Post Captain (49 page)

On the leeward side Mr Randall told Stephen that his mother was dead, and that they had a tortoise at home; he hoped the tortoise did not miss him. Was it really true that the Chinese never ate bread and butter? Never, at any time whatsoever? He and old Smith messed with the gunner, and Mrs Armstrong was very kind to them. Plucking at Stephen's hand to draw his attention, he said in his clear pipe, 'Do you think the new captain will flog George Rogers, sir?'

'I cannot tell, my dear. I hope not, I am sure.'

'Oh, I hope he does,' cried the child, with a skip. 'I have never seen a man flogged. Have you ever seen a man flogged, sir?'

'Yes,' said Stephen.

'Was there a great deal of blood, sir?'

'Indeed there was,' said Stephen. 'Several buckets full.' Mr Randall skipped again, and asked whether it would be long to six bells. 'George Rogers was in a horrid passion, sir,' he added. 'He called Joe Brown a Dutch galliot-built bugger, and damned his eyes twice: I heard him. Should you like to hear me recite the points of the compass without a pause, sir? There is my Papa beckoning. Goodbye, sir.'

'Sir,' said the first lieutenant, stepping across to Jack, 'I must beg your pardon, but there are two things I forgot to mention. Captain Hamond indulged the young gentlemen with the use of his fore-cabin in the mornings, for their lessons with the schoolmaster. Should you wish to continue the custom?'

'Certainly, Mr Simmons. A capital notion.'

'Thank you, sir. And the other thing was that we usually punish on Mondays in the Lively.'

'On Mondays? How curious.'

'Yes, sir. Captain Hamond thought it was well to let defaulters have Sunday for quiet reflection.'

'Well, well. Let it be so, then. I had meant to ask you what the ship's general policy is, with regard to punishment. I do not like to make any sudden changes, but I must warn you, I am no great friend to the cat.'

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.'

'Oh God,' said Jack, scrabbling for the handle. 'Are they all out?'

'Not all,' said Stephen. 'And learning from Killick that you expected guests, I conceived you might prefer them away. There is so much ignorant prejudice against bees in a dining-room.' Something was crawling on Jack's neck; the door had completely vanished; he began to sweat heavily. 'So I thought to create an artificial night, when, in the course of nature, they return to their hive. I also made three fires for the sake of the smoke: these did not have the desired effect, however. It may be that the darkness is too complete. Let us compromise with a twilight - dark, but not too dark.' He raised a corner of sailcloth, and a beam of sun showed an incalculable number of bees on every vertical surface and on most of those that were flat; bees flying in a jerky, meaningless fashion from point to point; fifty or so sitting on his coat and breeches. 'There,' said Stephen, 'that is far, far better is it not? Urge them to mount on your finger, Jack, and carry them back to their hive. Gently, gently, and on no account exhibit, or even feel, the least uneasiness: fear is wholly fatal, as I dare say you know.'

Jack had the door-handle; he opened it a crack and glided swiftly through. 'Killick!' he shouted, beating at his clothes.

'Sir?'

'Go and help the Doctor. Bear a hand, now.'

"I dursn't,' said Killick.

'You don't mean to tell me you are afraid, a man-of-war's man?'

'Yes I am, sir,' said Killick.

'Well, clear the fore-cabin and lay the cloth there. And uncork a dozen of claret.' He plunged into his sleeping-cabin and tore off his stock - there was something creeping beneath it. 'What is there for dinner?' he called.

'Wenison, sir. I found a prime saddle at Chators', the same as the ladies sent us from Mapes.'

'Gentlemen,' said Jack, as the last stroke of six bells in the afternoon watch was struck and his guests arrived, 'you are very welcome. I am afraid we may have to sit a little close, but for the moment my friend is engaged in a philosophical experiment aft. Killick, tell the Doctor we hope to see him when he is at leisure. Go on,' he muttered, clenching his fist secretly and vibrating his head at the steward. 'Go on, I say: you can call through the door.'

Dinner ran very well. The Lively might be Spartan in her appearance and cabin furniture, but Jack had inherited an excellent cook, accustomed to sea-borne appetites, and his guests were well-bred men, easy within the strict limits of naval etiquette - even the midshipman of the watch, though mute, was mute gracefully. But the sense of rank, of deference to the captain, was very strong, and as Stephen's mind was clearly far away, Jack was pleased to find in the chaplain a lively, conversible man, with little notion of the solemnities of dining in the cabin. Mr Lydgate, the Perpetual Curate of Wool, was a cousin of Captain Hamond's, and he was taking this voyage for the sake of his health, leaving his living not for a new career but for a temporary change of air and scenery. The air of Lisbon and Madeira was particularly recommended; that of Bermuda even more so; and this, he understood, was their destination?

'It may well be,' said Jack. 'I hope so, indeed; but with the changing face of the war there is no certainty about these things. I have known captains lay in stores for the Cape, only to find themselves ordered to the Baltic at the last moment. Everything must depend on the good of the service,' he added piously; and then feeling that remarks of this kind might have a damping effect, he cried, 'Mr Dashwood, the wine stands by you: the good of the service requires that it should circulate. Mr Simmons, pray tell me about the ape that so astonished me this morning. The living ape.'

'Cassandra, sir? She is one of half a dozen that came aboard at Tungoo; the surgeon says she is a Tenasserim gibbon. All hands are very fond of her, but we are afraid she is pining. We rigged her out in a flannel jacket when we came into the chops of the Channel, but she will not wear it; and she will not eat English food.'

'Do you hear, Stephen?' said Jack. 'There is a gibbon aboard, that is not well.'

'Yes, yes,' said Stephen, returning to the present. 'I had the pleasure of meeting her this morning, walking hand in hand with the very young gentleman: it was impossible to tell which was supporting which. A fetching, attractive creature, in spite of its deplorable state. I look forward eagerly to dissecting it. Monsieur de Buffon hints that the naked callosities on the buttocks of the hylobates may conceal scent glands, but he does not go so far as to assert it.'

A chill fell on the conversation, and after a slight pause Jack said, 'I think, my dear fellow, that the ship's company would be infinitely more obliged to you, was you to cure it, than for putting Monsieur de Buffon right - for putting Cassandra in order, rather than a Frenchman, eh, eh?'