Chapter Text
The clear summer sky over the port of Valletta was just starting to darken as two men climbed the narrow streets to their evening's engagement. One was both tall and large, filling and almost overflowing his blue gold-laced coat and pale breeches; his hair, seen under the hat which he wore athwart after the old fashion, was blonde and braided into a clubbed pigtail. The other man was smaller and darker in both features and attire; he wore an old and slightly battered coat, but had at least taken some care with his frilled shirt and neckcloth. Behind this ill-matched pair trailed a handful of men, two in sailors' colourful shoregoing rig and beribboned sennit hats, and two boys in civilian attire carrying musical instruments. The smaller boy skipped along easily with a fiddle in his hand, but the other's steps were belaboured by the bulk of the 'cello he held in his arms.
Captain Jack Aubrey (for such was the tall man's name) had good reason to be unhappy. To begin with, he had not one but two ships, the ill-found Worcester and his favourite Surprise, in dock for refitting, and little expectation that either would be completed soon without the assistance of bribes he could not afford; the Surprise's crew were ashore becoming dissolute on the handful of prize money he had advanced them, and attenuated by the depredations of the captains of other ships about to sail from the port, despite his best efforts to keep them occupied. Furthermore, his first lieutenant, whom he loved almost as a son, had been gruesomely wounded in battle and had received no official recognition for it, let alone his long-overdue promotion; the fact that a man whom he had once cuckolded had been placed in command of the Mediterranean fleet and therefore in authority over him might have some connection to the matter. And to top it all off, he had not had any mail from home for over two months. Despite all this, he wore an expression of benign if somewhat florid good humour as he panted his way up the hill.
His companion, the eminent physician and natural philosopher Dr Stephen Maturin, wore an expression which conveyed neither particular happiness nor its reverse; he was not a man to allow fleeting emotion to travel unchecked across his countenance, and except for the quick, observant movements of his eyes, he maintained an expression of steady equanimity.
Despite the doctor's unruffled demeanour, he was quite as happy as his friend to be attending the musical party to which they had both been invited. Valletta was a port town whose main society consisted of English officers and their wives, and there were few diversions beyond the usual round of enormous wine-sodden military dinners. Mrs Fielding, the Italian-born wife of a naval lieutenant currently imprisoned in France, was a lively woman with striking red hair, and her musical evenings, held in the courtyard of her villa under an enormous lemon tree, were appreciated by all who were honoured with an invitation. It would be a pleasant interlude, thought Maturin, and a very light supper would be much better suited to their humours in such warm weather than yet another serving of roast beef washed down with claret.
In fact, supper consisted of nothing more than a glass of fresh lemonade and a Naples biscuit, and he had one of each in his hands when his friend found him standing in a corner of the courtyard. "There you are, Stephen," said the Captain, "Mrs Fielding says it is our turn to play next; come along, step lively!" Stephen quickly put the remains of his biscuit in his pocket, and hurried to take his place.
Jack counted them in with three taps of his foot, and their bows began to dance a lively caper across the strings. Jack stood swaying and nodding in time over his violin; Stephen sat with his 'cello cradled between his knees and concentrated intently on his fingering, his eyes darting between his music and his partner. Quick, dancing phrases passed between them, lightly, like small but precious gifts. Jack glowed with pleasure as he picked up the theme and carried it over Stephen's deeper accompaniment, both instruments combining to fill the courtyard with their song.
They were neither of them particular virtuosi, Stephen even less so than Jack since his hands had been cruelly injured, but long companionship and frequent practice had allowed them to achieve a fine degree of harmony, and as their piece drew to a close there were a few moments' applause from their audience.
They were succeeded by a pianist, and as he settled on his stool and brought out his sheet-music Jack and Stephen found themselves engaged in conversation: Jack was drawn away by Mrs Fielding, who congratulated him on his performance and complimented him on his skill with the bow; Stephen found himself in the company of a handful of civilians, including Mr Wray, the Second Secretary of the Admiralty, who was ostensibly in Valletta to investigate corruption in the dockyards, but unofficially, as everyone knew in this port which leaked information like a sieve, to investigate those very leaks.
Stephen recognised Wray's tall figure and open, animated countenance at once. They had met some years ago in Portsmouth, and although Stephen had not encountered him in person since then, he had been aware of his arrival in Valletta and had anticipated this meeting for some time. They were both of them connected to naval intelligence, and although Stephen, a volunteer, chose not to participate openly in such matters while the Mediterranean was under Harte's command, he was nevertheless obliged to greet Wray with due civility.
Wray returned his bow with every appearance of friendship and said, "I am pleased to be able to tell you that I saw Mrs Maturin at the opera just before leaving London, and she appeared to be very well."
"Thank you, sir," replied Stephen, "and I hear I must give you joy of your marriage, too." Wray had recently married Admiral Harte's daughter Fanny, and now had the means to support himself in the style he preferred; Stephen recalled that he had played very high at cards and kept a carriage despite his meagre salary and lack of private means. Harte and Wray, Wray and Harte, he thought, the cuckold and the card-cheat; surely they formed an uncomfortable alliance of ill-will against Jack Aubrey.
However, Stephen found Wray surprisingly amiable as they spoke of inconsequential matters and gave each other their opinions on the music, the weather, and the lemonade. He had more than half expected a lingering animosity over the incident, many years ago, in which Jack had very nearly accused him of cheating at cards; but perhaps the insult had lacked directness, since Wray had neither called him out nor, apparently, taken any great measures against him through his position at the Admiralty. Yet it was hard to be certain; any of a number of signs might indicate a malignant influence in Whitehall: Aubrey had often been passed over in the distribution of ships, and even now he was frustrated in his attempts to put the Surprise to sea again, and despondent over the fact that his protege Tom Pullings had not been promoted after his bravery in the battle against the Turkish ship Torgud.
As if to give the lie to Stephen's thoughts, Wray nodded towards Jack and observed, "The Captain seems to be in fine fettle tonight." Indeed, Jack appeared to have just shared a witticism with Mrs Fielding and was laughing heartily at his own joke. He had been surprisingly merry all evening, in fact, and Stephen wondered at it.
Excusing himself, he bowed again to Wray and joined Jack and his companion, who were standing under the great lemon tree in the centre of the courtyard. "Why, Stephen, I was wondering where you had got to. I was just telling Mrs Fielding the most comical thing; it just came to my mind, and I said to myself, I must remember that and tell Stephen, and here you are. Now I must recall it exactly." Jack's lips moved silently as he lined the words up, then he declaimed: "Ah, that's it: a narrow bow, as any sailor knows, is best for quick movements. Our allegretto! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Sure, you are the very soul of wit, my dear." He had not seen Jack so animated in days, and as he glanced at him he realised the cause of it: Jack's flushed features, his slightly dilated pupils, and above all the way in which he smiled and stood so close to Mrs Fielding were strong telltales. "Well," he said a little sourly, "I pray you will forgive me, but I joined you merely to take my leave. Mrs Fielding," he bowed low over her hand, "I thank you for a most enjoyable evening."
With that he departed, and walked alone through the dark streets to his lodgings, having left his 'cello in the care of Bonden and the boys who had carried it up the hill. The streets were surprisingly quiet, and apart from the distant laughter and cries from the taverns by the waterside the town might almost have been uninhabited. He had no wish for company; he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and contemplated Jack's behaviour.
"Mrs Fielding is no fool," he thought to himself, "Faith, I am sure she can fend off greater importunities than his without the slightest trouble. She is thought a very attractive creature, and by all accounts sailors in port will venture a great deal if they know that a woman's husband is far enough away and unlikely to return. I can only commend her eminent sense in always keeping her mastiff and her maid close by her when she goes abroad; and she could hardly be put to any great difficulty in her own home in the midst of a party.
And indeed she was not, for Jack's heavy step could be heard on the stairs not too long after Stephen had removed his coat, unbuckled his breeches at the knee, and settled down with a book. He had not expected anything else, but regardless of logic he was unreasonably pleased at Jack's disappointment. The instant the thought crossed his mind he was ashamed of it, and had almost resolved upon visiting Jack in his room and suggesting some more music, or some toasted cheese and conversation, when he realised that his pleasure at the thought bore so much in common with Jack's earlier state that he was mortified at his own hypocrisy.
He lay his book down on the table and took up a cigar, rolling the crisp tube between his fingers and appreciating the crackle of the leaves before lighting it. It was a small pleasure compared to the one he contemplated as he sat wreathed in fragrant smoke, but it was a safe one.
* * *
For five slow, tedious weeks Jack attended to the business of his ships' repairs, his frustration growing greater as each day passed. Even the opera, which he attended regularly, and the Italian lessons he took from Mrs Fielding to help him understand it, provided only a temporary relief. He did not much care about the Worcester; truth be told he would rather she were broken up for firewood; Surprise however was his chief concern and his greatest anxiety. She did not need much work, simply a few repairs to her structural members and some new copper sheathing, but he was hard-pressed even to persuade the dockyard hands to discuss the midship knees without a considerable douceur, and he no longer felt comfortable throwing around money he did not yet have, as he had done in his profligate youth.
"Damn the dockyards, and damn the bloody Admiralty court," he said to Stephen in the privacy of his room at Searle's. "If I don't hear word of our prize soon, I shall never have the Surprise to sea before the whole ship's company is gone." Indeed, the Surprises had been poached most villainously by any and every captain who put into port; it had been as much as Jack could manage to keep his most experienced hands and his particular followers. Each day after he had visited the yards he went down to the row of dark huts that housed his men ashore, and found fewer of them there; those who were present were invariably drunk, and he had no doubt that they had already run through the prize money he had laid down on the capstan and were now living off the proceeds of the contents of their sea-chests, selling their very shirts for liquor and bawdry.
He was returning to his lodgings one afternoon with a frown on his face, when he heard a hallooing from down the street. "Captain! Captain Aubrey! Ahoy there!" It was Pullings, nearly capering as he approached, and waving a piece of paper in one hand and his hat in the other.
"Why, Tom, what's afoot?"
"The packet came in -- my promotion -- the Admiralty -- I am the happiest man alive!" Indeed, his scarred face was twisted into an ecstatic smile; to any objective party it would have appeared a gruesome travesty, but Jack saw only his friend's joy, and shared in it wholeheartedly.
He clapped Pullings soundly on the shoulder, and accompanied him to the courtyard at Searle's. He saw him sat comfortably, bedecked with his untarnished new Captain's epaullettes, surrounded by friends and with his cup never empty, before going in search of his own mail.
"Stephen, more good news: our Ionian prize is confirmed," he said some time later, as he read a letter from his prize-agent in London. "They may take their time about it, but they get there in the end."
"Give you joy of it, my dear," replied Stephen, thinking of the various forces at work in the Admiralty, and what could be inferred from their actions. "I suppose this means you will be able to hasten Surprise's repairs. Have you anything from Sophie?"
The package of letters had contained several from Ashgrove Cottage, undated and disordered but full of news: the garden blighted by caterpillars -- the childrens' various trifling ailments -- Sophie's sister to have another child -- Diana's recent visit; and Jack sat reading them again and again, sharing passages with Stephen who showed as much pleasure in the news as Jack did. The letters from Jack's lawyers were less cheerful, bringing only news of continued delays and uncertainty, and he set them aside after reading them once.
Stephen had also been favoured with a handful of correspondence, and after perusing several letters from medical men and naturalists of his acquaintance, he lingered over a longer letter from Sir Joseph Blaine. It largely concerned the proceedings of the Entomological Society and recent additions to Sir Joseph's own collection of coleoptera, but a few of the closing comments caused Stephen to read and re-read them, trying to extract additional meaning from the imprecise cipher of Blaine's carefully chosen words. "You will by now have encountered Wray." No further comment, no mention (however oblique) of his intelligence work, and certainly no encouragement to trust him. Sir Joseph's spare phrases confirmed Stephen's initial feelings about Wray: he was as inexperienced as he appeared, and Sir Joseph had no particular desire for Stephen to work closely with him. The penultimate paragraph of his letter was still more interesting: he refered to Stephen's visit to the Institut at Paris, and to mutual friends in that city, and said that "what you told me of the talk at the Institut is now quite well known, though I have not heard it mentioned in London."
Stephen reflected on the rumours to which Blaine referred: he had overheard two men at the Institut, perhaps ministry officials, talking where they thought they were not overheard; they had been commenting on Stephen's choice of friends -- particularly Adhemar de la Mothe, a known sodomite -- and on Stephen's probable similar interests. They had no proof, of course, because there was none to be had, but it had caused Stephen some distress to think that anyone might suspect him of such vices: not for any moral reason, but because he had presumed that he was better able to hide his inclination. As it happened, nobody had found the truth of it but La Mothe, whose degree of perception regarding Stephen's attachment to Jack had been unexpected, but whose understanding was not unwelcome.
When he had returned to London he had informed Sir Joseph, in the briefest way, of what he had overheard; he would not wish his superior in the naval intelligence service to hear it from anyone else. He was pleased to discover that Sir Joseph took the matter lightly, did not appear to give much countenance to the idea itself, and thought it quite a splendid addition to Stephen's cover: the less reasons for the French to take Stephen seriously, the better; and as Sir Joseph had pointed out, the mere suspicion of buggery could do him far less harm than any suspicion of spying.
Yet the spread of the tale had probably been too little, too late. When he had been a prisoner in France soon afterwards, the questioning had been uncomfortably pointed, and although they had not found anything specific to pin on him, they had had some very solid suspicions. Could the rumours have any useful effect now? Perhaps, he thought. The French intelligence services were more numerous even than their English counterparts (Stephen had seen evidence of at least three different French departments at work here in Valletta) and their interdepartmental jealousies were notorious; even if one department had direct information of his intelligence work, the others might still be fooled by the reports. No, he would not look at a Greek horse bearing gifts, as Jack had put it the other day: any camouflage, however slight, was a blessing.
* * *
Surprise's repairs proceeded apace, now that there was money to encourage the shipwrights; yet even with the best intentions they could not have her ready in less than two weeks. Those two weeks saw Jack happily busy again, hurrying back and forth between the port offices to the yards at what, for him, was a sprightly pace; his natural cheerfulness was restored in full, and it wanted but news of a ship for Pullings and an end to the legal wranglings at home to make him completely happy.
The Surprise's crew, too, were buoyed up by the prospect of going to sea again, and while they drank no less, at least they made a more respectable show each afternoon when they mustered. Each day Jack set some drill or activity to keep them busy and clear their groggy heads, and as Surprise neared completion their enthusiasm for small arms practice, boat races and cricket, and for the chance to compete against other ships and "do the old barky proud", increased.
From time to time Stephen would be taken out in the gig or the jolly-boat, where he would indulge in an afternoon of bird-watching or collecting specimens. The flora and fauna of Malta were well known to him, and he sincerely doubted there were any discoveries to be made, but at least he might have the opportunity of seeing some of the less common creatures to be found in the area; leisure for naturalising was so uncommon that he was determined to make the most of it before they sailed again.
He and Bonden were alone in the jolly-boat one afternoon, hove to in the Lazaretto creek, just under the walls of Fort Manoel. Stephen had his glass trained on the little egrets nesting near the walls of the fort, while the coxswain took his ease, leaning comfortably against the gunwales and chewing a wad of tobacco. "I'll never understand how you can tell them apart, Doctor," he said, with a nod toward the distant specks of white flying around the fortifications.
"With no more difficulty than you can tell a topgallant-spanker from a... from all those other blessed names you give everything," replied Stephen without taking the glass from his eye.
"Why, doctor, we give them perfectly straightforward names. Even you should be able to tell a crow-foot from a goose-neck."
"Barrett Bonden, I believe you are making a jest of me." He put down his glass and turned to the coxswain, who was indeed turning pink and making small choking noises in admiration of his own wit. "Oh, for all love, leave off. I know I am a great object of ridicule to you all, but," he said rather sourly, "not everyone has the benefit of a sailor's extensive education."
Bonden's good humour immediately vanished, and when Stephen observed it he immediately said, "Oh, I am sorry, my dear; I did not mean to imply..." He was all too conscious of the fact that Bonden had only recently been taught to read, and wished he might retract his ill-thought comment. A moment's thought provided him with an idea, and with great politeness he said, "Bonden, I would be greatly obliged, I would deem it the most signal favour, if you would undertake to teach me some of your nautical terminology."
As soon as Bonden had finished exclaiming and had composed his mind to the idea of educating the excessively learned doctor, he set about the task as if he were talking to a newly-pressed landsman, demonstrating each term as he defined it and using the gaff-rigged jolly-boat as his model. He named the parts of its hull -- its mast -- its standing rigging -- its sails -- and was proceeding to its sheets and lines when Stephen cut in with, "Surely we have already addressed the sheets? Are they not the same thing as the sails?" No, they were not; the sheet is a rope -- but no rope is ever called a rope -- a sheet and a tack together are fastened to the clew of the sail, at least on a ship's rig. "Ah, and these are the starboard and larboard tacks about which I have heard so much?" No, that tack was an entirely different thing -- and quite distinct, too, from the hard-tack in the breadroom!
"The dear knows I am glad to be the bringer of such amusement," said Stephen, "but I still fail to see why the Navy could not adopt some kind of logical taxonomy, some rational system of names by which each item could be clearly identified. Phylum, genus, species... surely someone in authority must know of Linnaeus?"
Bonden had nothing to say to this, other than that he had never met Mister Linnaeus, and that the tradition of the service had been good enough for him ever since he was a lad; and so Stephen bade him return their little boat, with its incomprehensible thwarts and pintles, back to Valletta.
They were weaving their way between the anchored ships in the harbour when Bonden brought his brows together and said, "Which it ain't my place to say anything, but you have always been right kind to me, and the men are awful attached to you and the Captain both..." He tailed off, and gazed distractedly past at the boat's wake for a minute, until Stephen encouraged him to continue. "Well, sir, with all respect, I just wanted to tell you that me and the lads, we don't believe a word of what they're saying ashore there about you and the Captain; and even if it was true, it ain't nobody's business but your own."
With this he pushed the helm to leeward and brought the boat about, covering their mutual embarrassment in the sudden flurry of activity. When they had settled on their new tack, Stephen faced him gravely over the steeple of his fingers, and thanked him in an even voice that betrayed none of the whirl of thoughts that assailed his mind.
He was still turning it over later that day as he accompanied the Surprises to the hills behind Valletta for their weekly target shooting competition. Captain Pullings, though no longer part of the crew, was still very much attached to them and provided a weekly prize of an iced cake in the form of a target, for which the ship's company competed division against division. As ship's surgeon Stephen was not attached to a division; he merely accompanied them and stood to one side, shooting methodically and striking the centre of his target time after time.
The cleaning, loading and firing of his pistols was almost as natural to him as breathing, and he had attention to spare for other matters. He measured his powder with practised precision, and considered what Bonden had told him.
"What is common knowledge to the intelligence services in Paris is also common knowledge in Valletta," he thought, "but is there a direct connection between the two? There has hardly been any unusual circumstance here to cause such a story to spring up of its own accord; no more than usual, sure, and perhaps less considering the way Jack has been paying his attentions to Mrs Fielding. The Surprises crew most probably understand my feelings -- I have often been amazed at the way the foredeck hands can know every secret on a ship without a word being spoken -- but dear Bonden would not have spoken if it were only that." He fished a lead ball from his pouch and rolled it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger before pushing it into the muzzle. "No, it must be a new story in the town, and in a town so entangled in intrigue and espionage I believe I may safely assume that the news originated in Paris. I have no doubt that Wray would like to know who brought it here."
He removed the ramrod and primed his charge, then cocked the hammer. Adopting the perfect duelling stance he had learned as a youth in Dublin, he stared evenly at the target and squeezed the trigger. No new hole appeared in the tattered paper, but a puff of dust assured him that this shot, like those before it, had hit its mark.
A cheer broke out, startling him; but it was just Calamy's division, who had won their cake. He let out a deep breath, packed his pistols away in their case, and joined the Surprises as they marched raggedly back to the docks.
* * *
"Well, Stephen, we are to sail on Thursday." Jack was tying his neckcloth as Stephen sat by the window already dressed in his cleanest frilled shirt and silk stockings. They were invited to a party at the Port Admiral's residence, and Jack, knowing Stephen's dilatory habits, had sent Killick to take care of him half an hour earlier.
"The Aegean?" Stephen had been absent from the meeting with Admiral Harte, not wishing to appear in any official intelligence role under such a man, but all Malta was aware of the likelihood of a mission to that region. Jack nodded his assent; it was no surprise to him that Stephen knew what was happening before the official word was given. Jack himself had heard about it the previous afternoon, from a group of officers who had called to him to join them in the courtyard as he had returned from his Italian lesson.
The party that evening was largely attended by military men and their wives; gold-laced blue coats and vivid red ones formed clusters in every room, interspersed with a sprinkling of other colours belonging to officers of other nations. Jack's lively eye darted around the room, noticing the officers of his acquaintance and appreciating the many women present in their evening finery.
"Do you see Mrs Fielding?" he asked Stephen.
"I do not, my dear, and although I should blush to advise you on matters of propriety, I cannot help but suggest that you should show a little less particular interest."
"What, Stephen, are you coming it the moralist now? You know it's nothing improper; ain't I allowed to enjoy a woman's company from time to time?"
"Sure, I know nothing of the sort; but I will admit I had suspected as much. Mrs Fielding is lauded for her continence, and beside, there is her enormous canine companion; but if you will permit me to say it, you are not known for your own continence, and in a port like this there is always a great deal of talk."
As if in response to his thoughts on Jack's notorious fornication, Admiral Harte appeared before them. "Why, good evening to you, Aubrey, Doctor Maturin. I do not believe you have met Colonel Harrington?" Harte introduced them. "Captain Aubrey, of whom we have all heard so much." Harrington was a tall man with an angular face and very fair hair. He looked down his nose at Jack, gave a very slight bow, and after performing the bare minimum which civility required, turned away and addressed some red-coated friends; his subject was personal, but he spoke in a carrying tone.
"I met Mrs Aubrey once. Charming woman, uncommon pretty. It's a good thing she ain't here to see what he gets up to when's he's been away from England awhile."
Jack could not help but hear; he turned a deeper shade of red, and clenched his fists, but with strained politeness he turned to address the Colonel and asked him to make his meaning clearer. Harrington was just about to do so when Stephen, who had noticed the Colonel's pointed look in his own direction, intervened. "Come away Jack," he said, "Come away, for all love."
Jack looked at Stephen and saw that he was deadly serious; flinging one last withering look at Harrington, he turned and swept out the door, dragging Stephen along in his wake. Standing outside in the damp evening air, he turned and said, "What do you mean, telling me how to conduct myself? By God, Stephen, I have good mind to demand satisfaction of him! How dare he suggest such things about Mrs Fielding? You said yourself that she is the very model of chastity."
Stephen's brows creased. "My dear, I believe there is more to this than you understand. I will explain it to you, but this is not something I would wish to discuss in a public place." The telling lift of his eyebrow suggested a secret; Jack was not unfamiliar with such situations, having been privy to a great deal of Stephen's more occult dealings, and took this to be something of the same nature.
"Oh, very well then. Surprises!" As Bonden and the other men separated themselves from the knot of attendants clustered under the porch, Jack said, "I do wish you could find a less inopportune time for these secrets of yours; affairs of honour are not lightly thrust aside."
Killick fussed and whined at them when they arrived home, until Jack sent him away. He left slowly, muttering about damp coats as he drew the door shut behind him, and Stephen was almost certain that he would remain on the landing with his ear to the keyhole. It made no difference; Killick undoubtedly already knew more of this matter than Jack did.
With some difficulty, Stephen composed his mind and began to set forth the situation. "You never met Adhemar de la Mothe in Paris, I believe, but it was into his protection that I placed Diana during our Grimsholm mission."
"Stephen, what bearing has this on Mrs Fielding?"
"None at all, my dear; Mrs Fielding is the furthest thing from my mind. Will you allow me to set forth the situation, or not?"
"Go on, then."
"Very well. La Mothe is a sodomite." Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Stephen continued before he could speak. "Through my association with him, I was suspected of the same vice. My superiors in naval intelligence have encouraged this report, since anything to my discredit will tend to mislead the enemy; as a naturalist, I already have one good reason for my travels, but if I were thought to be travelling with you for, shall we say, personal reasons, it would go some way towards explaining my presence in even the most unlikely situations."
"Good lord, Stephen," said Jack, "What are you telling me?"
"I do not believe the Colonel's insult had anything to do with Mrs Fielding. For some days now, I have been aware that the tale I have mentioned had made its way to Valletta; as you know the port is riddled with French sympathizers and spies, and I have no doubt --"
Jack's anger had been building, and at this point it burst forth. "Hell and damnation, Stephen! What in God's name were you thinking?" He rose from his chair and began to stride about the room; Stephen remained seated, his hands folded in front of him. "You sit there calmly and tell me that the whole town thinks I am a -- a bugger! Is it not enough for you that I have Harte to contend with? Must you make my life more difficult still? Damn your infernal secrets, Stephen; this is quite intolerable; this is coming it too strong by half!"
"Jack, you have often spoken to me of the requirements of the service; my service has its requirements, too."
"Your service goes too damned far, sir. You had no right to drag me into this; it is no wonder I have had such trouble with commissions -- with promotions for my men -- with my prizes. If this is known at the Admiralty... Christ! If Sophie were to hear of it!"
"I have had no report of the rumour in London; if it is known to anyone in Whitehall except my immediate superiors, it would only be because the Admiralty has been infiltrated by Buonaparte's agents. But I perceive that you would prefer it if it were not known at all; perhaps you would prefer me to be taken up and tortured again? I am sorry to disappoint you, but you will forgive me if I do not share that preference." He spoke quietly and evenly, meeting Jack's glare with his pale gaze, and when he had finished he stood and left without another word.
He heard Jack go out soon afterwards, and many hours later, still lying awake, he heard him return. A number of pairs of feet had trod up the stairs during the night, some more steadily than others, but Jack's step was unmistakable to an accustomed ear. Killick heard him, too, and Stephen could make out the low rumble of his monologue from across the hall until a rough word from Jack sent him shuffling out.
Any other night Stephen would have taken a draught against his insomnia, but tonight instead of comfortable insensibility he chose to reflect on what had passed between them. It seemed right that he should remain awake, as Jack did, rather than seek a cowardly escape from the consequences of his actions. The night drew on, marked out by the regular squeak of the floorboards as Jack paced across the floor of his room. Stephen lay staring at the distant ceiling. After so many years at sea, it almost seemed strange to him that he could not reach out and touch beams above his head, and that his bed did not rock with the waves; more disconcerting still was the absence of the sea's sussuration and the hum of the rigging and the regular sounding of the bell, without which Jack's solitary movements seemed uncommonly loud.
"Without a doubt Jack is exceptionally angry," he reflected. "I had thought we understood each other better; but perhaps I have been too cryptic, hidden too much from him for too long. He cannot have any real comprehension of the hazards of my calling; he might understand them better if they had the immediacy of a cannon-ball or a pike thrust, but he has no aptitude for politics.
"As for Sophie, I fear he is entirely in the right, and I have been too stupid to foresee it. I have been indescribably, execrably selfish. My own self-indulgence, my heedless obedience to my baser nature, has led me into this coil. It is inexcusable, inexcusable." But what penance could redeem him? Jack's warm-hearted forgiveness extended easily to such sins as unpunctuality and lubberliness, but offenses against his family and his naval career might well be unpardonable.
"Dear mother of God, I am an imbecile. What folly, what supreme folly, could have led me to believe that such a rumour could affect no-one but myself? Such egotism, such pride! Contritionem praecedit superbia... and to have fallen in such a way, to become estranged from him, is destruction itself."
He dozed fitfully as grey light began to seep through his window, and lay mopishly abed even after the sun had fully risen. It was only the smell of coffee and bacon and toast which roused him, not because he felt his usual hunger for a good breakfast, but because his empty, knotted stomach rebelled at the scent or even the thought of sustenance. He dressed hurriedly and distractedly, without shaving or even washing, and pulled on his boots in anticipation of a long solitary walk in the hills.
As he opened the door he found Killick standing on the other side, glaring at him with undisguised belligerence and holding a piece of paper. He thrust the paper at Stephen and turned away, muttering, "Up all night, up all bloody night he was."
Stephen retreated back into his room and shut the door; Preserved Killick's tone had divulged more than the direction on the outside of the note, written in Jack's familiar hand. He sat down at the window and broke the seal, noticing distractedly that his hands were shaking.
Captain Aubrey presents his compliments to Dr Maturin --
The words echoed in Stephen's mind, recalling their dreadful breach ten years ago, aboard Polychrest, and he steeled himself against what was to follow.
-- and offers his sincerest apologies for his ill-thought words last night. He greatly regrets any harshness, and humbly requests the Doctor's company at breakfast, if he should be willing.
Before Stephen's mind had digested the words, his heart and his growling stomach had propelled him out of his room and across the hall to Jack's. Jack was standing by his own window, looking tired and worn but at least clean-shaven; when he saw Stephen his face cleared like the sky after a storm.
"Killick there, the coffee if you please." It was brought in on a tray, accompanied by reproving clucking sounds and baleful glances. He set it down amongst the plates of bacon and pots of marmalade, and retired still scowling. Stephen and Jack sat, strangely dumb, neither knowing what to say; fortunately Jack's experience at innumerable gunroom dinners stood him in good stead, and he manfully carried the conversation, offering Stephen a variety of comestibles and enquiring after his health.
"Sure, I slept no more than you did, my dear." He gave a wry half-smile. "I was certain you would never speak to me again."
"Lord, Stephen! I was so angry when I went out -- but that is past -- I thought better of it, as you see."
"I blush to think of the pain I must have caused you, my dear. But if you had rather not speak of it, let us put it behind us now. I pray you will accept my apology on the matter and speak no more of it."
"No, Stephen, it won't do; you must let me explain myself. You know I'm not much of one for rhetoric, never had the right sort of education for it, but I have spent half the night agonizing over this, so you must hear me now." Stephen regarded him steadily, a piece of toast forgotten in his hand. "What you said, Stephen, about your work, about the fearful risks you take. I should have known better... I do know better..." Jack pushed himself away from the table and began to pace; his thoughts were too turbulent to be expressed while sitting down.
"I know perfectly well that your work is dangerous. Sometimes I forget that; I think of you stitching people up in the orlop or collecting your bugs and I forget that your life is as risky as mine is. Good God! I carried you out of Mahon myself; I shall never forget that. And the Temple, and Boston... but most of all, Mahon." He glanced at Stephen's hand, still holding the toast aloft, and still missing three fingernails. Stephen put the toast down.
Jack paused by the window, and gazed distractedly out over the harbour. "You have risked your life for England, Stephen; and you have risked it for me, dozens of times, and I have risked mine for you. No, let me finish." Stephen had not spoken, but he had risen from his seat. "I have loved you like a brother, like family, and more. I don't want to... I mean, dash it, you have been more to me than anyone on earth, all these years. The least I can do is bear this ridiculous gossip with good grace."
"Ridiculous?" The word was out before Stephen could stop it; tiredness and the upheaval of his emotions had completely overturned his usual cautious control of his tongue.
"Why, yes, of course."
There was no retreat now; Stephen felt the shadows of his night-time suffering condense into a pure brilliant clear shaft, pointing one unambiguous way forward, regardless of any peril.
"Soul, sometimes I fear you do not know me at all. I know I am not a model of transparency, but it pains me to think that we have sailed together for so long without you realising..." His words tailed off, but for once his face expressed what he did not say, with startling directness manifest even to Jack's clumsy comprehension.
They faced each other mutely, each trying to read the other's expression. Stephen, the faster reader, moved first: he stretched out his hand and touched Jack's face. Jack remained as motionless as a statue as Stephen's thumb brushed his cheek.
Stephen's kiss, when it came, could almost have been called chaste. He rose on his toes, leaned in, and pressed his lips against Jack's: a momentary warm pressure, then an ordered retreat of just a few inches to survey Jack's reaction.
A skilled diagnostician may perceive many subtle symptoms which would not appear to another man: Stephen saw a faint flush on Jack's cheek, a quickening of the pulse under his fingertips, and a marked dilation of the pupils; all signs he had seen in Jack before, though not in response to his own attentions. With his heart leaping, he kissed Jack again, more firmly, and was elated to feel him respond in kind.
Had anybody looked up at the open window, they would have seen two men, one large and fair, the other small and dark, in close engagement in the clear morning light. They were not a beautiful pair, and by no means graceful in their embrace, but no-one could have doubted the pleasure they took in each other.
Jack's hand rose tentatively to the nape of Stephen's neck, and he was drawing him closer when the door swung open and Killick shuffled in backwards, a gold-laced coat laid carefully over his arms. "Which it is --" he began, then turned and gaped.
Jack sprung away from Stephen, wiping his mouth. "Killick, get out." He turned back to Stephen. "You too. Get out, Stephen. Get out of my sight." His face was pale; this was not his usual high-coloured anger, but something much more dreadful. Stephen's throat constricted, and he stumbled blindly from the room.
Killick was nowhere to be found as Jack dressed to go aboard the flagship, and the bargemen who rowed him out to his meeting were dumbstruck and reticent; they would not have presumed to be sociable even under normal circumstances, but today the oarsmen might have been blocks of wood, so expressionless were their faces.
He was piped over the side and soon found himself in the Admiral's great cabin, attending numbly to the arrangements for the Surprise's voyage. The mission was straightforward and largely uninteresting; he would have found it so even if his mind had not been elsewhere. The Surprise was to proceed to the Aegean Sea, where the Edinburgh, 74, was already stationed. Surprise would carry a packet of papers for her captain, Jack's old friend Heneage Dundas, and would remain there to show the English colours in those waters and assist in protecting friendly shipping.
It was a paltry errand, more suited to a sloop or brig than a frigate commanded by an experienced Post-Captain, but Aubrey could not bring himself to care; even without this morning's added impetus he would have been glad to get to sea and feel the wind in the stays and the rush of the clear blue Mediterranean water beneath his feet; as the meeting dragged on he wanted nothing more than to remove himself from Harte's odious presence and from the stinking gossip-drenched port and set sail.
"You will have your orders in writing before you sail, of course," said the Admiral. "However, I wanted to address some minor details in person. You will require a translator fluent in Turkish and Greek; I have arranged for one to be sent aboard the Surprise tonight. He is a translator, no more; he has no particular experience in political matters, but that should not be necessary in this case."
Jack nodded; such arrangements were commonplace, and the only matter to be decided was whether the translator was a gentleman who should mess with the gunroom, or whether he would be better before the mast.
Harte continued, with a slight curl of his lip, "I suppose that you will be taking your friend" -- he placed a slight emphasis on the word -- "as ship's surgeon, as usual?"
Only a lifetime of naval discipline restrained Jack from striking him; it was certainly not any innate respect for the man. His hands clenched at his sides and his colour rose, but in a strained voice he said only, "Dr Maturin will not be joining the Surprise for this voyage. I would be obliged if you would assign me a new ship's surgeon."
Harte's clerk choked back a titter, but the Admiral himself merely said, "Very well, you shall have Norris. That will be all, Aubrey." Jack touched his hat with ill-contained contempt, and left.