The Mauritius Command (9 page)

"Yes, but I wish it were more exact. On Mauritius General Decaen has the best part of two regiments of the line, and his militia may amount to ten thousand or so. Our information from Reunion is more scanty, but is seems that General Desbrusleys has much the same. Oh, it is a tough nut to crack, I grant you; but cracked it must be, and at the earliest possible moment. You have to strike hard and fast with your forces concentrated while theirs are dispersed: in a word, you have to go in and win. Government will be in a rare old taking when the news of the Europe and the Streatham reaches England, and this is the kind of situation where you must produce results at once. I do not mention the country's interests, of course; but I do say that from a purely personal point of view there is probably a knighthood or even a baronetcy if you succeed; and if you don't, why it is the beach and half-pay for the rest of your life."

A midshipman darted in. "The captain's duty, sir," said he, "and should you wish a compliment to the gentleman in the barge?"

"Certainly," said the Admiral. "As to a flag." In the pause that followed he gazed abstractedly at his wife's portrait. "Should you not like a baronetcy, Aubrey? I am sure I would. Mrs Bertie fairly longs to wipe her sister's eye."

The unofficial part of Simon's Town, though little more than a hamlet, had drinking-booths, wine- shops and places of entertainment enough for a town of moderate size; and into one of those, at dusk, walked Stephen Maturin, bearing a bunch of orchids. He was tired, thirsty, and covered from head to foot with African dust; but he was happy, having spent his first half-day ashore walking up a mountain clothed with a vegetation largely unknown to him and inhabited by remarkable birds, some of which he recognized from their published descriptions: he had also seen three quarters of a female spotted hyaena, and he found the remaining piece, including its wistful face, removed to some distance, in the act of being devoured by his old friend the bearded vulture--a pleasant combination of the present and the past, of two far-distant worlds.

He called for wine and water, mingled them in proportion to his thirst, placed his orchids in the water- jug, and drank until at last he began to sweat again. Apart from the landlord and three pretty Malay girls at the bar, there were only two other people in the twilit room, a very large officer in a uniform he could not make out, a vast gloomy man with a great deal of dark whisker, not unlike a melancholy bear, and his smaller, inconspicuous companion, who sat at his ease in shirtsleeves, with his breeches unbuttoned at the knee. The sad officer spoke a fluent though curious English devoid of articles: the smaller man's harsh and grating accent was clearly that of Ulster. They were discussing the Real Presence, but he had not made out the thread of their discourse before they both burst out "No Pope, no Pope, no Pope," the sad officer in the deepest bass that Stephen had ever heard. At the bar the Malay girls politely echoed "No Pope" and as though it were a signal they brought candles and set them about the room. The light fell on Stephen's orchids and upon the contents of his handkerchief, fourteen curious beetles, collected for his friend Sir Joseph Blaine, formerly the chief of naval intelligence; he was considering one, a bupestrid, when he became aware of a darkness by his side, the melancholy bear, gently swaying. "Golovnin, fleet lieutenant, captain of Imperial Majesty's sloop Diana," said he, clicking his heels.

Stephen rose, bowed, and said, "Maturin, surgeon of Britannic Majesty's ship Boadicea. Please to take chair."

"You have soul," observed Golovnin, nodding at the orchids. "I too have soul. Where did you find them, flowers?"

"In mountain," said Stephen.

Golovnin sighed; and taking a small cucumber from his pocket he began to eat it. He made no reply to Stephen's proffer of wine, but after a while he said, "What is their name, flowers?"

"Disa grandiflora," said Stephen, and a long silence fell. It was broken by the Ulsterman, who, tired of drinking alone, brought his bottle over and set it on Stephen's table without the least ceremony. "I am McAdam, of the Otter," he remarked, sitting down. "I saw you at the hospital this morning." Now, by the light of the candle, Stephen recognized him, not from that morning but from many years ago: William McAdam, a maddoctor with a considerable reputation in Belfast, who had left Ireland after the failure of his private asylum. Stephen had heard him lecture, and had read his book on hysteria with great applause. "He will not last long," observed McAdam, referring to Golovnin, now weeping on to the orchids.

"Nor will you, colleague," thought Stephen, looking at McAdam's pallid face and bloodshot eye.

"Will you take a wee drink?"

"Thank you, sir," said Stephen, "I believe I shall stay with my negus. What is it that you have in your bottle, pray?"

"Och, it's a brandy they distill hereabouts. Raw, rot-gut stuff; I drink it experimentally, not from indulgence. He"--pointing an unsteady finger at Golovnin -'drinks it from nostalgia, as the nearest to his native vodka; I encourage him."

"You alluded to an experiment?" said Stephen.

"Yes. Strobenius and others allege that a man dead drunk on grain-spirits falls backwards: on brandy he falls forwards. And if that is true, it tells us something about the motor centres, if you understand the expression. This gentleman here is my corpus vile. Yet it is wonderful how he holds out. This is our third bottle, and he has drunk glass for glass with me."

"I honour your devotion to science, sir."

"I do not give a fart in hell for science," said McAdam. "Art is all. Medicine is an art or it is nothing. Medicine of the mind, I mean; for what is your physical medicine, apart from purges and mercury and bark, what your murderous chirurgical tricks? They may, with luck, suppress symptoms: no more. On the other hand, where is the true fons et origo of nine tenths of your vicious constitutions of body? The mind, that's where it is," he said, tapping his forehead. "And what heals the mind? Art: nothing else. Art is all. That is my realm."

It occurred to Stephen that McAdam was perhaps a somewhat seedy practitioner of this or any other art; a man furthermore whose inward torments were clearly printed on his face. But as they talked of the interaction of mind and body, of interesting cases they had seen--false pregnancies--inexplicable remissions--their experience afloat--the inverse relationship of constipation and courage--the proved efficacity of placebos- his opinion of McAdam rose: indeed, a mutual esteem came into being, and McAdam's arrogant, didactic tone grew even civil. He was telling Stephen about his patients aboard the Otter--most of the Otters were, sensu stricto, mentally deranged, and there was one case that McAdam would describe and name, were it not for professional secrecy, a fascinating and particularly subtle chain of symptoms--when without any warning Golovnin fell off his chair, grasping the orchids. He lay motionless, still in the attitude of sitting; but he fell sideways, a wholly inconclusive result. At the sound of the crash the landlord paced to the door and whistled. Two enormous sailors walked in, and murmuring, "Come, Vasily Mikhailovitch; come, little father," they carried their captain out into the darkness.

"He has not hurt my flowers, however," said Stephen, smoothing their petals. "They are, in their essentials, quite intact. You have no doubt remarked the curious spiral convolution of the ovary, so typical of the whole order. Though perhaps your realm does not extend to botany, at all?"

"It does not," said McAdam. "Though twisted ovaries are well within it; and twisted testicles too--I speak in figure, you understand: I am jocose. No. The proper study of mankind is man. And I may observe, Dr Maturin, that this eager prying into the sexual organs of vegetables on your part seems to me... "

What it seemed to Dr McAdam did not appear, for his tide too had now reached the full. He rose; his eyes closed, and he pitched straight into Stephen's arms, falling, as Stephen noted, forwards.

The landlord brought one of the wheelbarrows that he kept under the porch, and with the help of a black, Stephen wheeled McAdam towards the pier, passing several bodies of cheerful liberty-men as he went. He hailed each party in turn, asking for any Otters; but no man chose to leave the sheltering darkness and sacrifice a moment of his shore-leave, and Stephen heard nothing but facetious replies -'Otter's bound for the Rio Grande'- "Otter's paid off at the Nore"--"Otter was broke up for firewood last Wednesday week"--until he met a group of Nereides A familiar voice cried, "It's the Doctor," and there was the powerful form of Bonden at his side, Jack Aubrey's coxswain from his earliest command.

"Bonden, sir. Do you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you, Bonden," said Stephen, shaking his hand. "And am delighted to see you again. How do you do?"

"Pretty spry, thank you, sir; and I hope I see you the same? Now just you shove off, Darkie"--to the black--"I'll take care of this here barrow."

"The question is, Bonden," said Stephen, giving the black two stuivers and a penny, "the question is, how shall I find the means of conveying my charge to his ship, always supposing that his ship is here at all, which seems to be a matter of some doubt? He is the surgeon of the Otter, Bonden, a learned man, though somewhat original; and at the moment disguised in drink."

"Otter, sir? She come in on the turn of the tide, not ten minutes ago. Never you fret, I'll square our boatkeeper directly and take him out." He hurried away: a little later the Nereide's jolly-boat appeared at the step, and Bonden carried the body into it. In spite of the dimness Stephen noticed that Bonden moved stiffly; and this stiffness became more apparent as he pulled out across the harbour towards the distant sloop.

"You are stiff, Barret Bonden," said Stephen. "In another man I should say he had certainly been flogged; but that can scarcely be the case with you. I trust this is not a wound, or a rheumatism from the falling damps?"

Bonden laughed, but without much mirth, and said, "Oh, it was four dozen at the gangway, all right, sir, and two more for luck: brass on the lock of the number seven gun not bright enough."

"I am amazed, Bonden: amazed," said Stephen, and indeed he was. Bonden had never been flogged to his knowledge; and even in a flogging ship fifty lashes was a savage punishment for anything but a most serious crime. "And grieved. Let us row over to the Boadicea, and I shall give you some salve."

"It's all right now, sir, thanking you kindly. I was aboard you this afternoon, but it was not for no salve: you will find the letter we wrote, a-laying there in your cabin."

"What is it all about, tell?"

"Well, sir," said Bonden, resting on his oars: but by this time they were close to the larboard side of the Otter, and in reply to her hall Bonden called, "Your doctor coming aboard: request a line." The Otter was perfectly used to this: a whip with a bowline appeared over the side; Bonden slipped it under McAdam's arms; and the surgeon vanished upwards.

"Well, sir," said Bonden again, pulling slowly towards the Boadicea, "this is the way of it. When me and Killick, on the Leeward Islands station, heard the Captain was afloat again, we went to join him, in course: and there was plenty more in other ships did likewise--old Sophies, old Surprises, even an old Polychrest, Bolton, that slab-sided cove the Captain pulled out of the sea. Oh, was he to new- commission a ship, he'd have no trouble finding a ship's company: not like some--"He swallowed the coarse expression with a cough and went on, "Howsoever, we put in our request, and Captain Dundas, a very affable gent and a friend of the Captain's as you know full well, sir, discharged us into Nereide , Captain Corbett, for the Cape: which he was so kind as to say he was sorry to lose us, and give Killick a pot of guava-jelly for the Captain. But Nereide's short-handed: because why? because the men run whenever they can. There was Joe Lucas, of our mess, as swam three mile, with bladders, off St Kitts, sharks and all: was brought back, flogged, and swum it again, with his back like a raw steak. And today, with only twelve liberty-men out of the whole crew, two of "em are off for the mountain, in spite of all them wild beasts, I know for certain fact, leaving thirty-eight months" pay and their prize-money. So, do you see, we are afraid, Killick and me and the rest, that Captain Corbett will not discharge us into the Boadicea; and so we wrote this letter to you, sir. Because not liking to put ourselves in the Captain's way, being that he's to hoist his pendant any minute as they say, and therefore too busy, we hoped you might put in a good word, just casual, at the right moment."

"Of course I shall. But you could very well have addressed Captain Aubrey himself; he has the kindest recollection of you--often speaks of his real coxswain, and much regrets your absence."

"Does he, though?" said Bonden, with a chuckle of satisfaction. "But even so, we'd take it very kind in you to say a word: it would come more proper, like, from you. And we are main anxious to be out of Nereide.

"She is not altogether a happy ship, I collect?"

"No, sir, she ain't." He rested on his oars again, and looking a little sideways at Stephen he added, "She's a shot-rolling ship: that's what she is."

Stephen knew nothing about the sailing of ships, theoretical or practical; but he did know that when a crew started trundling cannon-balls about the deck under the cover of darkness, then something was very much amiss; for the next stage was mutiny. He also knew that in any normal ship it would be unthinkable for an unusually steady, sober man like Bonden to be flogged.

"I'm not complaining, mark you," said Bonden. "Nor I'm not setting up in judgment: there are some right bastards in the Nereides, before the mast and elsewheres; and when things reach a certain pitch, in such a ship the cat falls on the just and the unjust alike. I can take fifty lashes as well as the next man, I hope; though I may say as how it was the first time the cat and me came acquainted--oh, I was beat like a drum when I was a little chap in the Thunderer, but that was only the master-at-arms" admonition, as we say. His cane, sir. No. What I mean is, that in the first place me and Killick and the rest want to get back to our own captain: and in the second, we want to get out before things turn nasty. And at the gait they are going now--well, I shouldn't give much for Captain Corbett's life, nor some of his officers, come an action, or even maybe a dirty night with no moon; and we want no part in it."