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

By this time Jack had begun his ritual pace from the break of the quarterdeck to the taffrail: at each turn he glanced up at the rigging and across the sea to the distant chase - for chase she had become in the frigate’s predatory eyes, although in fact she was not in flight: far from it - her course lay rather towards the Surprise than from her. At this moment she was a whiteness just clear of the larboard lower studdingsail, and if she held her luff she would soon disappear behind it. Now that the whole of the fresh impulse had been transmitted to the frigate’s hull, now that her upper masts had ceased their momentary complaint and that the backstays were less iron-​taut, she was racing through the water: she had nothing on her mizenmast; on her main, topsail, topgallant with studdingsails on either side, and royal, her mainsail being hauled up to let the wind into her foresail; and on her foremast, the course with both lower studdingsails spread like wings, no topsail - the maintopsail would have becalmed it - but the topsail yard on the masthead and its studdingsails set. She was running very smoothly, rippling over the swell with an eager forward thrust, not a hint of steering wild: their courses should converge in about an hour at this rate. Rather less: he might have to reduce sail. And if the chase wore and fled, he still had his spritsail and the kites in hand, as well as an advantage of some two or three knots, in all likelihood.

The civilians had been reduced to silence or shepherded below; Mr Stourton was hurrying quietly about, making ready for the possible order to clear for action; and in the silence of voices, but almost silence of the following wind, all that was to be heard was the steady run of water along her side, an urgent bubbling rush that mingled with the higher excited tumult of her wake.

Six bells. Braithwaite, the mate of the watch, came to the rail with the log. ‘Is the glass clear?’ he cried.

‘All clear, sir,’ said the quartermaster.

Braithwaite heaved the log. It shot astern. ‘Turn,’ he said, as the mark tore through his fingers, the reel screeching aloud.

‘Stop!’ shouted the quartermaster, twenty-​eight seconds later.

‘Eleven knots and six fathoms, sir, if you please,’ reported Braithwaite to Pullings, official gravity fighting a losing battle with delight. All hands were listening nakedly, a murmur of intense satisfaction ran through the ship.

‘Give it her,’ said Pullings, and stepped closer to Jack’s path.

‘How do we come along, Mr Pullings?’ said he.

‘Eleven knots and six fathoms, sir, if you please,’ said Pullings with a grin.

‘Hey, hey,’ cried Jack. ‘I scarcely believed it could be so much.’ He looked lovingly along her deck and up to where her pendant flew out in a curving flame fifty foot long, almost straight ahead. She was indeed a noble ship: she always had been, but she had never run eleven knots six fathoms off the reel when he was a boy. By now the chase had vanished from his view, and if she held her course he would not see her again until she was within gunshot, unless he went forward. Stephen was sitting on the capstan, eating a mangosteen and staring at the mongoose as it played with his handkerchief, tossing it up, catching it, worrying it to death.

‘We are running eleven knots six,’ said Jack.

‘Oh,’ said Stephen, ‘I am sorry to hear it - most concerned. Is there no remedy?’

‘I fear not,’ said Jack, shaking his head. ‘Do you choose to walk forward?’

From the forecastle she was even nearer than he had expected: hull up - same sails, same course.

‘I speak under correction, and with great diffidence,’ said Stephen as Jack fixed her in his glass, ‘but I should have supposed our progress satisfactory, seeing that the vessel is notoriously weak and old, even decrepit. See how she dashes the foam aside - see how the water is as it was excavated in a deep trough on either bow. I can see a yard of her copper at least: I never remember to have seen so deeply down her side. From the flying spray alone - and my good coat is soaked - I should have judged our pace adequate; unless indeed we are to indulge in this modern frenzy for speed.’

‘It is not our speed that is unsatisfactory,’ said Jack. He lowered the telescope, wiped the object-​glass, and peered again. ‘It is that ugly Dutch-​built interloping tub.’ And to be sure the tension on the forecastle had been slackening fast as the probable nature of the chase became more and more apparent. In all likelihood she was one of the Company’s country ships, bound for Bombay. What else would have held an untroubled course, with a man-​of-​war bearing down on her under a press of sail? Her chequered sides, her ten gunports, her martial air, might deceive foreigners; but the Navy had smoked her at once for a vile merchantman, no enemy nor no prize.

‘Well, I am glad we did not clear away even the bow-​chasers,’ said Jack, walking aft. ‘Proper flats we should have looked, if we had run alongside, stripped and bristling with guns. Mr Pullings, you may take in the royal and the topgallant-​studdingsails.’

Half an hour later the two ships lay hove-​to with backed topsails, wallowing in the swell, and the master of the Seringapatam came across Navy-​fashion in an elegant barge with a uniformed crew. He came grunting up the side, followed by a Lascar with a parcel, saluted the quarterdeck and limped towards Jack with a smile on his face and his hand held out. ‘You do not recognise me, sir,’ he said. ‘Theobald, of the Orion.’

‘Theobald, God love you,’ cried Jack, all his reserve vanishing at once ‘How happy I am to see you, Killick, Killick - where is that mumping villain?’

‘What now?’ said Killick angrily, two feet behind him. ‘Sir.’

‘Iced punch in the coach, and bear a hand.’

‘How d’ye do, Killick?’ said Theobald.

‘Tolerable, sir, I thank you: up to my duty, sir, though harduous. We was wholly grieved to hear of your mishap, sir.’

‘Thankee, Killick. Yet it is a saving in neat’s leather, you know. We made out the Surprise the moment you was topsails up,’ he said to Jack. ‘I never thought to see that taut old mainmast again.’

‘You had no notion of our being Linois?’

‘God bless you, no! He will be in the Isle of France by now, if not at the Cape. Quite out of these waters.’

They walked into the forecabin; and when at last they walked out again, Theobald was a fine deep crimson and Jack not much lighter; and their strong nautical voices could be heard from one end of the ship to the other. Theobald gripped the side-​ropes, and by the strength of his arms alone he let himself down, his face disappearing like a setting sun. When he had seen his friend bob over the water and swarm aboard the Seringapatam, and when the ships had parted with the usual civilities, Jack turned to Stephen and said, ‘Well, that was a sad disappointment for you, I am afraid: not so much as a gun. Come and help me finish the punch: it is the last of the snow, and God knows when you will have a cool drink again, this side of Java.’

In the cabin he said, ‘I must beg your pardon for not naming Theobald to you. But there is nothing so tedious as sitting by when two old shipmates are calling out, “Do you remember the three days’ blow in the Mona Passage? - Do you remember Wilkins and his timenoguy?

- What has happened to old Blodge?” He is a fine fellow, however, capital seaman; but having no interest he could not get a command - eighteen years a lieutenant. Indeed, having contrived to blow off his leg, he could not get a ship, either; so he turned to the Company, and here he is commanding a tea-​wagon. Poor chap: how lucky I am, in comparison of him.’

‘Certainly. I feel much for the gentleman. But he seems to be of a sanguine humour, and Pullings tells me the captains of Indiamen become exceedingly rich - they shake the pagoda-​tree like true British tars.’