Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

About twelve Jack got up, stared at the back of his head with his shaving-​mirror and the looking-​glass - it seemed to be healing well, but as Stephen had shaved the whole crown, leaving the long hair at the back, he had an oddly criminal look of alopecia or the common mange - dressed in civilian clothes, and walked out to see the light of day, for none ever reached the Grapes, at any time of the year. Before leaving he asked at the bar for an exact description of the Savoy, the boundaries of the sanctuary; he was particularly interested in these old survivals, he said.

‘You may go as far as Falconer’s Rents, and then cut through to Essex Street and go along as far as the fourth house from the corner, then right back to the City side of Cecil Street; but don’t ever you cross it, nor don’t ever you pass the posts in Sweating-​house Lane, your honour, or all is up. You pee, up,’ said the Grapes, who heard this piece about interesting old survivals a hundred times a year.

He walked up and down the streets of the Duchy, stepped into a coffee-​house, and idly picked up the paper. His own Gazette letter leapt straight out of the open page at him, with its absurdly familiar phrasing, and his signature, quite transmogrified by print. On the same page there was a piece about the action: it said that our gallant tars were never happier than when they were fighting against odds of twelve and an eighth to one, which was news to Jack. How had the man arrived at that figure? Presumably by adding up all the guns and mortars in the batteries and all the vessels afloat in the bay and dividing by the Polychrest. But apart from this odd notion of happiness, the man obviously had sense, and he obviously knew something about the Navy: Captain Aubrey, said he, was known as an officer who was very careful of his men’s lives - ‘That’s right,’ said Jack - and he asked how it came about that the Polychrest, with all her notorious defects, was sent on a mission for which she was so entirely unsuited, when there were other vessels - naming them - lying idle in the Downs. A casualty-​list of a third of the ship’s company called for explanation: the Sophie, under the same commander, had taken the Cacafuego with a loss of no more than three men killed.

‘Parse that, you old - ,’ said Jack inwardly, to Admiral Harte.

Wandering out, he came to the back of the chapel:

an organ was playing inside, a sweet, light-​footed organ hunting a fugue through its charming complexities. He circled the railings to come to the door, but he had scarcely found it, opened it and settled himself in a pew before the whole elaborate structure collapsed in a dying wheeze and a thick boy crept from a hole under the loft and clashed down the aisle, whistling. It was a strong disappointment, the sudden breaking of a delightful tension, like being dismasted under full sail.

‘What a disappointment, sir,’ he said to the organist, who had emerged into the dim light. ‘I had so hoped you would bring it to a close.’

‘Alas, I have no wind,’ said the organist, an elderly parson. ‘That chuff lad has blown his hour, and no power on earth will keep him in. But I am glad you liked the organ

- it is a Father Smith. A musician, sir?’

‘Oh, the merest dilettante, sir; but I should be happy to blow for you, if you choose to go on. It would be a sad shame to leave Handel up in the air, for want of wind.’

‘Should you, indeed? You are very good, sir. Let me show you the handle - you understand these things, I am sure. I must hurry to the loft, or these young people will be here. I have a marriage very soon.’

So Jack pumped and the music wound away and away, the separate strands following one another in baroque flights and twirls until at last they came together and ran to the final magnificence, astonishing the young couple who had come silently in, and who were sitting furtive, embarrassed, nervous and intensely clean in the shadows, with their landlady and a midwife; for they had not paid for music - only the simplest ceremony. They were absurdly young, pretty creatures, with little more than a gasp between them; and they had anticipated the rites by a hairsbreadth under full term. But the parson joined them very gravely, telling them that the purpose of their union was the getting of children, and that it was better to marry than to burn.

When it was over they came to life again, regained their colour, smiled, seemed very pleased with being married, amazed at themselves. Jack kissed the pink bride, shook the other child by the hand, wishing him all possible good fortune, and walked out into the air, smiling with pleasure. ‘How happy they will be, poor young things - mutual support - no loneliness - no God-​damned solitude - tell happiness and sorrows quite openly - sweet child, not the least trace of the shrew - trusting, confident - marriage a very capital thing, quite different from - by God, I am on the wrong side of Cecil Street.’

He turned to cross back, and as he turned he collided with a sharp youth who had darted after him through the traffic with a paper in his hand. ‘Captain Aubrey, sir?’ asked the youth. Escape to the other side was impossible. He shot a glance behind him - surely they could not hope to make the arrest with just this younker? ‘They told me at the Grapes I should find you walking about the Duchy, your honour.’ There was no menace in his voice, only a modest satisfaction. ‘I should have hollered out, but for manners.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Jack, still poised to deal with him. ‘Tom’s nevvy, your honour, if you please, the duty-​porter. Which I was to give you this,’ - handing the letter.

‘Thankee, boy,’ said Jack, unpoising himself. ‘You are a sharp lad. Tell your uncle I am obliged to him: and this is for your errand.’

A gap appeared in the traffic and he darted back into Lancaster, back to the Grapes, called for a glass of brandy, and sat down in greater flutter of spirits than he had ever known.

‘No brandy, sir,’ said Killick, cutting the pot-​boy off at the head of the stairs and confiscating the little glass. ‘No spirits of wine, the Doctor said. Swab-​face, you jump to the bar and draw the Captain a quart of porter: and none of your guardo-​moves with the froth.’

‘Killick,’ said Jack, ‘God damn your eyes. Cut along to the kitchen and desire Mrs Broad to step up. Mrs Broad, what have you for dinner? I am amazing sharp-​set.’

‘No beef or mutton, Mr Killick says,’ said Mrs Broad, ‘but I have a nice loin of weal, and a nice piece of wenison, as plump as you could wish; a tender young doe, sir.’

‘The wenison, if you please, Mrs Broad; and perhaps you would send me up some pens and a pot of ink. Ah dear God,’ he said to the empty room, ‘a tender young doe.’

The Grapes Saturday

My dear Stephen, he wrote

Oh wish me joy - I am made post! I never thought it would be, though he received me in the kindest way; but then suddenly he popped it out, signed, sealed and delivered, with seniority from May 23rd. It was like a prodigious unexpected vast great broadside from a three-​decker, but of happiness: I could not get it all aboard directly, I was so taken aback, but by the time I had smuggled myself back to the Grapes I was swelling like a rose - so happy. How I wish you had been there! I celebrated with a quart of your vile porter and a bolus, and turned in at once, quite fagged out.

This morning I was very much better, however, and in the Savoy chapel I said the finest thing in my life. The parson was playing a Handel fugue, the organ-​boy deserted his post, and I said ‘it would be a pity to leave Handel up in the air, for want of wind,’ and blew for him. It was the wittiest thing! I did not smoke it entirely all at once, however, only after. I had been pumping for some time; and then I could hardly keep from laughing aloud. It may be that post captains are a very witty set of men, and that I am coming to it.