Desolation Island. Patrick O’Brian

      

      PATRICK O’BRIAN

      Desolation Island

      Copyright

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      HarperCollins

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      Copyright © Patrick O’Brian 1978

      Patrick O’Brian asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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      Source ISBN: 9780006499244

      Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN 9780007429363

      Version: 2019-03-04

       Dedication

      FOR MARY, WITH LOVE

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

Dedication

       Diagram of a Square-Rigged Ship

Chapter One

Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      The Naval World of Jack Aubrey: N.A.M. RODGER

       Keep Reading

      About the Author

      The Works of Patrick O’Brian

       About the Publisher

       The sails of a square-rigged ship, hung out to dry in a calm.

      1 Flying jib

      2 Jib

      3 Fore topmast staysail

      4 Fore staysail

      5 Foresail, or course

      6 Fore topsail

      7 Fore topgallant

      8 Mainstaysail

      9 Main topmast staysail

      10 Middle staysail

      11 Main topgallant staysail

      12 Mainsail, or course

      13 Maintopsail

      14 Main topgallant

      15 Mizzen staysail

      16 Mizzen topmast staysail

      17 Mizzen topgallant staysail

      18 Mizzen sail

      19 Spanker

      20 Mizzen topsail

      21 Mizzen topgallant

      Illustration source: Serres, Liber Nauticus. Courtesy of The Science and Technology Research Center, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundation

       Chapter One

      The breakfast-parlour was the most cheerful room in Ashgrove Cottage, and although the builders had ruined the garden with heaps of sand and unslaked lime and bricks, and although the damp walls of the new wing in which this parlour stood still smelt of plaster, the sun poured in, blazing on the covered silver dishes and lighting the face of Sophie Aubrey as she sat there waiting for her husband. A singularly lovely face, with the lines that their earlier poverty had marked upon it quite smoothed away; but it had a somewhat anxious look. She was a sailor’s wife, and although the Admiralty in the goodness of its heart had allowed her the company of her husband for a surprising length of time, appointing him (much against his will) to the command of the local Sea-Fencibles in recognition of his services in the Indian Ocean, she knew that this period was coming to an end.

      The anxiety changed to unmixed pleasure as she heard his step: the door opened; a ray of sun fell on Captain Aubrey’s beaming face, a ruddy face with bright blue eyes; and she knew as certainly as though it had been written on his forehead that he had bought the horse he coveted. ‘There you are, sweetheart,’ he cried, kissing her and lowering himself into a chair by her side, a broad elbow-chair that creaked beneath his weight.

      ‘Captain Aubrey,’ she said, ‘I am afraid your bacon will be cold.’

      ‘A cup of coffee first,’ said he, ‘and then all the bacon in the world – Lord, Sophie –’ lifting the covers with his free hand – ‘here’s Fiddler’s Green – eggs, bacon, chops, kippered herrings, kidneys, soft tack … How is the tooth?’ Here he was referring to his son George, whose howls had made the household uneasy for some time past.

      ‘It is through!’ cried Mrs Aubrey. ‘He cut it in the night, and now he is as good as gold, poor lamb. You shall see him after breakfast, Jack.’

      Jack laughed with pleasure; but after a pause, and in a slightly conscious tone, he said, ‘I rode over to Horridge’s this morning to stir them up. Horridge was not in the way, but his foreman said they had no notion of coming to us this month – the lime ain’t thoroughly slaked, it appears – and even then they will be at a stand, with their carpenter laid up, and the pipes not yet delivered.’

      ‘What nonsense,’ said Sophie. ‘There was a whole gang of them laying pipes at Admiral Hare’s only yesterday. Mama saw them as she was driving by; and she would have spoken to Horridge, but he dodged behind a tree. Builders are strange, unaccountable creatures. I am afraid you were very disappointed, my dear?’

      ‘Why,