Patrick O'Brian - The Hundred Days

‘Of course you may,’ said Jack. ‘But if he is a gentleman of a certain age and standing, as I suppose, I am sure the gunroom would stretch a point, particularly as you are almost never there: he could take your place.’

‘As far as standing goes, he is as much of a physician as myself - a doctor of medicine. We studied in Paris together for a while: he was some years junior to me, but already highly considered as an anatomist. That would certainly be the best arrangement; for although he is a tolerable musician, and you might very well consider inviting him on occasion that would certainly be the best arrangement.’

Feeling Stephen’s embarrassment, Jack cried, ‘Oh, I have not told you: tomorrow is going to be a day of hellish turmoil. I am shifting my pennant into Surprise and there are going to be some important changes: apart from anything else the squadron is promised two new drafts to bring us up to something like establishment.’

The hellish din began before eight bells in the middle watch, when, in the complete darkness, the people who were to remove into other ships began packing their chests and manhandling them along the narrow, crowded passages and up the steep, steep ladders to strategic corners from which they could be hurried on deck as soon as the boats came alongside. These corners were often occupied, which led to disagreement, very noisy disagreement sometimes, and then to renewed thumping as the defeated chest was humped away. At eight bells, or four in the morning, that part of the’ starboard watch which had managed to stay asleep was roused with the usual shattering din and mustered on deck: then a little later the idlers were called and for the next two hours they and the starboard watch cleaned the decks with water, sand, holystones great and small, and swabs. Barely were the spotless decks quite dry before hammocks were piped up, and in the midst of the frantic hurry boats from Dover, Rainbow, Ganymede and Briseis approached: unhappily, the officer of the watch, Mr Clegg, was some way below the deck, stilling a quarrel about chests dangerously near the sacred cabin, and the master’s mate, misunderstanding his cry, allowed the boats to come alongside. The seamen swarmed aboard with their belongings, and it called for all the authority of a tall, furious, night shirted Captain Aubrey to restore anything like order.

‘I am very sorry for the pandemonium, Stephen,’ he said as at last they sat down to their breakfast, brought by a now silent, timid Killick. ‘All this mad rushing up and down, bellowing like Gadarene swine...’

The breakfast itself was adequate, with quantities of fresh eggs, sausages, bacon, a noble pork pie, rolls and toast, cream for their coffee; but there was little to be said for it as a fleshly indulgence, since every other bite was interrupted by a message from one ship or another, often delivered by midshipmen, washed, brushed and extremely nervous, presenting their captain’s compliments and might he be favoured with a few, just a few, really able seamen, with heavy carronades instead of nine-pounder guns, or any of the countless variety of stores that the Commodore’s good word with the dockyard officials might provide. Even more irritating was Killick’s unceasing concern with the splendid uniform in which Jack was to appear at the court-martial - his intolerable twitching of the napkin that guarded breeches and lower waistcoat, his muttered warnings about egg-yolk, butter, anchovy paste, marmalade.

At last the mate of the watch came, with the first lieutenant’s duty and compliments, to announce that Royal Sovereign had thrown out her signal for the court-martial. A last cup of coffee and they both went on deck: over the smooth water of the bay captains’ barges could already be seen converging on the flagship. Jack’s was waiting for him and after a momentary hesitation he nodded to Stephen, stepping forward to the gangway stanchions as the bosun and his mates piped their captain over the side and all his officers saluted.

‘Sir. If you please, sir,’ said a boy’s voice for the second time, now with a certain impatience, and turning from the rail Stephen saw a familiar face, young Witherby, formerly of the Bellona. The shifting of officers and ratings since Jack’s appointment to the Pomone had never been clear to Stephen. He knew that Surprise’s coxswain and the bargemen had followed their captain, but what this boy was doing here he could not tell. Indeed, there were many, many things that remained obscure unless he made a determined effort of collecting his mind and concentrating upon the present. ‘Mr Witherby,’ he said, ‘what may I do for you?’

‘Why, sir,’ said the boy, ‘I understood you were for the shore, and I have the jolly-boat under the stern, if you please to walk this way.’

Witherby landed him at the Ragged Staff steps, and once he was through the Southport Gate he found the familiar surroundings a comfort: the move into the unknown Pomone, though wholly unimportant in itself, had for once been strangely disturbing. He made his way steadily along to Thompson’s comfortable, unpretentious hotel, glancing right and left at shops and buildings he had known these many years. Many red-coats, many sea-officers, but nothing to touch the hive-like multitudes of Gibraltar in full wartime.

He turned in at Thompson’s door. ‘Dr Jacob, if you please,’ he said. ‘He is expecting me.’

‘Yes, sir. Should you like him to come down?’

‘Oh no. Tell me the number of his room and I will go up.’

‘Very good, sir. Pablito, show the gentleman to the third floor back.’

Pablito tapped; the door opened, and a well-known voice said, ‘Dr Maturin, I presume?’

The door closed. Pablito’s feet echoed on the stairs. Dr Jacob seized Stephen, kissed him on both cheeks and led him into a cool, shaded room where a jug of horchata stood on a low table and smoke from the hookah hung from the ceiling down to eye level.

‘I am so exceedingly happy that it is you,’ said Jacob, guiding him to a sofa. ‘I was so nearly sure of it from Sir Joseph’s calculated indiscretions that I brought you an example of the palmar aponeurosis and the contractions which so interested you and Dupuytren.’ He slipped into his bedroom and came out carrying a jar: but realizing that his gift could not be fully appreciated in the half-light he thrust open the balcony doors and led Stephen out into the brilliant sun.

‘You are altogether too good, dear Amos,’ said Stephen, gazing at the severed hand, clear in its spirits of wine, the middle fingers so hard-clenched against the palm that their nails had grown into the flesh. ‘You are too good entirely. I have never seen so perfect an example. I long to make a very exact dissection.’

But Jacob, taking no notice, turned him gently to the full sun and looked hard into his face. ‘Stephen, you have not made some cruel self-diagnosis, I trust?’

‘I have not,’ said Stephen, and in as few words as possible he explained the situation - his personal situation. Amos did not oppress him with any sympathy other than a deeply affectionate pressure on the shoulder, but suggested that they should walk out high on the Rock, where they could speak about their present undertaking in complete safety. that is to say, if you still feel concerned.’

‘I am wholly concerned, wholly committed,’ said Stephen. ‘If it were not so wicked, I could almost be grateful for this very evil man and his odious system.’

They walked out of the town, up and up to the ridge itself, where the cliffs fall down to Catalan Bay and where Stephen saw, with a muted satisfaction, that the peregrine eyrie was occupied again, the falcon standing on the outer edge, bating and calling. All the way along they walked, with the migrant birds passing overhead, sometimes very low, and on either side, Stephen mechanically noting the rarities (six pallid harriers, more than he had ever seen together), right out to the far end overlooking Europa Point, and back again; and all the time, with a much more conscious, concentrated mind, Stephen listened to all that Jacob, with his remarkable sources of information, had gathered about the Adriatic ports, the Muslim fraternities and the progress of their urgent request for money to pay their mercenaries. Jacob also spoke, and with equal authority, of the probable donor and of the pressure that might be brought to bear on the Dey of Algiers. ‘But where Africa is concerned,’ he said, ‘it seems to me that little or nothing should be attempted until we have had at least some success in the Adriatic.’