Patrick O'Brian - The fortune of war

'Are you hurt, sir?' asked Abel, helping him to his feet.

'Did they rob you, sir?' asked Keyne, dusting him.

'All is well, I thank you,' said Stephen. 'Please to lend me a pin. Those ruffians tore my coat.'

'I am glad I broke my stick over the fat one's head,' said Keyne.

'How pleasant to see you,' said Johnson, when Stephen was shown in.

Stephen was pale and trembling with anger still but his mind was sharp and clear: he would play his hand as an outraged citizen. 'Mr Johnson, sir,' he cried, 'I wish to register an official complaint of the utmost gravity. I have just been set upon in the street, in front of this hotel, in front of your hotel, sir, by a band of ruffians, Frenchmen, led by Pontet-Canet. They attempted to abduct me, to force me into a coach. I shall register the same complaint with the British agent for prisoners of war first thing tomorrow morning. I demand the protection of your country's laws and the common security of person universally afforded to captured officers. I demand that Pontet-Canet be brought to trial and his followers identified and punished; and as soon as I have seen the agent he will make the same demand at the highest official level.'

Johnson was infinitely concerned. He begged Dr Maturin to lie on the couch, to take a little brandy, or at least a glass of water. He regretted the incident extremely, and he should certainly make the strongest representations to the Frenchman's chief.

Still playing the part of one who has received an outraged citizen's complaint, he then spoke in general terms for some considerable time, saying nothing with the practised ease of a politician - the iniquity of such proceedings to be deplored - the dreadful consequences of war - the desirability of peace, of a just and lasting peace. Stephen watched him as he spoke, and although he could control his impatience at the meaningless flow and his anger at the blundering attack, he was not so much the master of his eyes: their pale, unwinking, somewhat reptilian examination made Johnson nervous - it put him off his stroke. He brought his discourse to a lame conclusion, stood up, took a turn or two about the room, opened the window and called out to the workmen on the balcony to make less din, and then, recovering his poise, he went on in quite a different tone Speaking confidentially, as man to man, he asked Dr Maturin to consider the difficulty of his position; he was only a small cog in a very large machine, and if in war-time those above thought fit to give French agents a greater degree of liberty, a freer hand than he for his part thought congruent with the national sovereignty, he could do nothing more than protest And the reply would no doubt be that it was done for the sake of reciprocity - that American agents in the territories governed by the French were tacitly allowed an equal freedom.

'On the other hand,' he said, 'I can most certainly protect my own agents of that you may be absolutely confident So I do beg that for your sake you will allow me to enrol you as a consultant - What is it?' he cried, in answer to a knock.

'The carriage is at the door, sir,' said a servant, 'and Mr Michael Herapath is still waiting

'I cannot see him now,' said Johnson, going to his desk and taking a sheaf of galley-proofs Give him these and say I hope to see him the day after tomorrow No stay I shall give them to him myself on the way out 'The door closed, and he went on, 'To enrol you as a consultant, say on Catalan affairs. The barest minimum, a slight aide-m�ire on the situation there, the historical background, would suffice - just enough to satisfy Mr Secretary's conscience. I will not press you now; you are disturbed and I dare say very angry. But I do beg you to give it the most earnest consideration, and to let me have your response on my return the day after tomorrow. Until then, I guarantee there will be no repetition of this morning's incident. And now, if I may, I will call a carriage for you. Though now I come to think of it, there is Herapath downstairs, if you prefer to go back with him: you certainly should not walk home alone, after such unpleasantness.'

Unless Michael Herapath was a perfect monster of duplicity, he was entirely ignorant of the whole affair; and Stephen had known the young man long enough and well enough to be sure that he was no monster of any kind, except perhaps of erudition. As they walked along he talked eagerly of his father's changed attitude towards the medical school, which he believed he owed to Dr Maturin's great kindness, and of his future studies; and he talked even more eagerly of his book, showed sample sheets, admired the print, gazed with loving eyes upon the title-page, and standing in the busy throng he read some passages aloud. 'Here is a version, my dear sir,' he said, 'that I flatter myself you will not wholly disapprove:

Flower:is it a flower?

Mist: is it a mist?

Coming at midnight

Leaving with the dawn.

She is there: the sweetness of a passing springtime

She is gone: the morning haze - no trace at all.'

Stephen listened gravely and applauded. He said, 'That may sum up the usual relationship between the sexes. Each tends to worship a being of its own creation. Women often expect oranges to grow on apple-trees, and men look for constancy to a purely imaginary ideal: how often a woman proves to be no more than the morning mist,' and slowly he edged Herapath along, sometimes as much as a hundred yards between the poems. In a decent interval he asked after Caroline, who was very well, apart from a slight rash, and after Mrs Wogan, who was somewhat out of sorts, mumpish, and off her food; but she would soon be cured by a sight of these proofs. Speaking as one medical

man to another, Herapath offered a physical explanation for this state of mind and body; and going on from this they fell to discussing the books he should read.

'But more than any book,' said Stephen, 'I do most earnestly recommend a private corpse. Your school cadaver, tossed about in wanton play, your odd heads and parts, indifferently pickled by the porter's wife, are well enough for the coarse processes; but for the fine work, give me a good fresh private corpse, preferably a pauper, to avoid the fat, lovingly preserved in the best spirits of wine, double-refined. Here are eloquent volumes - nocturna vet-sate manu, vet-sate diurna - worth a whole library of mere print: there is your father on the other side of the road. I am sure he will help you to a corpse: he is a worthy man. Do you not perceive your father, Mr Herapath?'

They were approaching the Asciepia, and from it came the old gentleman, carrying a basket; but Michael Herapath was in such a pleasurable flutter of spirits with his book that he did not make him out until, in reply to Stephen's salute, he returned a distant bow. At the same time he shot Stephen a significant look, raised his finger to his lips, and although he did not actually do so, gave the impression of walking on the tips of his toes - a general impression of knowing stealth.

'He is carrying a basket,' observed his son, 'I dare say he has been taking Aunt Putnam soft-shelled crabs.'

'Should you not relieve him of his burden?' said Stephen. 'Enlightened self-interest, no less than filial piety, demands such a course. Good day to you now, and I thank you for your company.'

'Jack,' he said, 'how do you do?'

'Prime, prime - but what's this, Stephen? Have you been in a mill?'

'Pontet-Canet tried to force me into a coach; Keyne and Abel came to my rescue. It amounted to nothing. Tell me, how did Mr Herapath respond to my request?'

'Are you really quite well, Stephen? No injury?'

'Quite well, I thank you. My coat is torn, but I have arranged it with a pin. What said friend Herapath?'

'He spoke up like a friend, like a good 'un; damned the French and all their works, stepped out directly, and came back with these in a basket.' Jack leaned over and brought up a case of pistols with their fittings. 'There. London-made, Joe Manton's best. As pretty a pair as you could wish; I have been playing with them this last half hour, getting the flints just so. Will you give me your coat?' he said, leaning over again for his hussif. 'It is only the sewing of the pocket.'