Post captain, page 27
‘You feel that it will make it easier for them to bear their station, when they learn that it is providential?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s it. It is all here, you know’ - tapping the Bible. ‘There are an amazing number of useful things in it,’ said Jack, with a candid gaze out of the scuttle. ‘I had no idea. And, by the way, it seems that roebuck is not unclean, which is a comfort, and a very great one, I can tell you. I was quite anxious about this dinner.’
The next day brought countless duties - the raking of the Polychrest’s masts, the restowing of what part of her ballast they could come at, the mending of a chain-pump
- but this anxiety remained, to come into full flower in the last quarter of an hour before the arrival of his guests. He stood fussing in his day-cabin, twitching the cloth, teasing the stove until its colour was cherry-pink, worrying Killick and his attendant boys, wondering whether after all the table should not have been athwart-ships, and contemplating a last-minute alteration. Could it really seat six in even moderate comfort? The Polychrest was a larger vessel than the Sophie, his last command, but because of the singularity of her construction the cabin had no stern-gallery, no fine curving sweep of windows to give an impression of light, air and indeed a certain magnificence to even a little room, the actual space was greater and the head-room was such that he could stand with no more than a slight stoop, but this space had no generosity of breadth -it drew out in length, narrowing almost to a point aft, and all that it had in the way of day was a skylight and a couple of small scuttles Leading forward from this shield-shaped apartment was a short passage, with his sleeping-cabin on one side and his quarter-gallery on the other: it was not a true gallery, a projection, in the Polychrest at all, of course, nor was it strictly on her quarter, but it served the purpose of a privy as well as if it had been both. In addition to the necessary pot it contained a thirty-two pounder carronade and a small hanging lantern, in case the bull’s eye in the port-lid should not be enough to show the unwary guest the consequences of a false step. Jack looked in to see whether it was burning bright and stepped out into the passage just as the sentry opened the door to admit the midshipman of the watch with the message that ‘the gentleman was alongside, if you please, sir.’
As soon as Jack saw Canning come aboard he knew his party would be a success. He was dressed in a plain buff coat, with no attempt at a seafaring appearance, but he came up the side like a good ‘un, moving his bulk with a strong, easy agility, judging the roll just so. His cheerful face appeared in the gangway, looking sharply from left to right; then the rest of him, and he stood there, quite filling the space, with his hat off and his bald crown gleaming in the rain.
The first lieutenant received him, led him the three paces to Jack, who shook him very warmly by the hand, performed the necessary introductions, and guided the assembled body into the cabin, for he had little temptation to linger in the icy drizzle and none at all to show the Polychrest in her present state, to an eye so keen and knowing as his guest’s.
Dinner began quietly enough with a dish of codlings caught over the side that morning and with little in the way of conversation apart from banalities - the weather, of course, inquiries after common acquaintance - ‘How was Lady Keith? When last seen? What news of Mrs Villiers? Did Dover suit her? Captain Dundas, was he well, and happy in his new command? Had Mr Canning heard any good music lately? Oh yes! Such a Figaro at the Opera, he had gone three times.’ Parker, Macdonald and Pullings were mere dead weights, bound by the convention that equated their captain, at his own table, with royalty, and forbade anything but answers to proposals set up by him. However, Stephen had no notion of this convention - he gave them an account of nitrous oxide, the laughing gas, exhilaration in a bottle, philosophic merriment; and it did not apply to Canning at all. Jack worked hard with an easy flow of tiny talk; and presently the dead weight began to move. Canning did not refer to the Polychrest (Jack noticed this with a pang, but with gratitude as well) apart from saying that she must be a very interesting ship, with prodigious capabilities, and that he had never seen such paintwork - such elegance and taste - the completest thing - one would have supposed a royal yacht - but he spoke of the service in general with obvious knowledge and deep appreciation. Few sailors can hear sincere, informed praise of the Navy without pleasure, and the reserved atmosphere in the cabin relaxed, warmed, grew positively gay.
The codlings were succeeded by partridges, which Jack carved by the simple process of putting one on each man’s plate; the corrupt claret began to go about, the gaiety increased, the conversation became general, and the watch on deck heard the sound of laughter coming from the cabin in a steady flow.
After the partridges came no less than four removes of game, culminating in a saddle of venison borne in by Killick and the gun-room steward on a scrubbed scuttle-hatch with a runnel gouged out for the gravy. ‘The burgundy, Killick,’ murmured Jack, standing up to carve. They watched him earnestly as he laboured, their talk dying away, and they bent with equal attention to their plates.
‘Upon my word, gentlemen,’ said Canning, laying down his knife and fork, ‘you do yourselves pretty well in the Navy - such a feast! The Mansion House is nothing to it. Captain Aubrey, sir, this is the best venison I have ever tasted in my life: it is a solemn dish. And such burgundy! A Musigny, I believe?’
‘Chambolles-Musigny, sir, of ‘85 I am afraid it is a little past its prime: I have just these few bottles left - happily my steward does not care for burgundy. Mr Pullings, a trifle of the brown end?’
It was indeed a most capital buck, tender, juicy, full of savour; Jack set to his own mound with an easy mind at last: more or less everybody was talking - Pullings and Parker explaining Bonaparte’s intentions to Canning - the new French gunboats, the ship-rigged prams of the invasion flotilla - and Stephen and Macdonald leaning far over their plates to hear one another, or rather to be heard, in an argument that was still mild enough, but that threatened to grow a little warm.
‘Ossian,’ said Jack, at a moment when both their mouths were full, ‘was he not the gentleman that was quite exploded by Dr Johnson?’
‘Not at all, sir,’ cried Macdonald, swallowing faster than Stephen. ‘Dr Johnson was a respectable man in some ways, no doubt, though in no degree related to the Johnstones of Ballintubber; but for some reason he had conceived a narrow prejudice against Scotland. He had no notion of the sublime, and therefore no appreciation of Ossian.’
‘I have never read Ossian myself,’ said Jack, ‘being no great hand with poetry. But I remember Lady Keith to have said that Dr Johnson raised some mighty cogent objections.’
‘Produce your manuscripts,’ said Stephen.
‘Do you expect a Highland gentleman to produce his manuscripts upon compulsion?’ said Macdonald to Stephen, and to Jack, ‘Dr Johnson, sir, was capable of very inaccurate statements. He affected to see no trees in his tour of the kingdom: now I have travelled the very same road many times, and I know several trees within a hundred yards of it - ten, or even more. I do not regard him as any authority upon any subject. I appeal to your candour, sir - what do you say to a man who defines the mainsheet as the largest sail in a ship, or to belay as to splice, or a bight as the circumference of a rope? And that in a buke that professes to be a dictionary of the English language? Hoot, toot.’
‘Did he indeed say that?’ cried Jack. ‘I shall never think the same of him again. I have no doubt your Ossian was a very honest fellow.’
‘He did, sir, upon my honour,’ cried Macdonald, laying his right hand flat upon the table. ‘And falsum in uno, falsum in omnibus, I say.’
‘Why, yes,’ said Jack, who was as well acquainted with old omnibus as any man there present. ‘Falsum in omnibus. What do you say to omnibus, Stephen?’
‘I concede the victory,’ said Stephen smiling. ‘Omnibus routs me.’
‘A glass of wine with you, Doctor,’ said Macdonald.
‘Allow me to help you to a little of the underside,’ said Jack. ‘Killick, the Doctor’s plate.’
‘More dead men, Joe?’ asked the sentry at the door, peering into the basket.
‘God love us, how they do stow it away, to be sure,’ said Joe, with a chuckle. ‘The big cove, the civilian - it’s a pleasure to see him eat. And there’s figgy-dowdy to come,
and woodcocks on toast, and then the punch.’
‘You ain’t forgotten me, Joe?’ said the sentry.
‘The bottle with the yellow wax. They’ll be singing any minute now.’
The sentry put the bottle to his lips, raised it up and up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and observed, ‘Rum stuff they drink in the cabin: like blackstrap, only thinner. How’s my gent?’
‘You’ll carry him to his cot, mate: he’s coming along royal, sheets aflowing. Which the same goes for buff waistcoat. A bosun’s chair for him.’
‘Now, sir,’ said Jack to Canning, ‘we have a Navy dish that I thought might amuse you. We call it figgy-dowdy. You do not have to eat it, unless you choose - this is Liberty Hall. For my part, I find it settles a meal; but perhaps it is an acquired taste.’
Canning eyed the pale, amorphous, gleaming, slightly translucent mass and asked how it was made; he did not think he had ever seen anything quite like it.
‘We take ship’s biscuit, put it in a stout canvas bag -’said Jack.
‘Pound it with a marlin-spike for half an hour -, said Pullings.
‘Add bits of pork fat, plums, figs, rum, currants,’ said Parker.
‘Send it to the galley, and serve it up with bosun’s grog,’ said Macdonald.
Canning said he would be delighted - a new experience - he had never had the honour of dining aboard a man-of-war - happy to acquire any naval taste. ‘And really,’ he said, ‘it is excellent, quite excellent. And so this is bosun’s grog. I believe I must beg for another glass. Capital, capital. I was telling you, sir,’ he said, leaning confidentially over towards Jack, ‘I was telling you some ten or twenty courses back, that I had heard a wonderful Figaro at the Opera. You must run up if you possibly can; there is a new woman, La Colonna, who sings Susanna with a grace and a purity I have never heard in my life - a revelation. She drops true on the middle of her note, and it swells, swells . . . Ottoboni is the Contessa, and their duet would bring tears to your eyes. I forget the words, but you know it, of course.’ He hummed, his bass making the glasses tremble.
Jack beat the time with his spoon and struck in with ‘Sotto i pini. .
They sang it through, then through again; the others gazed at them with a mild, bemused, contemplative satisfaction; at this stage it seemed natural that their captain should personate a Spanish lady’s maid, and even, somewhat later, three blind mice.
Before the mice, however, there was an event that confirmed them in their affectionate regard for Mr Canning: the port went round, and, the loyal toast being proposed, Canning leapt to his feet, struck his head against a beam and collapsed into his chair as though pole-axed. They had always known it might happen to some land-soldier or civilian, had never actually seen it, and, since he had done himself no lasting injury, they were enchanted. They comforted him, standing round his chair, dressing the lump with rum, assuring him that it was quite all right
- it would soon pass - they often banged their heads - no harm in it - no bones broken. Jack called for the punch, telling the steward in a rapid undertone that a bosun’s chair was to be rigged, and administered a tot with a medical air, observing, ‘We are privileged to drink the King seated in the Navy, sir; we may do so without the least disrespect. Few people know it however - quite recent - it must seem very strange.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ said Canning, staring heavily straight at Pullings. ‘Yes. I remember now.’ Then, as the punch spread new life throughout his vitals he smiled round the table and said, ‘What a green hand I must look to all you gentlemen.’
It passed, as they had told him it would, and a little while later he joined them in these mice, the Bay of Biscay-o, Drops of Brandy, the Female Lieutenant, and the catch about the lily-white boys, in which he excelled them all, roaring out.
Three, three the rivals
Two, two the lily-white boys, clothed all in green-o,
But one is one and all alone
And evermore shall be so
ending with a power and a depth that none of them could reach: Boanerges.
‘There is a symbolism there that escapes me,’ said Stephen, his right-hand neighbour, when the confused cheering had died away.
‘Does it not refer to - ‘began Canning; but the others had returned to their mice, all singing in voices calculated to reach the foretop in an Atlantic gale, all except Parker, that is to say, who could not tell one tune from another and who merely opened and closed his mouth with an expression of polite good-fellowship, in a state of exquisite boredom; and Canning broke off to join them.
He was still with the mice as he was steered into the bosun’s chair and lowered gently into his boat, still with them as he was rowed over the sea towards the great dark assembly of ships under the Goodwin sands; and Jack, leaning over the rail, heard his voice growing fainter and fainter - see how they run, see how they run - until at last it turned back to Three, three the rivals, dying quite away.
‘That was as successful a dinner-party as I remember, afloat,’ said Stephen at his side. ‘I thank you for my part in it.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Jack. ‘I was so glad you enjoyed it. I particularly wished to do Canning well: apart from anything else, he is a very rich man, and one does not like the ship to look scrape-farthing. I was sorry to call a halt so soon, however; but I must have a little light for manoeuvring. Mr Goodridge, Mr Goodridge, how is your tide?’
‘She’ll be making for another glass, sir.’
‘Your fender-men are ready?’
‘Ready, all ready, sir.’
The wind was fair, but at slack water they were to unmoor and pass through the squadron and the convoy:
Jack had a mortal dread that the Polychrest might foul one of the men-of-war or half the straggling convoy, and he had armed a party with long poles to shove her off.
‘Then let us step into your cabin.’ When they were below he said, ‘You have the charts spread out, I see. I believe you are a Channel pilot, Master?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just as well: I know the West Indian waters and the Mediterranean better than these. Now I want you to lay the sloop half a mile off Gris Nez at three in the morning, the steeple bearing north fifty-seven east and the tower on the cliff south sixty-three east.’
Towards four bells in the middle watch Jack came on deck: the Polychrest was lying to under foretopsail and mizen, bowing the swell with her odd nervous lift and jerk. The night was still sharp and clear, bright moonlight, and eastwards a pale host of stars - Altair rising over the dark mass of Cap Gris Nez under the starboard quarter.
And the wind was still this same nipping breeze out of the north-west. But far over on the larboard bow trouble was brewing: no stars above Castor and Pollux, and the moon was sinking towards a black bar right across the horizon. With a falling glass this might mean a blow from the same quarter - an uncomfortable position, with the shore so close under his lee. ‘I wish it were over,’ he said, begin-fling his ritual pace. His orders required him to be off the headland at three in the morning, to fire a blue light, and to receive a passenger from a boat that should answer his hail with the word Bourbon: he was then to proceed with all possible dispatch to Dover. If no boat appeared or if he were driven off his station by stress of weather, then he was to repeat the operation on the three succeeding nights, remaining out of sight by day.
This was Pullings’ watch, but the master was also on deck, standing over by the break of the quarterdeck, keeping an eye on his landmarks, while the quiet business of the ship went on From time to time Pullings trimmed the sails to keep them exactly balanced, the carpenter’s mate reported the depth of water in the well - eighteen inches, which was more than was right; the master-at-arms made his rounds, the glass turned, the bell rang, the sentinels called ‘All’s well’ from their various posts, the look-outs and the helm were relieved. The watch took a turn at the pumps; and all the while the breeze hummed through the rigging, the sum of the notes rising and falling through a full tone as the ship rolled, her masts straining their shrouds and braces now this side, now that.
‘Look out afore, there,’ called Pullings.
‘Aye-aye, thir,’ came the distant voice. Bolton, one of the men pressed from the Indiaman, a glowering, surly, murderous brute with no front teeth - yellow fangs each side of a lisping gap; but a good seaman.
Jack held his watch to the moonlight: still a long time to go, and now the dark bar in the north-west had swallowed up Capella. He was thinking of sending a couple of men to
the mast-head when the look-out hailed. ‘Upon deck, thir. Boat on the starboard quarter.’
He reached up into the shrouds and swung himself to the rail, searching the dark sea. Nothing. ‘Where away?’ he called.
‘Right on the quarter. Maybe half a point off now. Pulling like hell, three of a thide.’
He caught sight of her as she crossed the path of the moon. About a mile away: very long, very low, very narrow, more like a line on the water: travelling fast towards the land. This was not his boat - wrong shape, wrong time, wrong direction.
‘What do you make of her, Mr Goodridge?’ he asked.
‘Why, sir, she’s one of those Deal shells - death-or-money boats, they call ‘em, or guinea-boats as some say; and by the look of her, she’s got a main heavy cargo aboard. They must have seen a revenue cutter or a cruiser early on, for now they’ve got to pull against the ebb, and it runs cruel hard off the point. Do you mean to snap her up, sir? It’s now or never with the race off the headland. What a bit of luck.’
