Patrick O'Brian - Post captain

Simmons smiled. ‘Nor is Captain Hamond, sir. Our usual punishment is pumping: we open a sea-​cock, let clean water in to mix with what is in the bilges, and pump it out again - it keeps the ship sweet. We rarely flog. In the Indian Ocean we were nearly two years without bringing the cat out of its bag; and since then, not above once in two or three months. But I am afraid that today you may think it necessary: an unpleasant case.’

‘Not article thirty-​nine?’

‘No, sir. Theft.’

Theft it was said to be. Authority, speaking hoarse and official through the mouth of the master-​at-​arms, said it was theft, riotous conduct, and resisting arrest. With the ship’s company assembled aft, the Marines drawn up, and all the officers present, he led his victim before the captain and said, ‘Did steal one ape’s head. .

‘It’s all lies,’ cried George Rogers, still clearly in a horrid passion.

the property of Evan Evans, quarter-​gunner. .

‘It’s all lies.’

‘And being desired to step aft. .

‘It’s all lies, lies!’ cried Rogers.

‘Silence, there,’ said Jack. ‘You shall have your turn, Rogers. Carry on, Brown.’

‘And on being told I had information that led me to believe he was in possession of this head, and on being desired, civil, to step aft and verify the statements of Evan Evans, quarter-​gunner, larboard watch,’ said the master-​at-​arms, swivelling his eyes alone in the direction of Rogers, ‘did call out expressions of contempt:

was in liquor; and endeavoured to conceal hisself in the sail-​room.’

‘All lies.’

‘And when roused out, did offer violence to Button, Menhasset and Mutton, able seamen.’

‘It’s all lies,’ cried Rogers, beside himself with indignation. ‘All lies.’

‘Well, what did happen?’ said Jack. ‘Tell me in your own words.’

‘I will, your honour,’ said Rogers, glaring round, pale and trembling with fury. ‘In my own Gospel words. Master-​at-​arms comes for’ard - which I was taking a caulk, my watch below - tips me a shove on the arse, begging your pardon, and says, “Get your skates on, George; you’re fucked.” And I up and says, “I don’t care for you, Joe Brown, nor for that fucking little cunt Evans.” No offence, your honour; but that’s the Gospel truth, to show your honour the lies he tells, with his “verify the statements”. It’s all lies.’

There seemed to be a more familiar ring about this version; but it was followed by a rambling account of who pushed whom, in what part of the ship, with contradictory evidence from Button, Menhasset and Mutton, and remarks on character; and it seemed that the main issue might be lost in a discussion of who lent someone two dollars off of Banda, and was never repaid, in grog, tobacco, or any other form.

‘What about this ape’s head?’ said Jack.

‘Here, sir,’ said the master-​at-​arms, producing a hairy thing from his bosom.

‘You say it is yours, Evans; and you say it is yours, Rogers? Your own property?’

‘She’s my Andrew Masher, your honour,’ said Evans.

‘He’s my poor old Ajax, sir, been in my ditty-​bag ever since he took sick off the Cape.’

‘How can you identify it, Evans?’

‘Anan, sir?’

‘How do you know it is your Andrew Masher?’

‘By her loving expressions, sir, your honour. By her expressions. Griffi Jones, stuffed animals, Dover, is giving me a guinea for her tomorning, yis, yis.

‘What have you to say, Rogers?’

‘It’s all lies, sir!’ cried Rogers. ‘He’s my Ajax. Which I fed him from Kampong - shared my grog, ate biscuit like a Christian.’

‘Any distinguishing marks?’

‘Why, the cut of his jib, sir: I know him anywheres, though shrivelled.’

Jack studied the ape’s face, which was set in an expression of deep, melancholy contempt. Who was telling the truth? Both thought they were, no doubt. There had been two ape’s heads in the ship, and now there was only one. Though how anyone could pretend to recognize the features of this wizened red coconut heavy in his hand he could not tell. ‘Andrew Masher was a female, I take it, and Ajax a male?’ he said.

‘That’s right, your honour.’

‘Beg Dr Maturin to come on deck, if he is not engaged,’ said Jack. ‘Dr Maturin, is it possible to tell the sex of an ape by its teeth, or that kind of thing?’

‘It depends on the ape,’ said Stephen, looking eagerly at the object in Jack’s hands. ‘This, for example,’ he said, taking it and turning it about, ‘is an excellent specimen of the male simia satyrus, Buffon’s wild man of the woods:

see the lateral expansion of the cheeks, mentioned by Hunter, and the remains of that particular throat-​sac, so characteristic of the male.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Jack. ‘Ajax it is. Thank you very much, Doctor. The charge of theft is dismissed. But you must not knock people about, Rogers. Has anyone something to say in his favour?’

The second lieutenant stepped forward, said that Rogers was in his division - attentive to his duty, generally sober, a good character, but apt to fly into a passion. Jack told Rogers that he must not fly into a passion; that flying into a passion was a very bad thing - it would certainly lead him to the gallows, if indulged in. He was to command his temper, and do without grog for the next week. The head was confiscated temporarily, for further examination- indeed, it had already vanished into the cabin, leaving Rogers looking somewhat blank. ‘I dare say you will get it back in time,’ said Jack, with more conviction than he felt. The other defaulters, all guilty of uncomplicated drunkenness, were all dealt with in the same way; the grating was unrigged; the cat, still in its bag, returned to

its resting-​place; and shortly after the hands were piped to dinner. Jack invited the first lieutenant, the officer and midshipman of the watch, and the chaplain to dine with him, and resumed his pacing.

His thoughts ran on gunnery. There were ships, and plenty of them, that hardly ever exercised the great guns, hardly fired them except in action or for saluting, and if this was the case with the Lively, he would change it. Even at close quarters it was as well to hit where it hurt most; and in a typical frigate-​action accuracy and speed were everything. Yet this was not the Sophie, with her pop-​guns: a single broadside from the Lively would burn well over a hundredweight of powder - a consideration. Dear Sophie, how she blazed away.

He identified the music that was running so insistently through his head. It was the piece of Hummel’s that he and Stephen had played so often at Melbury Lodge, the adagio. And almost at once he had the clearest visual image of Sophia standing tall and willowy by the piano, looking confused, hanging her head.

He turned short in his stride and brought his mind to bear strongly on the question in hand. But it was no use; the music wove in among his calculations of powder and shot; he grew more agitated and unhappy, and clapping his hands together with a sudden report he said to himself, ‘I shall run through the log and see what their practice really is - tell Killick to uncork the claret - he did not forget that, at all events.’

He went below, noticed the smell of midshipmen in the fore-​cabin, walked through into the, after-​cabin, and found himself in total darkness.

‘Close the door,’ cried Stephen, swarming past him and clapping it to.

‘What’s amiss?’ asked Jack, whose mind had moved so deep into naval life that he had forgotten the bees, as he might have forgotten even a vivid nightmare.

‘They are remarkably adaptable - perhaps the most adaptable of all social insects,’ said Stephen, from another part of the cabin. ‘We find them from Norway to the burning wastes of the Sahara; but they have not grown quite used to their surroundings yet.’