Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

‘They may come aboard,’ he said. ‘Bonden, come a-​board. I am very happy to see you,’ he went on, as Bonden stood beaming at him on the quarterdeck. ‘How do you come along, eh? Pretty spry, I trust? Have you brought me a message?’ This was the only rational explanation for the presence of a seaman, bobbing about on the crowded waters of Spithead as though the hottest press in years were a matter of unconcern: but there was no ship’s name to the ribbon flying from the hat in Bonden’s hand, and there was something about his delighted bearing that kindled hope.

‘No, your honour,’ said Bonden. ‘Which our Joe,’ - jerking his thumb at his companion (Joseph Plaice, Bonden’s cousin, of course: sheet-​anchor man, starboard watch, elderly, deeply stupid, but reliable when sober, and a wonderful hand at a variant of the Matthew Walker knot, sober or speechless) - ’said you was afloat again, so we come round from Priddy’s Hard to enter volunteerly, if so be you can find room, sir.’ This was as near an approach to open mirth as decency would allow.

‘I shall stretch a point for you, Bonden,’ said Jack. ‘Plaice, you will have to earn your place by learning the boys your Matthew Walker.’ This flight was beyond Joseph Plaice, but he looked pleased and touched his knuckle to his forehead. ‘Mr Parker, enter these men, if you please, and rate them Plaice fo’csle’man, Bonden my cox’n.’

Five minutes later he and Stephen were in the launch, Bonden steering, as he had steered for Jack in many a bloody cutting-​out expedition on the Spanish coast. How did he come to be at liberty at such a time, and how had he managed to traverse the great man-​hungry port without being pressed? It would be useless to ask him; he would only answer with a pack of lies. So as they neared the dim harbour entrance Jack said, ‘How is your nephew?’ meaning George Lucock, a most promising youth whom he had rated midshipman in the Sophie.

‘Our George, sir?’ said Bonden, in a low voice. ‘He was in the York.’ The York had foundered in the North Sea with the loss of all hands. ‘He was only a foremast jack: pressed out of a Domingoman.’

‘He would have made his way,’ said Jack, shaking his head. He could see that young man, bright with joy at his promotion, shining in the Mediterranean sun, and the flash of polished brass as he took the noon altitude with his sextant, that mark of the quarterdeck. And he remembered that the York had come from Hickman’s yard - that there were tales of her having put to sea with timbers in such a state that no lanterns were needed in the hold, because of the glow of rotten wood. At all events she was in no condition to meet a full gale, a North Sea widow-​maker.

These thoughts occupied him as they wove through the shipping, ducking under cables that stretched away to the great shadowy forms of three-​deckers, crossing the paths of the countless boats plying to and fro, sometimes with outbursts of rage or wit from the licensed watermen - once the cry of ‘What ho, the Carpenter’s Mistake’ floated from behind a buoy, followed by a burst of maniac laughter; and they brought his spirits low.

Stephen remained perfectly mute in some dark study of his own, and it was not until they were coming in to the landing-​stage that the sight of Pullings waiting for him lighted some cheerfulness in Jack’s mind. The young man was standing there with his parents and an astonishingly pretty girl, a sweet little pink creature in lace mittens with immense blue eyes and an expression of grave alarm. ‘I should like to take her home and keep her as a pet,’ thought Jack, looking down at her with great benevolence.

The elder Mr Pullings was a farmer in a small way on the skirts of the New Forest, and he had brought a couple of sucking-​pigs, a great deal of the King’s game, and a pie that was obliged to be accommodated with a table of its own, while the inn provided the turtle soup, the wine and the fish. The other guests were junior lieutenants and master’s mates, and to begin with the feast was stiffer and more funereal than might have been wished; Mr Pullings was too shy to see or hear, and once he had delivered his piece about their sense of Captain Aubrey’s kindness to their Tom in a burring undertone whose drift Jack seized only half-​way through, he set himself to his bottle with a dreadful silent perseverance. However, the young men were all sharp-​set, for this was well past their dinner-​hour, and presently the huge amounts of food they ate engendered talk. After a while there was a steady hum, the sound of laughter, general merriment, and Jack could relax and give his attention to Mrs Pullings’s low, confidential account of her anxiety when Tom ran away to sea ‘with no change of linen, nothing to shift into - not even so much as his good woollen stockings’.

‘Truffles!’ cried Stephen, deep in the monumental pie, Mrs Pullings’s particular dish, her masterpiece (young hen pheasants, boned, stuffed tight with truffles, in a jelly of their own life’s blood, Madeira and calves’ foot). ‘Truffles! My dear madam, where did you find these princely truffles?’ - holding one up on his fork.

‘The stuffing, sir? We call ‘em yearth-​grobbets; and Pullings has a little old spayed sow turns ‘em up by the score along the edge of the forest.’

Truffles, morells, blewits, jew’s ears (perfectly wholesome if not indulged in to excess; and even then, only a few cases of convulsions, a certain rigidity of the neck over in two or three days - nonsense to complain) occupied Stephen and Mrs Pullings until the cloth disappeared, the ladies retired, and the port began to go round. By now rank had evened out: at least one young man was as grand, royal and spreading as an admiral, and in the vinous, candle-​lit haze Jack’s nagging anxiety about what the Polychrest would do in a capful of wind with all that tophamper, about her ballast, trim, construction, crew and stores dropped away, leaving him the cheerful lieutenant he had been not so very long ago.

They had drunk the King, the First Lord (’0 bless him, God bless him,’ cried Pullings), Lord Nelson with three times three, wives and sweethearts, Miss Chubb (the pink child) and other young ladies; they had carried the elder Mr Pullings to his bed, and they were singing

We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,

We’ll range and we’ll roam over all the salt seas,

Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England:

From Ushant to Sally ’tis thirty-​five leagues.

We hove our ship to when the wind was south-​west, boys,

We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear,

Then we filled our main-​topsail and bore right away, boys,

And right up the Channel our course we did steer.

We’ll rant and we’ll roar…

The din was so great that Stephen alone noticed the door open just enough for Scriven’s questing head: he placed a warning hand on Jack’s elbow, but the rest were roaring still when it swung wide and the bailiffs rushed in.

‘Pullings, pin that whore with the staff,’ cried Stephen, tossing his chair under their legs and clasping Broken-​nose round the middle.

Jack darted to the window, flung up the sash, jumped on to the sill and stood there poised while behind him the bailiffs struggled in the confusion, reaching out their staffs with ludicrous earnestness, trying to touch him, taking no notice of the clogging arms round their waists, knees and chests. They were powerful, determined fellows; the reward was high, and the mêlée surged towards the open window - one touch amounted to a lawful arrest.

A leap and he was away: but the head tipstaff was fly - he had posted a gang outside, and they were looking up eagerly, calling out ‘jump for it, sir - we’ll break your fall - it’s only one storey.’ Holding on to the window he craned out, looking down the lane towards the shore - he could see the gleam of water - towards the place where by rights the Polychrests should be drinking Pullings’ beer, sent to them together with the second sucking-​pig; and surely Bonden could be relied upon? He filled his lungs.