The Golden Ocean. Patrick O’Brian

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      ‘Mr Palafox?’ asked a voice at his side, and the dregs of the porter splashed on the floor as Peter jumped up. ‘Your servant, sir,’ said the thin figure before him, with an elegant bow. ‘My name is FitzGerald.’

      ‘Servant,’ cried Peter, making a leg, and quite red with pleasure. ‘May I beg you to sit down and take—and take—’He had meant to add, ‘a glass of wine,’ but the sudden recollection that he was quite unable to pay for a small pot of ale, let alone a bottle of claret, pierced into his mind, and he finished with a wave of his hand to an empty chair.

      ‘You are very good, sir,’ said FitzGerald, sitting down. ‘But first I must make my excuses …’ And while he explained why he was so late—no idea the time had been running so fast—much taken up with seeing the races, the town, various friends—Peter gazed at him with the utmost attention that civility would permit. FitzGerald was nothing like what he had expected: for one thing he was wearing a bottle-green coat, and for another he was very much older. And yet on closer inspection he was not so ancient in fact: he wore his own hair (which was red), but it was powdered, and powdered hair, like a wig, made a man appear of an indeterminate age. On second thoughts Peter judged FitzGerald to be about his own age, though indeed his urbane and fashionable air, his very rich clothes and his general ease, made him appear five years older at least.

      FitzGerald talked on in the most agreeable way; but there were two things that prevented Peter from taking much share in the conversation, or indeed from absorbing much of what FitzGerald said. The first was extreme and raging hunger: Peter had had nothing since breakfast, and what with the excitement of the races, the disaster and the long-drawn-out waiting he was so hollow within that if he had been anywhere else he would have gnawed his craubeen with unspeakable joy. The second was the manner and form in which he should frame his request.

      It had seemed so easy when he cried, ‘I’ll ask him for five guineas or six,’ but now it appeared insuperably hard.

      ‘… and then Culmore assured me on his oath that the filly was sore of the near fore-foot—said his groom had it from hers, they being twins of a birth—and so I did not back her, either, ha, ha.’

      ‘Ha, ha,’ echoed Peter, suddenly aware that a response was called for, and wondering what FitzGerald’s topic had been.

      ‘But the truth of the matter, you know,’ said FitzGerald confidentially, ‘is that those stables are quite unfit to be used. I know my father would not even put one of the tenants into them, and …’

      ‘Now if I were to say to him, “Mr FitzGerald, please will you lend me some money?” ’ thought Peter; and he was still thinking when the explosion occurred.

      He did not see the beginning: there was a crowd filing along by their table, a great deal of talking, noise, laughter. And he was bent over the table, trying to hear FitzGerald through the din, and trying to think at the same time. Then there was a sharp cry, the crash of FitzGerald’s chair as it fell; the crowd was spread open, and a wig fell plump into Peter’s little puddle of porter. FitzGerald was out there on the wide floor, holding a young officer by the nose. The officer was pulling madly at his sword, but FitzGerald, with wonderful promptness, had his other hand on the hilt.

      From the wild hubbub of voices Peter gathered that Burke—the officer’s name—had trodden on FitzGerald’s foot. ‘Pull harder, your honour,’ cried Sean, with boundless delight, and then the two were heaved apart by a surge of violent peacemakers. For a moment FitzGerald and Burke were still attached, the grasping hand of the one extended to its utmost and the nose of the other to a great deal more than the usual length: then there was a wall of men between the two and FitzGerald, with a flush on his face and a brilliant gleam in his green eyes, was sitting down.

      ‘As I was saying,’ he said, ‘the course was entirely too soft for a horse with an action like that, so …’

      ‘My wig, sir, I believe,’ said a frosty-faced gentleman to Peter, very sharply.

      ‘… so although there is not his match over a measured mile on high, champaigne country,’ continued FitzGerald, ‘it would scarcely be wise to lay evens when he is to run in a plashy bottom like Derrynacaol after a week of rain.’

      ‘Just so,’ said Peter earnestly. ‘I am of your opinion entirely.’

      At this point two red coats approached the table. ‘We are from Burke, of course,’ said the elder, after the exchange of formal politeness.

      ‘My friend here will act,’ said FitzGerald. ‘Allow me to name Mr Palafox, of the Royal Navy—Captain Marney.’

      ‘Shall we discuss the details in an hour’s time?’ suggested the soldier. ‘I propose the Butler Arms.’

      ‘Charmed,’ said Peter, with a creditable appearance of phlegm, and Captain Marney walked away with his companion, humming the tune called Greensleeves.

      ‘I am sorry to wish this on you,’ said FitzGerald. ‘But I promise you it will not be long. We will come out at dawn: I will line his vitals with steel: and in five minutes we shall be on our way—it will serve to get us up early, which shows that even an oaf like Burke has his uses. Let’s have a bottle and drink to his slow recovery.’ He called the waiter.

      ‘I did not see what he did,’ said Peter.

      ‘Trod on my foot.’

      ‘So you must get up at half-past five and push a sword into him?’

      ‘Exactly so. He did it on purpose, you know. He has been seeking a quarrel with me ever since I fought his brother, and that was the only thing his boorish mind could find to do. However let us not talk about him. There are much more agreeable subjects.’ He paused. ‘So we are to be companions on the road? Well, I am very glad of it.’

      ‘So am I,’ said Peter, wondering if FitzGerald were really quite the ideal fellow-traveller. They sat contemplating one another, and after a pause FitzGerald repeated, ‘I am very glad of it, not only for the pleasure of your conversation, but because we have some desperate lonely country ahead of us, with a desperate number of thieves in it. But you have two servants with you, sir, I believe? And a band of four should be safe from any attempt.’

      ‘Not exactly—’ began Peter, meaning to set this misunderstanding straight right away; but he was interrupted by the coming in of a servant.

      ‘Mr Lyon’s compliments,’ said the man, ‘and he regrets he cannot oblige Mr FitzGerald.’

      ‘Oh,’ he said, looking a little blank. He felt in his pocket, and the servant’s smile grew. ‘However,’ he said, bringing his hand out again and waving it, ‘it does not signify. Thankee.’

      A long silence followed the servant’s departure, and eventually FitzGerald broke it by saying, as he filled his glass with a mixture of water and wine, ‘Let us drink to the confusion of Timothy Lyon. Do you know,’ he added, drawing his chair nearer, ‘that man has made his fortune out of my family, and now he has the monstrous assurance to decline an advance of a small note of hand.’

      ‘Well,’ said Peter, thoughtfully sipping his wine, ‘that’s very bad, I am sure.’

      ‘It is the blackest ingratitude,’ said FitzGerald. Then, fiddling with the stem of his glass, he said, ‘Mr Palafox,’ and stopped. Peter was surprised to detect a nervous tone in his voice, but he was so much occupied СКАЧАТЬ