Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

‘I thought not. You have a head-​piece. . . however, I had one some nights ago, about your narwhal; and Sophie was mixed up with it in some way. It sounds nonsense, but

it was so full of unhappiness that I woke blubbering like a child. Here it is, by the way.’ He reached behind him and passed the long tapering spiral of ivory.

Stephen’s eyes gleamed as he took it and turned it slowly round and round in his hands. ‘Oh thank you, thank you, Jack,’ he cried. ‘It is perfect - the very apotheosis of a tooth.’

‘There were some longer ones, well over a fathom, but they had lost their tips, and I thought you would like to get the point, ha, ha, ha.’ It was a flash of his old idiot self,

and he wheezed and chuckled for some time, his blue eyes as clear and delighted as they had been long ago: wild glee over an infinitesimal grain of merriment.

‘It is a most prodigious phenomenon,’ said Stephen, cherishing it. ‘How much do I owe you, Jack?’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he laid on the table, then a handful of gold, then another, and scrabbled for the odd coins, observing that it was foolish to carry it loose: far better made a bundle of.

‘Good God,’ cried Jack, staring. ‘What on earth have you been at? Have you taken a treasure-​ship? I have never seen so much money al! at once in my life.’

‘I have been stripping a jackeen that annoyed me: the young nagin, the coxcomb in the red coat. The lobster, as you would say.’

‘Smithers. But this is gaming, Stephen, not mere play.’

‘Yes. He seemed concerned at his loss: a lardish sweat. But he has all the appearance of wealth - all its petulant arrogance, certainly.’

‘He has private means, I know; but you must have left him very short - this is more than a year’s pay.’

‘So much the better. I intended he should smart.’

‘Stephen, I must ask you not to do it again. He is an under-​bred puppy, I grant you, and I wonder the jollies ever took him, they being so particular; but the ship is in a bad enough way as it is, without getting a name for gaming. Will you not let him have it back?’

‘I will not. But since you wish it, I shall not play with him again. Now how much do I owe you, my dear?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Do me the pleasure of accepting it as a present. Pray do. It was very little, and the prize paid for it.’

‘You took a prize, so?’

‘Yes. Just one. No chance of any more - the Polychrest can be recognized the moment she is hull up on the horizon, now that she is known. I am sorry you were not aboard, though it did not amount to much: I sold my share to Parker for seventy-​five pounds, being short at the time, and he did not make a great deal out of it. She was a little Dutch shalloop, creeping along the back of the Dogger, laden with deals; and we crept just that trifle less almighty slow. A contemptible prize - we should have let her go in the Sophie - but I thought I ought to blood the hands at last. Not that it did much good. The ship is in a bad way; and Harte rides me hard.’

‘Pray show me your honorary sword and the merchants’ piece of plate. I called upon Sophie, and she told me about them.’

‘Sophie?’ cried Jack, as though he had been kicked. ‘Oh. Oh, yes - yes, of course. You called upon her.’ As an attempt at diverting his mind to happier thoughts, this was not a success. After a moment he said, ‘I am sorry, they are not here. I ran short again. For the time being, they are in Dover.’

‘Dover,’ said Stephen, and thought for a while, running the narwhal’s horn through his fingers. ‘Dover. Listen, Jack, you take insane risks, going ashore so often, particularly in Dover.’

‘Why particularly in Dover?’

‘Because your often presence there is notorious. If it is notorious to your friends, how much more so to your enemies? It is known in Whitehall; it must be known to your creditors in Mincing Lane. Do not look angerly now, Jack, but let me tell you three things: I must do so, as a friend. First, you will certainly be arrested for debt if you continue to go ashore. Second, it is said in the service that you cling to this station; and what harm that may do you professionally, you know better than I. No, let me finish. Third, have you considered how you expose Diana Villiers by your very open attentions, in circumstances of such known danger?’

‘Has Diana Villiers put herself under your protection? Has she commissioned you to say this to me?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then I do not see what right you have to speak to me in this way.’

‘Sure, Jack, my dear, I have the right of a friend, have I not? I will not say duty, for that smells of cant.’

‘A friend who wants a clear field, maybe. I may not be very clever, no God-​damned Macchiavelli, but I believe I know a ruse de guerre when I see one. For a long time I did not know what to think about you and Diana Villiers first one thing and then another - for you are a devilish sly fox, and break back upon your line. But now I see the reason for this standing off and on, this “not at home”, and all this damned unkind treatment, and all this cracking-​up of clever, amusing Stephen Maturin, who understands people and never preaches, whereas I am a heavy-​handed fool that understands nothing. It is time we had a clear explanation about Diana Villiers, so that we may know where we stand.’

‘I desire no explanations. They are never of any use, particularly in matters of this kind, where what one might term sexuality is concerned - reason, flies out of the window; all candour with it. In any case, even where this passion is not concerned, language is so imperfect, that…’

‘Any bastard can cowardly evade the issue by a flood of words.’

‘You have said enough, sir,’ said Stephen, standing up. ‘Too much by far: you must withdraw.’

‘I shall not withdraw,’ cried Jack, very pale. ‘And I will add, that when a man comes back from leave as brown as a Gibraltar Jew, and says he had delicate weather in Ireland, he lies. I will stand by that, and I am perfectly willing to give you any satisfaction you may choose to ask for.’

‘It is odd enough,’ said Stephen, in a low voice, ‘that our acquaintance should have begun with a challenge, and that it should end with one.’

‘Dundas,’ he said, in the small room of the Rose and Crown, ‘how good of you to come so soon. I am sorry to say I must ask you to be my second. I tried to follow your excellent suggestion, but I mishandled it - I did not succeed. I should have seen he was in a state of unhappy passion, but I persisted untimely, and he called me a coward and a liar.’

Dundas’s face changed to one of horror. ‘Oh, that is very bad,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Lord.’ A long, unhappy pause. ‘No question of an apology, I suppose?’

‘None whatsoever. One word he did withdraw,’ - Captain Aubrey presents his compliments to Dr Maturin, and begs to say that an expression escaped him yesterday evening, a common expression to do with birth, that might have been taken to have a personal bearing. None was intended, and Captain Aubrey withdraws that word, at the same time regretting that, in the hurry of the moment, he made use of it. The other remarks he stands by - ‘but the gratuitous lie remains. It is not easy of digestion.’

‘Of course not. What a sad, sad business. We shall have to fit it in between voyages. I feel horribly responsible. Maturin, have you been out before? I should never forgive myself if anything were to happen to you. Jack is an old hand.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Well,’ said Dundas, looking at him dubiously, ‘I shall go and see him at once. Oh, what a damned unlucky thing. It may take some time, unless we can arrange it tonight. That is the wretched thing about the Navy: soldiers can always settle out of hand, but with us I have known an affair hang fire three months and more.’