Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

‘It depends on the wind, of course; but with anything north, I should hope to follow the channel between the Galloper and Morgan’s Knock to the outer road, run past St Jacques, and then either go between the Anvils or round the tail of the West Anvil to come to the harbour-​mouth; then out again on the ebb, with God’s blessing, by the Ras du Point - here, beyond the East Anvil - and so get into the offing before Convention knocks our masts away.

They mount forty-​two pounders: a mighty heavy gun. We must start to come in on the first half of the flood, do you see, to get off if we touch and to do our business at high water. Then away with the ebb, so as not to be heaved in by the making tide, when they have chawed us up a little, and we have not quite the control we could wish. And chaw us up they will, playing their heavy pieces on us, unless we can take them by surprise: capital practice those French gunners make, to be sure. How glad I am I left the Modest Proposal with Mrs G., fair-​copied and ready for the press.’

‘So the tide is all-​important,’ observed Stephen, after a pause.

‘Yes. Wind and tide, and surprise if we can manage it. The tides we can work. I reckon to bring her there, with the island bearing due south and the square tower south-​east a half east, with the flood, not of tomorrow night, but of the night after - Sunday, as ever is. And we must pray for a gentle west or north-​west breeze to take us in: and out again, maybe.’

Stephen sat by his patient in the gently rocking sick-​bay. He had almost certainly pulled him through the crisis -the faint thready pulse had strengthened this last hour, temperature had dropped, breathing was almost normal - but this triumph occupied only a remote corner of his mind: the rest was filled with dread. As a listener, a half unconscious listener, he had heard too much good of himself - ‘The Doctor is all right - the Doctor will not see us abused - the Doctor is for liberty - he has instruction; he has the French - he is an Irish person, too.’ The murmur of conversation at the far end had dropped to an expectant silence; the men were looking eagerly towards him, nudging one another; and a tall Irishman, visiting a sick shipmate, stood up, his face turned towards the Doctor. At his first movement Stephen slipped out of the sick-​bay: on the quarterdeck he saw Parker, talking with the Marine lieutenant, both gazing at a line-​of-​battle ship, a three-​decker standing south-​west with all her canvas abroad, studdingsails port and starboard, tearing down the Channel with a white bow-​wave streaming along her side. Two midshipmen, off duty, sat making a complex object out of rope in the gangway. ‘Mr Parslow,’ said Stephen, ‘pray be so good as to ask the Captain if he is at leisure.’

‘I’ll go when I’ve finished this,’ said Parslow coolly, without getting up.

Babbington dropped his fid, kicked Parslow vehemently down the ladder and said, ‘I’ll go, sir.’ A later moment he came running back. ‘Captain has Chips with him just now, sir, but will be very happy in five minutes.’

Very happy was a conventional phrase, and it was obvious that Captain Aubrey had had an unpleasant conversation with his carpenter: there was a lump of rotten wood with a drawn bolt in it on his desk and a shattered, bludgeoned look on his face. He stood up, awkward, doubtful, embarrassed, his head bent under the beam.

‘I am sorry to have to ask for this interview, sir,’ said Stephen. ‘But it is probable there will be a mutiny tomorrow night, when the ship is in with the French coast. The intention is to carry her into Saint-​Valery.’

Jack nodded. This confirmed his reading of the situation - the Sophies’ downcast, wretched looks, the men’s demeanour, the twenty-​four-​pound shot that had left their racks to trundle about the deck in the middle watch. His ship was falling to pieces under his feet, his crew were falling away from their duty and their allegiance. ‘Can you tell me who are the ringleaders?’

‘I cannot. No, sir: you may call me many things, but not an informer. I have said enough, more than enough.’

No. Many surgeons, with a foot in each world, were more than half in sympathy with mutineers: there had been that man at the Nore, and the unfortunate Davidson they hanged for it at Bombay. And even Killick, his own servant, even Bonden - and they must have known something of what was brewing - would not inform on their shipmates, although they were very close to him.

‘Thank you for having come to see me,’ he said stiffly.

When the door had closed behind Stephen he sat down with his head in his hands and let himself go to total unhappiness - to something near despair - so many things together, and now this cold evil look: he reproached himself most bitterly for not having seized this chance for an apology. ‘If only I could have got it out; but he spoke so quick, and he was so very cold. Though indeed, I should have looked the same if any man had given me the lie; it is not to be borne. What in God’s name possessed me? So trivial, so beside the point - as gross as a schoolboy calling names - unmanly. However, he shall make a hole

in me whenever he chooses. And then again, what should I have the air of, suddenly growing abject now that I know he is such a deadly old file?’ Yet throughout this period of indulgence some other part of his brain was dealing with the immediate problem, and almost without a transition he said, ‘By God, I wish I had Macdonald.’ This had nothing to do with a desire for comfort or council - he knew that Macdonald disapproved of him - but for efficiency. Macdonald was an officerlike man; this puppy Smithers was not. Still, he might not be wholly inept.

He rang his bell, and said, ‘Pass the word for Mr Smithers.’

‘Sit down, Mr Smithers. Tell me over the names of your Marines, if you please. Very good: and there is your sergeant, of course. Now listen to what I say. Think of each of these men separately, with great attention, and tell me whether or no each is to be relied upon.’

‘Why, of course they are, sir,’ cried Smithers.

‘No, no. Think, man, think,’ said Jack, trying to force some responsibility from that pink smirk. ‘Think, and reply when you have really thought. This is of the very first consequence.’

His look was exceedingly penetrating and savage; it had effect. Smithers lost countenance and began to swear. He did evidently put his mind into painful motion; his lips could be seen moving, telling over the muster; and after some time he came up with the answer, ‘Perfectly reliable, sir. Except for a man called - well, he has the same name as me; but no sort of connection, of course - a Papist from Ireland.’

‘You will answer for that? You are dead certain of what you say? I say dead certain?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Smithers, staring, terribly upset.

‘Thank you, Mr Smithers. You are to mention this conversation to no one. That is a direct, absolute order. And you are to display no uneasiness. Pray desire Mr Goodridge to come here at once.’

‘Mr Goodridge,’ he said, standing at his chart-​table, ‘be so good as to give me our position.’

‘Exact, sir, or within a league or two?’ asked the master, with his head on one side and his left eye closed.

‘Exact.’

‘I must bring the log-​board, sir.’ Jack nodded. The master returned, took up scale and compasses, and pricked the chart. ‘There, sir.’

‘I see. We are under courses and topsails?’

‘Yes, sir. We agreed to run down easy for Sunday’s tide, if you remember, so as not to hang about in the offing, we being so recognizable.’

‘I believe, I believe,’ said Jack, studying the chart and the board, ‘I believe that we may catch this evening’s tide. What do you say, Master?’