Patrick O'Brian - The Yellow Admiral

My Lord,

I am sending you this letter by my tender: but at the present moment I am so stupid after the night's blow that I forgot to beg that you would be so good as to send her back as soon as you may find convenient. I have, as your Lordship knows, a rendezvous at the dark of the moon; and if the repairs to Bellona cannot be carried out by then, I should wish to keep the engagement in Ringle: no other craft would serve the purpose.

He sealed the letter again, burnt his fingers on the wax, and a certain pettishness at last breaking through, he cried, 'Hell, death and damnation.'

'Is that you, sir?' asked Harding, looking through the door. 'I thought you was fast asleep at the George - gone ashore long ago.'

'No, I had to write to the Admiral first, and now I must take it to the Ringle, to carry across. But then I 'shall sleep, by God: sleep like a crew of hedgepigs in an ivy-tuft: then in the afternoon I shall go to Woolcombe for a few days -urgent family affairs. The yard will not start any important repairs till Monday: and even if they do, you know as much about the barky's needs as I do.'

'Give me the letter, sir: I will see to it. The sooner you are abed the better, if you are to make a journey. Sleep -God help us - nothing like it. I shall turn in myself in twenty minutes. Good-bye, sir; sleep very well, and you will wake a new man.'

Jack slept in his bath, slept in his bed at the George until noon, slept in the post-chaise that carried him towards Woolcombe at so handsome a pace that it would have been the fastest run he had ever made from Plymouth but for a linch-pin that slipped from its place, liberating the corresponding wheel, which bowled away at a great pace down the road, whilst the chaise plunged into a ditch, a harmless plunge into a soft, well-filled ditch. This took place just outside Alton, a village not five miles from home; but by the time wheel, horse, baggage and postillion were reassembled and the chaise hoisted upright it was dark and Jack decided to spend the night at the Cross Keys, an inn kept by a former bosun. Here he supped nobly and slept again, a deep, deep sleep, perfectly limp and relaxed until the first dawn woke him. He rose up, a new man indeed, not exactly cheerful but curiously sanguine. The chaise was not ready - the wheel needed a few more hours - but there was a respectable horse, and having snatched an early breakfast he mounted and set out, the sun just over Alton hill.

Quite what was in his mind as he rode into the stable-yard he hardly recalled, but a first cold, cold shock was the sight of his daughter Charlotte, a leggier child than when last he saw her. She was in the kitchen doorway, staring: her face expressed no sort of pleasure: she shouted back into the house, presumably to her sister, 'It's Papa,' and vanished.

George came running out however, as Jack gave the horse over to Harding, and bade him a perfectly unaffected friendly 'Good morning, sir, how do you do?'

'And a very good morning to you too, George my dear. Where is your Mama?'

'They ain't down yet, sir. I believe they are drinking tea upstairs. But, sir, if only you had come five minutes earlier you would have seen Cousin Diana's new coach. Oh such a beauty! She is gone to Lyme with Mrs Oakes and Brigid. I love them much.'

Up the stairs, and they creaking with his weight and haste. The room opened to the east and the cool morning light fell full on Sophie and her mother as they sat side by side copying letters. Neither had dressed: Sophie had not yet done up her hair; she was wearing the sort of gown that women clutch about their throat. She was not looking at all her best; yet it was neither a lack of bloom nor of colour that struck him but rather the presence of some quality he had never seen in her at any time. Both women started, sitting upright from their papers as he came in. Mrs Williams continued the movement and clapping a hand to her head, rose up and ran out: she could no more be seen without a cap than without any upper garment at all.

'What are you doing here?' asked Sophie, and her voice, like her expression, might have been her mother's.

'Bellona is in dock for repairs,' said Jack, 'and I have come to spend a few days at home.'

'Not with my good will,' she replied.

'But above all I have come to ask your pardon, to say I am very sorry indeed, and to beg you will forgive me.'

The door behind Sophie opened a little. 'Not with my good will,' she repeated mechanically. 'I should not have been here, but the Admiral will not leave before his term.'

She put her hand to a falling swag of hair and speaking in a hurried voice she said, 'Here - look here - all these are her letters - your mistress's letters - and here is the ring you gave me before God's altar, before God's altar - and you come here to this house...'

'Oh, Sophie, my dear,' he said gently, coming a little nearer and looking her in the face.

Mrs Williams opened the door. He clapped it to and shot the bolt. She could be heard scrabbling the other side.

'Oh, come, Sophie,' he said again. But she cried out that he should never have come here - it was most improper, most indelicate - and that he must go away at once. Some of this was less than coherent, but there was no mistaking the vehemence of resentment.

He fell back and said, 'Is that indeed all you have to say to me, Sophie?'

'Yes it is,' she cried, 'and I never want to see you again.'

'Then be damned to you for a hard ill-natured and pitiless unforgiving shrew,' he said, anger rising at last, and he walked out, leaving her bowed over the miserable letters, utterly appalled by his words and by her own.

Chapter Seven

Two days after the dark of the moon Jack Aubrey, worn thin with his ceaseless efforts to make the dockyard work double tides, brought his ship with her sullen crew, bloated, blotch-faced, dissipated and bleary-eyed after so long in port, within sight of the offshore squadron.

He made his number and he was called aboard the flagship at once. The Captain of the Fleet received him with the words, 'Well, you have had a fine run ashore, Aubrey, upon my word: and I see the yard did you proud in the article of spars. But I am sorry to tell you that the Admiral is far from well, very far from well; and I understand you are to see his secretary.'

Mr Craddock, like most secretaries to admirals with an important command, was a discreet, capable, middle-aged man, thoroughly used to dealing with diplomatic and official correspondence and with matters to do with intelligence. He said that although Lord Stranraer had indeed received Captain Aubrey's letter and report sent by the Ringle, he had seen fit, because of confidential information received, to detain the tender for a certain period and to send her ta the place of rendezvous some time earlier than the appointed date. The Ringle had not yet reported back to the squadron and it was not impossible that Dr Maturin, perhaps carrying important. dispatches or information, might have directed Mr Reade to take advantage of the very favourable breeze to carry him to the Downs.

Captain Aubrey bowed, hoped that the Admiral was at least tolerably comfortable, and wondered whether he had made any observation on the Bellona's parting company or on the taking of a prize.

'Those are matters quite outside my province,' said the secretary in an impersonal tone. 'But I am sure that Captain Calvert will have directions for your immediate proceedings.'

He had, of course, and although he too declined to be drawn about the Bellona's inability to make out the signal to tack, he did say, 'As far as the prize is concerned - and I give you joy of her, I am sure: she sounds a genuine stunner - he is perhaps the only flag-officer in the service who would have been totally unmoved. He is not interested in money.' Jack had heard this before: it formed part of the Admiral's reputation. Certainly he had an ample fortune, and at sea he lived very quietly, entertaining no more than was,strictly necessary: yet this did not square with his passion for inclosing larger and larger tracts of common land, fens, and open pasture.