The Golden Ocean. Patrick O’Brian

utterly void and longing for the death that he saw approaching, but at all too slow a pace. There was nothing to be done for him, however. He would take nothing; and if ever he could be roused to speak, it was only to say, ‘Palafox, you said fat. You should never have said fat—oh.’ Sometimes he said that he almost hoped he might live to have Peter’s blood for it: at other times he said he forgave him, and wished to be remembered at home.

      On Thursday the wind, as if it had been specially ordered, shifted into the south-west and south: they sailed gently up the Channel on a milk-and-water sea that rippled playfully in the sun, the innocent element; on either side there sailed in company with them a great number of vessels, near and far; and as the sweet evening gathered in the western sky, FitzGerald appeared on deck in time to see five ships of the line with two attendant frigates and a sloop of war pass within a cable’s length, close hauled on the wind and in a formation as precise as a regiment of foot-guards on parade. With their towering height of gleaming canvas—their royals were set—and with their long sides exactly chequered with gun-ports, they gave an instant impression of immense strength and majesty, a moving and exhilarating feeling that made Peter wish to cheer. FitzGerald was moved too; a tinge of colour came into his face and some animation to his extinguished eyes.

      ‘It would almost be worth while going to sea to be aboard one of those things,’ he said.

      ‘Hullo,’ cried Peter, turning round. ‘How are you?’

      ‘Thank you, the worst is over.’

      ‘It took you pretty badly,’ said Peter, with a grin; ‘you should have tried—you should have tried my recipe. But how do you mean, it would almost be worth while?’

      ‘Palafox,’ said FitzGerald earnestly, ‘you do not seriously suppose, do you, that once I have got my feet on dry ground, any mortal persuasion will ever get them off it? If you do, you are mistaken; for the minute I leave this ship—or ketch or brig or whatever you choose to call the horrible machine—nothing, nothing will induce me to get on to it again, nor any other floating inferno. No: my talents lie in another direction, I find.’

      ‘I am very sorry for it,’ said Peter. ‘But you know, it is never so bad again. Have you eaten anything yet?’

      ‘No,’ said FitzGerald, ‘and I do not believe that I ever shall eat again.’

      ‘That is a pity,’ said Peter, ‘for I passed by the galley just now and I saw the cook making a prodigious broth, with a hen in it. Indeed, there’s the steward now. Will you not come down and watch us eat, at least? The smell alone would revive a dying man.’

      FitzGerald hesitated, allowed himself to be persuaded—would just peck at the soup to be companionable—went down, begged the master of the Mary Rose would excuse him, had been much indisposed of late, on account of over-indulgence in pork at Blarney—ate soup, ate more soup, attacked venison pasty—pasty excellent, sea-air capital for giving an appetite—demolished a raised pie—ate solomon gundy, ate lemon posset, ate cheese, ate more cheese—varieties of cheese discussed, all excellent in their kind—ate more cheese. And at the master’s invitation he drank to his future lieutenant’s commission in muddy port; he then voluntarily proposed Peter’s appointment as master and commander, as post-captain, as rear-admiral of the blue, red and white; as vice-admiral and full admiral of the same squadrons; and to himself as first sea-lord; he earnestly promised them his protection and countenance from the moment he reached that high office, and was removed, exceedingly talkative, to his bunk.

      When Peter next came on deck darkness had fallen. His head was proof against the master’s port, for he had been weaned on poteen that would burst into blue flame a yard from the fire—it was usual in Ballynasaggart to employ whiskey as the universal medicine, and indeed it was almost the only thing that kept the inhabitants alive under the perpetual drizzle of rain.

      It was a profound darkness that filled the warm night—no moon, no stars but the riding-lights of other vessels near at hand. He stood against the rail, and the brig worked silently in on the tide past St Helen’s; scarcely a ripple moved her, but the black water gleaming along the side in the reflection of the great stern-lantern showed that she was under way. There were lights on shore, scattered like a necklace broken, and lights at sea, moving steadily to their unseen destinations: voices in the dark, mysterious in their invisibility, and once a ghostly form, pale whiteness reaching into the sky, swept by them, a man-of-war bound for the Jamaica station. He heard the order ‘Hands to the braces’ and a pattering of feet: then the ship was gone.

      ‘Joe!’ hailed the mate of the Mary Rose, shattering the enchantment.

      ‘Ho!’ answered a very loud voice from out of the night.

      ‘Where’s Centurion lying?’

      ‘How come you’re so soon?’ countered the unseen Joe. ‘We did not look for to see you this tide.’

      ‘Is she at St Helen’s yet?’

      ‘Nor this week neither,’ said Joe, apparently right under their stern.

      ‘Joe!’ hailed the master.

      ‘Ho!’ replied the voice, which had secretly moved quite round the brig.

      ‘Spit-ed,’ said Joe, sulkily; and was heard no more.

      ‘She’s lying at Spithead,’ interpreted the master, ‘and that being so, young gentlemen, you had best lie aboard tonight and take a pair of oars over in the morning, after a good breakfast—which you won’t see many more of them.’

      ‘That is very kind of you, sir,’ said Peter.

      ‘Which it is agreeable to my sentiments, sir,’ said the master of the Mary Rose, with a profound inclination, ‘to be of service to the gentlemen of the Navy.’

      He left the rail, and Peter heard him recommend the man at the wheel to keep to the middle of the channel if he wished to retain his blazing head on his flaming shoulders. ‘I had better prepare everything tonight,’ thought Peter, and he went below. There he found Sean before him, brushing clothes as well as he could by the light of a small swinging lamp. A considerable heap of dried Irish mud showed the pitch of his zeal.

      ‘Listen, Peter a gradh,’ he whispered, with anxiety filling his voice. ‘Your honour will never forget my petition? Sure you will keep it in mind?’

      Peter’s reply was lost in a sudden rumbling din that vibrated solemnly through the brig as they let go the anchor, but he nodded, and when it was over he said, ‘I’ll do all I can, Sean my dear, indeed I will: but I wish you had brought a paper of recommendation.’

      The Centurion. His Majesty’s ship Centurion: she lay with her yards across, trim, shining with cleanliness even under the grey sky of the morning, her decks a scene of intense activity; parties of seamen in canvas trousers hurried with buckets and mops; a half-company of red-coated Marines performed their exercise with a rhythmic stamping and crash to the beat of a drum.

      ‘I say, Palafox,’ said FitzGerald, who was first up the side, ‘do you see that—’

      ‘You, sir,’ cried an angry voice behind them; ‘you there! Who the devil are you?’ It was the officer of the watch, who knew very well who they were, but who nevertheless stared down upon them with a fierce and disciplinary eye. ‘What is your business? What do you mean by wandering about his Majesty’s ship like a pack of geese on a common?’ These last words were addressed to Peter, who had unhappily made three paces in the wrong direction.

      ‘I was looking for Mr Walter,’ he replied in a faltering voice.

      ‘Roaming up and down the ship like a parcel of apes,’ continued the officer of the watch. ‘Get off this ship directly, and come back and report yourself to me in a proper manner. And salute the quarter-deck when you come aboard, do you hear?’

      FitzGerald was scarlet with anger: he took a hasty step forward as the officer turned, but Peter seized him by the arm and pulled him away. ‘Don’t be an ass,’ he hissed, dragging him to the side.