The Hundred Days

PATRICK O’BRIAN

The Hundred Days

W.W. Norton & Company

New York
*
London

Chapter One

The
sudden rearmament that followed Napoleon’s escape from Elba had done little to thin the
ranks of unemployed sea-officers by the early spring of 1815. A man-of-war
stripped, dismantled and laid up cannot be manned, equipped and made ready for
sea in a matter of weeks; and the best vantage-points in Gibraltar were now
crowded with gentlemen on half-pay who with others had gathered to watch the
long-expected arrival of Commodore Aubrey’s squadron from Madeira, a squadron
that would do something to refurnish the great bare stretch of water inside the
mole - an extraordinary nakedness emphasized by the presence of a few hulks,
the Royal Sovereign wearing the flag of the Commander-in-Chief, and a couple of
lonely seventy-fours: no stream of liberty-boats plying to and fro, almost no
appearance of true wartime life.

It was a wonderfully beautiful day, with a slight
and varying but reasonably favourable breeze at last: the sun blazed on the
various kinds of broom in flower, upon the Rock, upon the cistuses and giant
heath, while an uninterrupted stream of migrant birds, honey-buzzards, black
kites, all the European vultures, storks both black and white, bee-eaters,
hoopoes and countless hirundines flowed across the sky amidst a general
indifference; for all eyes were fixed upon the middle distance, where the
squadron had come about on the starboard tack. Among the earlier of the
watchers, both carrying well-worn telescopes, were two elderly naval
lieutenants who could no longer bear the English climate and who found that
their £127 15s. 0d a year went much

 farther here.

‘The breeze is veering again,’ said the first. ‘It
will be abaft the beam directly.’

‘They will be in on this leg, sure.’

‘In at last, after all
these weary days, poor souls. Briseis kept them hanging about in Funchal until
they almost grounded on their own beef-bones. She was always overmasted; and
even now I cannot congratulate her on that botched-together bowsprit. Marsham
has always oversteeved his bowsprits.’

‘Nor on her new foretopmast: their bosun must have
died.’

‘Now they have steadied, and the line is as clear
as can be. Briseis... Surprise - she must have been called back into service -
Pomone, wearing Commodore Jack Aubrey’s broad pennant - that must have put poor
Wrangle’s nose out of joint. Dover... Ganymede.
Dover... Ganymede.
Dover was fitted as a troopship
and now she is changing herself back into a frigate as fast as ever she can.
What a shambles!’

The breeze came aft and the whole squadron flashed
out studdingsails, broad wings set in a thoroughly seamanlike manner: a
glorious sight. Yet now the current was against them and in spite of their fine
spread of canvas they made but little headway. They were all of them sailing
large, of course, all of them getting the last ounce of thrust from the dying
breeze with all the skill learnt in more than twenty years of war; a noble
spectacle, but one that after a while called for no particular comment, and
presently the old lieutenant, John Arrowsmith, two months senior to his friend
Thomas Edwards, said, ‘When I was young I always used to turn to the births and
marriages in the Times as soon as I had done with the promotions and
dispatches; but now I turn to the deaths.’

‘So do I,’ said Edwards.

‘...and with this last batch that came with the
packet I found several names I knew. The first was Admiral Stranraer, Admiral
Lord Stranraer, Captain Koop that was.’

‘Oh, indeed? I sailed with him in the old Defender,
a West
Indies
commission where he taught us the spit and polish of those parts. Gloves at all
times, whatever the weather; Hessian boots with tassels, on the quarterdeck; up
lower yards and cross topgallant yards in under five
minutes or watch out for squalls; no reply allowed to any rebuke. If it were
not that he is dead, I could tell you many a tale about him in Kingston.’

‘Indeed, he was not a well-liked man at all, at
all. They say his surgeon and another medico killed him with a black draught or
something of that kind: but slowly, you understand me now, like the husband of
one of those arsenic wives eager to be a widow but not choosing to swing for
it.’

‘From my acquaintance with his lordship, what you
say does not surprise me in the least. On reflection, I believe I should offer
each or either of the physical gentlemen a glass of brandy, were the occasions
to offer. Do you see Surprise start her stuns’l sheet not to outrun her
station?’

‘Aye. She was always a
wonderfully swift sailer; and now they have done her proud, as trim as a royal
yacht. Webster saw her in young Seppings’ yard where they were fitting her out
regardless, diagonal bracing and everything you can think of - fitting her out
for a hydrographical voyage. A lovely little craft.’

For some time they discussed the ship’s
perfections; their practised hands holding her steady in their telescopes; but
then, the line being perfectly re-established, a cable’s length apart,
Arrowsmith clapped his glass to and said, ‘Another death was of quite a
different kind of man: Governor Wood of Sierra Leone. He was a fine fellow,
very popular in the service, and he kept a noble table - invited whole wardrooms
when the King’s ships came in; and youngsters too.’

‘I remember him very well. John Kneller and I and
nearly all our messmates dined with him after some cruel weather  off the River Plate and weeks of
damned short commons - a sprung butt had drowned the bread-room. Lord, how we
ate, and laughed, and sang! So he is dead. Well, God rest him, say I. Though when everything is said and done, we must all come to it;
which may be some comfort to those that go before. A very handsome wife,
as I recall, but on the learned side, which made her neighbours shy.’

‘The breeze is strengthening out there. Dover has let fly her
foretop-gallant sheets.’

The gust - the series of gusts - disturbed the
picture-book regularity for a while, but it was restored after a remarkably
short interval (all hands knew that they were being watched not only by an
uncommonly exigent commodore and the even more formidable Commander-in-Chief
Lord Keith, but also by an increasingly numerous band of highly informed,
highly-critical observers on shore) and presently the two lieutenants’
conversation resumed.

‘And then there was another what
you might call naval death, a good deal earlier than the others but only now
reported. Did you ever meet Dr Maturin?’

‘I don’t know that I did, but I have often heard of
him. A very clever doctor, they say - called in to treat Prince William -
always sails with Jack Aubrey.’

‘That’s the man. Well, he has a wife. They live
with the Aubreys at his big place in Dorset - but of course you know
it, being a Dorset man.’

‘Yes. Woolcombe; or Woolhampton as some say. It is
rather far for us and we do not visit, but I have been to one or two of the
Blackstone’s meets there and we used to see Mrs Aubrey and Mrs Maturin at the Dorchester assembly. Mrs Maturin
breeds Arabs: a very good horsewoman and an uncommon fine whip.’

‘Well, yes...so they said. But do you know a place
called Maiden Oscott?’

‘Only too well, with its
damned awkward bridge.’

‘The report gives no details, but it seemed she
pitched over - the whole shooting-match, coach, horses and all, pitched over
right down into the river, and only the groom was brought out alive.’

‘Oh, my God!’ cried Edwards: and after a pause, ‘My
wife disliked her; but she was a very beautiful woman. Some people said she was
a demi-rep... she had some astonishing jewels... there
was some talk of a Colonel Cholmondeley and it is said the marriage was not a
happy one. But she is dead, God rest her. I say no more. Yet I doubt I ever see
her like again.’

They both reflected, gazing out over the brilliant
sea with half-closed eyes as the squadron drew inshore and the watching crowd
increased; and Edwards said, ‘When you come to think of it, on looking about
our shipmates and relations, can you think of any marriage that could be called
a happy one, after the first flush? There is something to be said for a
bachelor’s existence, you know: turn in whenever you like, read in bed...’

‘Offhand I cannot think of many - poor Wood in Sierra Leone for example: they
entertained without a pause, so as not to have to sit down at table alone. It
is said that Wood - but he is dead. No, I cannot think of many without some
discord or contention; but unless it is very obvious, who can tell just where
the balance lies? After all, as a philosopher said, “Though matrimony has its
pains, celibacy can have no pleasure”.’

‘I know nothing about philosophy, but I have met
some philosophers - we often used to go to Cambridge to see my brother the don -
and a miserable set of...’ He checked the word at the sight of his friend’s
daughters - the elder charming, though rather shabby - pushing through the
crowd towards them, and went on in a disapproving tone, ‘... though you always
were a bookish fellow, even in Britannia’s cockpit.’

‘Oh Papa,’ cried the elder girl, ‘which is the
Surprise?’

‘The second in the line, my
dear.’

 The leading
ships were now close enough for people to be seen - blue coats and red on the
quarterdeck, white trousered seamen taking in topsails and courses together
with jib and staysails - but scarcely to be distinguished. The young lady
gently took her father’s telescope and trained it on the Surprise. ‘Is that the
famous Captain Aubrey?’ she asked. ‘Why, he is short, fat and red-faced. I am
disappointed.’

‘No, booby,’ said her father. ‘The Commodore is
where a Commodore ought to be, aboard the pennant-ship, of course: Pomone.
Come, child, don’t you see the broad pennant, hey?’

‘Oh yes, sir, I see it,’ she replied, training her
glass on Pomone’s quarterdeck. ‘Pray who is the very tall fair-haired man
wearing a rear-admiral’s uniform and holding his hat under his arm?’

‘Why, Lizzie, that is your
famous Jack Aubrey. Commodores dress like rear-admirals, you know: and they
receive a flag-officer’s return to their salute, as you will hear in about ten
seconds.’

‘Oh, isn’t he beautiful? Molly Butler had a
coloured engraving of him in action with the Turks - of his boarding the Torgud
sword in hand, and all the great girls at school ...’

What all the great girls said or thought was lost
in the Pomone’s exactly-spaced seventeen-gun salute to the Commander-in-Chief;
and the echo of the last report and the drift of powder-smoke had not
disappeared before the towering flagship began her fifteen-gun reply. When that
too was done, Mr Arrowsmith said, ‘Now in another ten seconds you will see the
signal break out Commodore repair aboard flag. His barge is already lowering
down.’

‘Who is that little man beside him, in a black coat
and drab breeches?’

‘Oh, that will be his surgeon, Dr Maturin: they
always sail together. He can whip off an arm or a leg quicker than any man in
the service; and it is a joy to see him carve a saddle of mutton.’

‘Oh fie, Papa!’ cried the girl: her younger sister
gave a coarse great laugh.

Aboard Pomone the proper ceremony for the occasion
was well under way, and as Jack walked out of the great cabin, stuffing a fresh
handkerchief into his pocket and pursued by Killick with a clothes-brush,
flicking specks of dust from the back of his gold-laced coat, he found his
officers present on the quarterdeck, together with most of the midshipmen, all
either wearing gloves or concealing their hands behind their backs.

The side-boys offered him the sumptuous man-ropes,
and following the reefer on duty he ran down into his barge. All the bargemen
knew him perfectly well - they had been shipmates in many a commission, and two
of them, Joe Plaice and Davies, had served in his
first command, the Sophie; but neither they nor Bonden, his coxswain, gave the
least sign of recognition as he settled in the stern-sheets, shifting his sword
to give the midshipman more room. They sat there in their formal bargeman’s rig
- broad-brimmed white sennit hat with ribbons, white shirts, black silk
Barcelona handkerchiefs tied round their necks, snowy duck trousers - looking
solemn: they were part of a ceremony, and levity, winking, whispering, smiling,
had no place in it. Bonden shoved off, said ‘Give way’, and with exact timing,
rowing dry with long grave strokes, they pulled the barge across to the
starboard accommodation-ladder of the flagship, where an even more impressive
ceremony took place. Jack, having been piped aboard, saluted the quarterdeck,
shook hands with the ship’s captain and the master of the fleet, while the
Royal Marines - scarlet perfection under a brilliant sun - presented arms with
a rhythmic clash and stamp.