Patrick O'Brian - Desolation island

officers were of his opinion. How do you like that, Stephen, eh?" Stephen spread his hands. "Now I may not see much farther through a brick wall than the next man," Jack went on, "but I know damned well that for all his black coat, that man wants to come to her bed - I only speak to you like this, Stephen, because you are directly called in question. Since I have a respect for the cloth, all I said was, that I did not relish having my orders canvassed in the wardroom or anywhere else, that it was not customary in the service to dispute a captain's decisions nor to carry dirty rumours to the cabin, and that I expected my directions to be promptly obeyed."

"Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward: that too is in the Bible, Jack," said Stephen. "I shall do what I can to lay the pox and the ghost. I also bring you some consolation, brother. The young Marine, Lieutenant Howard: he plays the flute."

"The German flute has been the bane of the Navy ever since I was a youngster," said Jack. "Every midshipmen's berth, every gunroom, and every wardroom I have ever lived in has had half a dozen blockheads squeaking away at the first half of Richmond Hill. And after what he said about Mrs Wogan, Howard is not a man I should ever willingly entertain, or admit to my table other than in the service way."

"When I say he plays, I mean that he plays to calm the billows and to still brute-beasts in their fury. Such control! Such modulation! Such legato arpeggios! Albioni could do no better - nay, not so well. The man I cannot heartily commend: his lungs and lips alone I praise. When he plays, that brutish military face, the staring oyster eye, the - but I must not speak unkindly - all disappear behind this pure stream of sound. He is possessed. When he puts down his flute, the glow departs; the eye is dead once more; the vulgar face returns."

"I am sure it is as you say, Stephen; but you must forgive me - I could take no pleasure in playing with a man

who could speak so ill of women.

"Women are not without defence, however," reflected Stephen, passing forward along the orlop to remonstrate with Peggy and Mrs Boswell for their thoughtless conduct. Herapath had recently led Louisa Wogan down from the poop, and through the scuttle in her cabin door came the painfully familiar sound of a man being passed under the harrow.

Though passionate, the voice was low; in the most fluent French it told Herapath that he was a fool, that he understood nothing, nothing at all - he had never understood anything, at any time. He had not the least notion of tact, discretion, delicacy, or sense of timing. He abused his position most odiously. Who did he think he was?

Stephen shrugged and walked on. "Salubrity Boswell," he said, "what are you about? How comes a woman of your sound judgement to act so thoughtlessly as to tell a mariner he is in an unlucky ship? Do not you know, ma'am, that your mariner is the most superstitious soul that ever breathed? That by telling him his vessel is unlucky, even haunted, you cause him to neglect his duty, to hide away in the dark when he should adjust the sails and pull the ropes? That in consequence the ship becomes indeed unlucky - it turns upon the unseen rock, it bursts, it is taken all aback. And then where are you, ma'am? Where is your baby, tell?"

He was told that if people crossed her palm with false silver, they must expect a dark fortune for their pains: he left her sullen and remote, muttering crossly at her pack of cards, but he knew that his words had gone home, and that what little she could do to remove the phantom bailiff would be done. It would not be enough, however: the ghostly bum would probably resist all common exorcism.

"Bonden," he said, "pray remind me: where is the bowsprit netting?"

"Why, sir," said Bonden, smiling, " 'tis where we stow the foretopmast staysall and the Jib."

"I shall desire you to carry me there, after quarters and the exercise."

Bonden smiled no more. "Oh sir, it will be dark by then," he said.

"Never mind. You will procure a little lantern. Mr Benton will be happy to lend you a little lantern."

"I doubt it would ever do, sir. "Tis right out there, beyond the head, right plumb over the sea, if you understand me, with nothing to clap on to, bar the horses. It would be far too dangerous for you, sir: you would surely slip. The most dangerous place in the barky, with all them old sharks, a-ravening just below."

"Stuff, Bonden. I am an old sea-hand, a quadrimane. We shall meet here, by this - what is its name?"

"The knighthead, sir," said Bonden, in a low, despondent voice.

"Exactly so - the knighthead. Do not forget the lantern, if you please. I must rejoin my colleague."

In fact neither Bonden nor Dr Maturin was at the rendezvous, let alone the lantern. The coxswain sent his respectful duty by a boy: the state of the Captain's gig was such that Bonden could not be allowed the least liberty. And Stephen's interview with his colleague Herapath lasted far into the night.

"Mr Herapath," he began, "the Captain invites us both to dine with him tomorrow, to meet Mr Byron and Captain Moore - come, we must run. There is not a minute to be lost."

The urgent beating of the drum for quarters made him utter the last words in a shriek, and they hurried aft to their action station in the cockpit. There they sat while the ritual went on far above their heads, and they sat in silence. Herapath made one or two attempts at a remark, but affected nothing. Stephen looked at him from behind a shading hand; even by the light of the single purser's dip,

the young man was very pale: pale and woe-begone. His hair lank and dispirited, his eyes quite sunk.

"There go the great guns," said Stephen at last. "I believe we may walk off. Come and take a glass in my abode: I have some whiskey from my own country."

He sat Herapath in one corner of his triangular cabin, among the jars of squids in alcohol, and observed, "Littleton, the hernia in the starboard watch, caught a fine coryphene this afternoon; I mean to spend all the daylight hours dissecting it, so that the flesh may still be palatable when I am done. I will therefore beg you to look after our fair prisoner again."

Stephen had his own curious limits. He had had no intention of inviting the young man in order to loosen his tongue with drink, nor of provoking his confidence. Yet had that been his design, he could not have succeeded better. Having choked over the unaccustomed drink - 'it was very good - as grateful as the finest Cognac - but if he might be allowed a little water, he would find it even better'- Herapath said, "Dr Maturin, quite apart from my regard and esteem, I am under great obligations to you, and I find it painful to be uncandid - systematically disingenuous. I must tell you that I have long been acquainted with Mrs Wogan. I stowed away to follow her."

"Did you so? I am happy to learn that she has a friend aboard: it would be a dismal voyage, all alone; and a more dismal landing, too. But, Mr Herapath, is it wise to tell the world of your connection? Does it not perhaps compromise the lady, and risk making her position more difficult still?"

Herapath entirely agreed: Mrs Wogan herself had urged him to take the utmost care that it should not be known, and she would be furious if she knew he had told Dr Maturin. Dr Maturin, however, was the only person in the ship in whom he would ever confide; and he did so now, partly because the continual dissimulation sickened him, and partly because he wished to be excused from attending

her at present; they had had a very painful disagreement, and she thought he was forcing himself upon her, using his position to that end. "And yet at first," he said, "she was so very glad to see me. It was like our first days together, long, long ago."

"So yours is an acquaintance of some standing, I collect?"