Patrick O'Brian - H.M.S. Surprise

‘That was not pretty, I must confess: it savours of impiety.’

‘I have not asked after our friend Aubrey,’ cried Canning. ‘Have you news of him? I believe we are to drink to his happiness - perhaps we should even do so now.’

‘He is here, in Bombay: his frigate, the Surprise, is refitting in Bombay.’

‘You astonish me,’ said Canning.

‘I doubt that very much, my friend,’ said Stephen inwardly: he listened to Canning’s exclamations upon the service, its ubiquity, its wide commitments - Jack’s excellence as a sailor - sincere and reiterated hopes for his happiness - and then he stood up, saying he believed he must beg permission to withdraw; it was some time since he had been to his lodgings and work was waiting for him there; his lodgings were near the yard; he looked forward to the walk.

‘You cannot walk all the way to the dockyard,’ said Canning. ‘I shall send for a palanquin.’

‘You are very good, but I prefer to walk.’

‘But my dear sir, it is madness to stroll about Bombay at this time of night. You would certainly be knocked on the head. Believe mc, it is a very dangerous city.’

Stephen was not easily overcome, but Canning obliged him to accept an escort, and it was at the head of a train of bearded, sabre-​bearing Sikhs that he paced through the deserted outer streets, not altogether pleased with himself (’Yet I like the man, and do not entirely grudge him the satisfaction of knowing that I am off the scene, and that I do in fact live at such and such an address’), down the hill, with the funeral pyres glowing on the shore, the scent of burning flesh and sandal-​wood; through quiet avenues tenanted by sleeping holy cows; pariah dogs and one gaunt leafless tree covered with roosting kites, vultures, crows, through the bazaars, filled now by shrouded figures lying on the ground; through the brothel quarter by the port -life here, several competing musics, bands of wandering sailors: but not a Surprise among them. Then the long quiet stretch outside the wall of the yard, and as they turned a corner they fell upon a band of Moplahs, gathered in a ring. The Moplahs straightened, hesitated, gauging their strength, and then fled, leaving a body on the ground. Stephen bent over it, holding the Sikhs’ lantern; there was nothing he could do, and he walked on.

From a distance he was surprised to see a tight burning in their house; and he was more surprised, on walking in, to find Bonden there fast asleep: he was leaning over the table with his head on his bandaged arms; and both arms and head were covered with an ashy snow - the innumerable flying creatures that had been drawn to the lamp. A troop of geckoes stood on the table to eat the dazzled moths.

‘Here you are at last, sir,’ he cried, starting up, scattering the geckoes and his load of dead. ‘I’m right glad to see you.’

‘It is kind in you to say so, Bonden,’ said Stephen. ‘What is up?’

‘All hell is up, sir, pardon the expression. The Captain is in a terrible taking over you, sir - reefers and ship’s boys relaying one another here, messengers sent up every hour

- was you there yet? and afeared to go back and say no you wasn’t and no word either. Poor Mr Babbington in irons and young Mr Church and Callow flogged in the cabin with his own hands and didn’t he half lay it on, my eye - they howled as piteous as cats.’

‘Why, what’s afoot?’

‘What’s afoot? Only blue murder, that’s all. No liberty, all shore-​leave stopped, barky warped out into the basin, no bum-​boats allowed alongside for a drop of refreshment, and all hands at it, working double tides, officers too. No liberty at all, though promised weeks ago. You remember how the old Caesar got her new masts in by firelight in Gib before our brush with the Spaniards? Well, it was like that, only day after day after bleeding day - every hand that could hale on a rope, sick or not, gangs of lascars, which he hired ‘em personal, drafts from the flagship, riggers from the yard - it was like a fucking ant-​heap, begging your pardon, and all in the flaming sun. No duff on Sunday! Not a soul allowed on shore, bar shrimps that was no use aboard and these here messengers at the double. Which I should not be here myself, but for my arm.’

‘What was it?’

‘Boiling tar, sir. Hot and hot off of the foretop, but nothing to what the Captain’s been ladling out. We reckon he must have word of Linois; but any rate it has been drive, drive, drive. Not a dead-​eye turned in on Tuesday, and yet we rattled down the shrouds today and we sail on tomorrow’s tide! Admiral did not believe it possible; I did not believe it possible, nor yet the oldest fo’c’sleman; and like I said or meant to say Mr Rattray took to his bed the Monday, wore out and sick: which half the rest of the people would a done the same if they dared. And all the time it was “Where’s the Doctor - God damn you, sir, can’t you find the Doctor, you perishing swab?” Right vexed he was. Excellency’s baggage aboard in double quick time - guns for the boats every five minutes - ball over their heads to encourage ‘em to stretch out. God love us all. Here’s a chit he gave me for you, sir.’

Surprise

Bombay

Sir

You are hereby required and directed to report aboard H M Ship under my command immediately upon receipt of this order

I am, etc.

Jno. Aubrey

‘It is dated three days ago,’ observed Stephen.

‘Yes, sir. We been handing it from one to the next, by turns. Ned Hyde spilt some toddy on the corner.’

‘Well, I shall read it tomorrow: I can hardly see tonight, and we must get a couple of hours’ sleep before sunrise. And does he indeed mean to sail upon the tide?’

‘Lord, yes, sir. We’m at single anchor in the channel. Excellency’s aboard, powder-​hoy alongside and the last barrels stowing when I left her.’

‘Dear me. Well, cut along to the ship now, Bonden: my compliments to the Captain and I shall be with him before the full. Why do you stand there, Barret Bonden, like a stock, or image?’

‘Sir, he’ll call me a lubber and a fool and I don’t know what all if I come back without you; and I tell you straight it will be a file of Marines to carry you back to the ship the moment he knows you’re here. I’ve followed him these many years, sir, and I’ve never known him so outrageous: lions ain’t in it.’

‘Well, I shall be there before she sails. You need not hurry to the ship, you know,’ he said, pushing the unwilling, anxious, despondent Bonden out of the door and locking it behind him.

Tomorrow would be the seventeenth. There might be other factors, but he was certain that one reason for this furious drive was Jack’s desire to get him out of Bombay before Canning and Diana should return. No doubt he meant it kindly; no doubt he was afraid of an encounter between the two men. It was an ingenious piece of manipulation; but although Stephen was under naval law he was not to be moved about quite so easily. He had never cared for laws at any time.

He threw off his clothes, poured water over himself, and sat down to write a note to Diana. It would not do: he had hit the wrong tone. Another version, and the sweat running down his fingers blurred the words. Canning was a formidable enemy; sharp, silent, quick. If indeed he was an enemy at all: the danger of over-​reaching oneself -Byzantine convolutions, too cunning by half. The nausea of perpetual suspicion and intrigue: a hopeless nostalgia for a plain direct relationship - for cleanliness. lie reached for another sheet: it appeared that the enemy was at sea -he begged pardon for not taking leave - looked forward to a meeting in Calcutta - reminded her of the promised tiger, sent his compliments to Mr Canning, and was sure he might confide his little protŽgŽe to her kindness - he was just about to purchase the child for -’That puts me in mind of my purse,’ he said. He found it, a small cloth bag, hung it round his neck, and put on a kind of shirt. Out into the cooler, cleaner air. Through the streets again, more peopled now with the gardeners bringing in their fruit and vegetables - barrows, asses, bullocks and camel carts making their way carefully through the grey darkness, pariah dogs flitting behind