Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

‘So you evaded the proposal?’

‘Yes. Dropping my claim to be made post, I told him anything that would float would do for me. I did not drop it in so many words, but he took the point at once, and after some humming and hawing he spoke of some remote possibility next week. And he would consider the matter of promotion. I am not to think him in any way committed, but am to call again next week. From a man like Lord Melville I regard that as pretty strong.’

‘So do I, my dear,’ said Stephen, with as much conviction as he could put into his voice - a good deal of conviction, for he had had dealings with the gentleman in question, who had been in command of the secret funds these many years past. ‘So do I. Let us eat, drink and be merry. There are sausages in the scrutoire; there is beer in the green jug. I shall regale myself on toasted cheese.’

The French privateers had taken away his Bréguet watch, as well as most of his clothes, instruments and books, but his stomach was as exact as any timepiece, and as they sat themselves at the little table by the fire, so the church clock told the hour. The crew of the swift-​sailing Bellone had also taken away the money he had brought from Spain - that had been their first, most anxious care - and since landing at Plymouth he and Jack had been living on the proceeds of one small bill, laboriously negotiated by General Aubrey while their horses waited, and on the hopes of discounting another, drawn on a Barcelona merchant named Mendoza, little known on the London ‘change.

At present they were lodging in an idyllic cottage near the heath with green shutters and a honeysuckle over the door - idyllic in summer, that is to say. They were looking after themselves, living with rigid economy; and there was no greater proof of their friendship than the way their harmony withstood their very grave differences in domestic behaviour. In Jack’s opinion Stephen was little better than a slut: his papers, odd bits of dry, garlic’d bread, his razors and small-​clothes lay on and about his private table in a miserable squalor; and from the appearance of the grizzled wig that was now acting as a tea-​cosy for his milk-​saucepan, it was clear that he had breakfasted on marmalade.

Jack took off his coat, covered his waistcoat and breeches with an apron, and carried the dishes into the scullery. ‘My plate and saucer will serve again,’ said Stephen. ‘I have blown upon them. I do wish, Jack,’ he cried, ‘that you would leave that milk-​saucepan alone. It is perfectly clean. What more sanitary, what more wholesome, than scalded milk? Will I dry up?’ he called through the open door.

‘No, no,’ cried Jack, who had seen him do so. ‘There is no room - it is nearly done. Just attend to the fire, will you?’

‘We might have some music,’ said Stephen. ‘Your friend’s piano is in tolerable tune, and I have found a German flute. What are you doing now?’

‘Swabbing out the galley. Give me five minutes, and I am your man.’

‘It sounds more like Noah’s flood. This peevish attention to cleanliness, Jack, this busy preoccupation with dirt,’ said Stephen, shaking his head at the fire, ‘has something of the Brahminical superstition about it. It is not very far removed from nastiness, Jack - from cacothymia.’

‘I am concerned to hear it,’ said Jack. ‘Pray, is it catching?’ he added, with a private but sweet-​natured leer. ‘Now, sir,’ - appearing in the doorway with the apron rolled under his arm - ‘where is your flute? What shall we play?’ He sat at the little square piano and ran his fingers up and down, singing,

‘Those Spanish dogs would gladly own Both Gibraltar and Port Mahon

and don’t they wish they may have it? Gibraltar, I mean.’

He went on from one tune to another in an abstracted strumming while Stephen slowly screwed the flute together; and eventually from this strumming there emerged the adagio of the Hummel sonata.

‘Is it modesty that makes him play like this?’ wondered Stephen, worrying at a crossed thread. ‘I could swear he knows what music is - prizes high music beyond almost anything. But here he is, playing this as sweetly as milk, like an anecdote: Jesus, Mary and Joseph. And the inversion will be worse. . . It is worse - a sentimental indulgence. He takes pains; he is full of good-​will and industry; and yet he cannot make even his fiddle utter anything but platitudes, except by mistake. On the piano it is worse, the notes being true. You would say it was a girl playing, a sixteen-​stone girl His face is not set in an expression of sentimentality, however, but of suffering He is suffering extremely, I am afraid. This playing is very like Sophia’s. Is he aware of it? Is he consciously imitating her? I do not know: their styles are much the same in any case - their absence of style. Perhaps it is diffidence, a feeling that they may not go beyond certain modest limits. They are much alike. And since Jack, knowing what real music is, can play like a simpleton, may not Sophia, playing like a ninny-​hammer. . . ? Perhaps I misjudge her. Perhaps it

is a case of the man filled with true poetic feeling who can only come out with ye flowery meads again - the channels blocked. Dear me, he is sadly moved. How I hope those tears will not fall. He is the best of creatures - I love him dearly - but he is an Englishman, no more - emotional, lachrymose. Jack, Jack!’ he called out. ‘You have mistook the second variation.’

‘What? What?’ he cried passionately. ‘Why do you break in upon me, Stephen?’ -

‘Listen. This is how it goes,’ said Stephen, leaning over him and playing.

‘No it ain’t,’ cried Jack. ‘I had it right.’ He took a turn up and down the room, filling it with his massive form, far larger now with emotion. He looked strangely at Stephen, but after another turn or two he smiled and said, ‘Come, let’s improvise, as we used to do off Crete. What tune shall we start with?’

‘Do you know St Patrick’s Day?’

‘How does it go?’ Stephen played.

‘Oh, that? Of course I know it: we call it Bacon and Greens.’

‘I must decline to improve on Bacon and Greens. Let us start with Hosier’s Ghost, and see where we get to.’

The music wove in and out, one ballad and its variations leading to another, the piano handing it to the flute and back again; and sometimes they sang as well, the forecastle songs they had heard so often at sea.

Come all you brave seamen that ploughs on the main

Give ear to my story i’m true to maintain,

Concerning the Litchfield that was cast away

On the Barbary shore by the dawn of the day.

‘The light is failing,’ observed Stephen, taking his lips from the flute.

‘On the Barbary shore by the dawn of the day,’ sang Jack again. ‘Oh, such a dying fall. So it is but the rain has let up, thank God,’ he said, bending to the window. ‘The wind has veered into the east - a little north to east. We shall have a dry walk.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To Queenie’s rout, of course. To Lady Keith’s.’ Stephen looked doubtfully at his sleeve. ‘Your coat will do very well by candlelight,’ said Jack. ‘And even better when the middle button is sewn on. Just ship it off, will you, and hand along that hussif? I will make all fast while you put on a neckcloth and a pair of stockings - silk stockings, mind. Queenie gave me this hussif when I first went to sea,’ he observed, whipping the thread round the shank of the button and biting it off close to the stuff. ‘Now let us set your wig to rights - a trifle of flour from the bread-​bag as a bow to fashion - now let me brush your coat - splendid - fit for a levee, upon my word and honour.’

‘Why are you putting on that blackguardly cloak?’