Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

It could not be arranged that night, for on the evening tide the Polychrest was ordered to sea. She bore away to the south-​west with a couple of store-​ships, carrying with her more than her usual load of unhappiness.

The news of their disagreement spread throughout the ship; the extent and the deadly nature of it were quite unknown, but so close an intimacy could not come to a sudden end without being noticed, and Stephen watched the reactions of his shipmates with a certain interest. He knew that in many ships the captain played the part of a monarch and the officers that of a court - that there was eager competition for Caesar’s favour; but he had never thought of himself as the favourite; he had never known how much the respect paid to him was a reflection of the great man’s power. Parker, who revered authority far more than he disliked his captain, drew away from Stephen; so did the featureless Jones; and Smithers did not attempt to conceal his animosity. Pullings behaved with marked kindness in the gun-​room; but Pullings owed everything to Jack, and on the quarterdeck he seemed a little shy of Stephen’s company. Not that he was often put to this trial, however, for convention required that the principals in a duel, like bride and bridegroom, should see nothing of one another before they reached the altar. Most of the old Sophies shared Pullings’ distress; they looked at him with anxious constraint, never with unkindness; but it was clear to Stephen that quite apart from any question of interest, their prime loyalty lay with Jack, and he embarrassed them as little as he could.

He spent the chief of his time with his patients - the lithotomy called for radical measures: a fascinating case and one that called for hours of close surveillance - reading in his cabin, and playing chess with the master, who surprised him by showing particular consideration and friendliness. Mr Goodridge had sailed as a midshipman and master’s mate with Cook; he was a good mathematician, an excellent navigator, and he would have reached commissioned rank if it had not been for his unfortunate battle with the chaplain of the Bellerophon.

‘No, Doctor,’ said he, leaning back from the board, ‘you may struggle and wruggle as you please, but I have him pinned. It is mate in three.’

‘It is muchwhat like,’ said Stephen. ‘Must I resign?’

‘I think you must. Though I like a man that fights, to be sure. Doctor,’ he said, ‘have you reflected upon the phoenix?’

‘Not, perhaps, as often as I should have done. As I remember, she makes her nest in Arabia Felix, using cinnamon for the purpose; and with cinnamon at six and eight-​pence, surely this is a thoughtless thing to do?’

‘You are pleased to be facetious, Doctor. But the phoenix, now, is worth your serious consideration. Not the bird of the tales, of course, which cannot be attempted to be believed in by a philosophical gentleman like you, but what I might call the bird behind the bird. I should not care to have it known in the ship, but in my opinion, the phoenix is Halley’s comet.’

‘Halley’s comet, Mr Goodridge?’ cried Stephen.

‘Halley’s comet, Doctor; and others,’ said the master, pleased with the effect of his words. ‘And when I say opinion, I might say fact, for to a candid mind the thing is proved beyond the slightest doubt. A little calculation makes it plain. The best authors give 500, 1416, and

7006 years as the proper intervals between phoenixes;

and Tacitus tells us that one appeared under Sesostris, another under Amasis, another in the reign of the third Ptolemy, and another in the twentieth year of Tiberius; and we know of many more. Now let us take the periods of Halley’s, Biela’s, Lexel’s, and Encke’s comets and plot them against our phoenixes, just allowing for lunar years and errors of computation in the ancients, and the thing is done! I could show you calculations, with respect to their

orbits, that would amaze you, the astronomers are sadly out, because they do not take account of the phoenix in

their equations. They do not see that for the ancients the pretended phoenix was a poetical way of saying a blazing heavenly phenomenon - that the phoenix was an emblem; and they are too proud and sullen and dogged and want ing in candour to believe it when told The chaplain of the Bellerophon, who set up for an astronomer, would not be convinced. I stretched him out on deck with a heaving-​mallet.

‘I am quite convinced, Mr Goodridge.’

‘It ruined my career,’ - with a fiery look into the past - ‘It ruined my career; but I should do it again, the contumelious dog, the . . . however, I must not swear; and he was a clergyman. Since then I have not told many people, but in time I mean to publish - The Phoenix Impartially Considered, A Modest Proposal, by an Officer of Rank in

the Royal Navy - and that will flutter some dovecotes I could mention; that will bring them up with a round turn. My phoenixes, Doctor, tell me we may expect a comet in 1805; 1 will not give the month, because of a doubt in Ussher as to the exact length of the reign of Nabonidus.’

‘I shall look forward to it with confident expectation,’ said Stephen; and he reflected, ‘I wish they could foretell an end to this waiting.’

‘I low strangely I dread the event,’ he said, sitting down by his patient and counting his respirations, ‘and yet how hard I find it to wait.’

In the far corner of the sick-​bay the low murmur of conversation began again; the men were used to his presence, and to his absences - more than once a messmate had brought in the forbidden grog, walking right past the Doctor without being noticed - and he did not disturb them. At present two Highlanders were talking slowly to an Irishman, slowly and repetitively in Gaelic, as he lay there on his stomach to ease his flayed back.

‘I follow them best when I do not attend at all,’ observed Stephen. ‘When I do not strain, or try to isolate any word. It is the child in long clothes that understands, myself in Cahirciveen. They are of the opinion that we shall anchor in the Downs before eight bells. I hope they are right; I hope I find Dundas.’

They were right, and before the way was off the Polychrest he heard the sentry hail a boat and the answering cry of ‘Franchise’ that meant her captain was coming aboard. The bosun’s pipe, the proper respect shown to a post captain, the stumping of feet overhead, and then ‘Captain Dundas’s compliments, and might he have a word with Dr Maturin, when at leisure?’

Discretion was of first importance in these matters, and Heneage Dundas, knowing how public a spoken word might be in a crowded sloop, had written his message on a piece of paper. ‘Will half past six on Saturday suit? In the dunes. I will come for you.’ He handed the paper, with a grave, meaning look. Stephen glanced at it, nodded, and said, ‘Perfect. I am obliged to you. Will you give me a lift ashore? I should spend tomorrow in Deal, should I not? Perhaps you would be so very kind as to mention it to Captain Aubrey.’

‘I have: we may go now, if you wish.’

‘I will be with you in two minutes.’ There were some papers that must not be seen, a few manuscripts and letters that he prized; but these were almost ready, and his necessary bag was at hand. In two minutes he followed Dundas up the companion-​ladder and they rowed away over the calm sea to Deal. Speaking in such a way as to be clear to Stephen alone, Dundas gave him to understand that Jack’s second, a Colonel Rankin, could not get down until tomorrow night - Friday; that he had seen Rankin earlier in the week, and that they had decided on an excellent spot near the castle often used for this purpose and convenient in every way. ‘You are provided, I suppose?’ he asked, just before the boat touched.