxiety or hurry - and perpetually work to windward, so that at dawn they should certainly have the weather-gage. He then summoned the Ringle, and to her captain he said, ‘William, I am not going to ask Pomone to come within hail in this head-sea, so you run down, lie under her larboard quarter and tell Captain Vaux with my compliments that there are two strange sail in the east-north-east - did you see them?’

‘Yes, sir: we caught just a couple of glimpses through the murk.’

‘What did you make of them?’

‘I thought they might be frigates. One was wearing a white flag for a parley.’

‘Parley be damned, William. Those wicked brutes are edging away to gain the weather-gage. Obviously we must do the same, and Devil take the hindmost.’

‘Amen, sir: so be it.’

‘So you run down and tell Pomone, will you? She is a fairly weatherly ship, in spite of bows like a butcher’s arse. Then crack on and bear away to windward and see if you can learn anything of them to tell us at first light.’

The Ringle filled and spun about: Jack walked into his cabin and leant over the charts, considering the probable local currents in this weather and at this time of the year. He had had a very good noon observation and both his chronometers agreed admirably: with the present wet obscurity he could hope for no external confirmation, but he was reasonably certain of the ship’s position; and in any event there were no cruel coasts nor uncomfortable shoals in this part of the sea. With the present breeze or even with twice the present breeze he had sea-room enough to manoeuvre against the potential enemy until noon tomorrow: his only anxiety was the Pomone, with her unhandy crew. He was unwilling to use top- or even sternlanterns, which might so easily betray his motions; but in order that poor Vaux with his band of boobies should not lose the pennant-ship altogether he had a stout, well provisioned boat veered astern, carrying Bonden and half a dozen of his shipmates, who were to guide the frigate with a fisherman’s light if ever she offered to stray.

This accomplished he took a last look at traverse-board and log-readings, pencilled a tentative disk on his chart, with the exact time, returned to the deck and the familiar, welcome task of driving his ship to windward, taking advantage of every very slightly favourable shift in sea or wind. With his own people round him, keenly attentive to his orders and expert in carrying them out intelligently, with the utmost speed, he made such excellent way that two bells later and with the utmost hesitation Harding, his first lieutenant, begged his pardon and observed that Pomone was dropping far behind, while there was real danger that the cutter astern might tow under.

His words aroused displeasure, strong displeasure among all within earshot: but on looking round Jack cried, ‘By God, you are right, Harding... I am driving her altogether too hard.’ He raised his voice and gave the orders that deadened her way - orders that were obeyed slowly, with sullen looks, but that nevertheless changed the voice of the sea on her cutwater, down her sides and under her rudder from a thrilling urgency to something quite commonplace in a matter of minutes.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Killick, ‘but supper will be on table whenever you please.’

Stephen was already in the cabin, trying to play a half forgotten tune pizzicato on Jack’s second-best sea-going fiddle. ‘I heard this long ago at a crossroads meeting something north of Derry and perhaps just in the county Donegal, the kind of gathering for music and song and above all for dancing that we call a ceilidh; but there was a dying fall near the end that I cannot recapture.’

‘It will come to you in the middle of the night,’ said Jack. ‘Pray draw up your chair and let us fall to: I am fairly wasted with hunger.’

They ate a large quantity of ox-tail soup, Jack fairly shovelling it down like a boy, then half a small tunny, caught by trolling over the side, and then their almost invariable toasted cheese, a Minorcan fromatge duro, not unlike Cheddar, that toasted remarkably well.

‘What a joy it is to satisfy desire,’ observed Jack when all was done. He emptied his glass, threw down his napkin, and said, ‘Will you not turn in now, Stephen? It is very late. I shall be doing nothing but work steadily to windward: there will be no excitement until well on in the morning watch, when I hope to find these skulking villains under our lee.’

Comfortable words: but scarcely had hammocks been piped up (at six bells, this being a Sunday morning) and scarcely had the sound of stowing them in the nettings been superimposed upon that of the decks being thoroughly cleaned, than something very like a battle broke out, starting with fairly distant gunfire, then deep-voiced cannon no great way off.

Yet there was no interruption in the steady swabbing overhead, the flogging of the spotless quarterdeck to spotless dryness, no excited cries, no orders, and above all no beating to quarters; and as the Surprise began to fire Stephen’s mind arose, not without difficulty, still somewhat bemused from an extraordinarily vivid, and coloured dream of wiring a small primate’s skeleton together, Christine Wood directing or performing the more delicate movements, and he realized that this was not an engagement at all but the leisurely, regular, and perfectly dispassionate return to a salute.

A young gentleman darted in, stood by Stephen’s cot and in a very shrill voice he cried, ‘Sir, if you please: if you are awake the Captain desires you will come on deck, in uniform.’ He had obviously been told to emphasize the last words, and this he did with such force that his voice broke an octave above its usual pitch.