The Surgeon’s Mate. Patrick O’Brian

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СКАЧАТЬ I noticed he felt uneasy, and after a good deal of backing and filling out it came. I am not to have Acasta, but am to go home. I was away too long, and she has been given to Robert Kerr.’

      The Acasta was a particularly fine forty-gun frigate, one of the few that could be considered a match for the heavy Americans, and Stephen knew how Jack had looked forward to commanding her in these waters. He looked for some words that might soften the blow, but finding none he said, ‘I am grieved for you, Jack. But listen, if you feel the least pain or throbbing in that arm, you are to put it up – you are to put it in your bosom.’ He stretched, gaped, took off his nightcap, and said, ‘You spoke of a funeral?’

      ‘Yes, of course. You are not awake, Stephen. We bury poor Lawrence of the Chesapeake.’

      ‘Should I come too? I can be ready in a moment. I should be very willing to show the respect I feel, if it is usual.’

      ‘No, the custom is only men of the same rank, apart from those detailed to attend and his own officers. Stephen, I must go. Tell me, did you get any money? I shall not have time between the funeral and the dinner, and I should like to do the proper thing as soon as possible.’

      ‘It is in my coat-pocket, hanging behind the spence.’

      Jack plucked out the roll of bank-notes, peeled off what he needed, called out ‘Thankee, Stephen,’ buckled on his sword and ran down the stairs.

      All the post-captains in Halifax were gathering on the gun-wharf: he knew most of them, but he only had time to greet one or two before the clock struck; exact to the minute the coffin came ashore with its escort of Marines, and the cortège formed behind it, the few American officers who could walk, the soldiers, the captains two by two, the generals and the Admiral.

      They marched to the sound of a muffled drum, and the cheerful streets fell silent as they came. Jack had taken part in many processions of this kind, some of them very poignant indeed – shipmates, close friends, a cousin, his own officers or midshipmen – but he had never regretted an enemy commander as he regretted Lawrence, a man quite after his own heart, who had brought his ship into action and had fought her in the handsomest manner. The steady beat, the marching steps in time, caused his bitter disappointments of this morning to fade from his mind; and the exactly-ordered ceremony, the chaplain’s ritual words, and the rattle of earth on the coffin, made him very grave indeed. The firing party’s volley, the last military honours, jerked him from his thoughts, but not from his gravity. Although death was so much part of his calling, he could not get rid of the image of Captain Lawrence standing there on his quarterdeck just before the first devastating broadsides; and he found the reviving cheerfulness among his companions particularly jarring. It was not that their respect for the dead man was feigned, nor that their formal bearing until the time the gathering broke up was hypocritical, but their respect was for an unknown, though certainly brave and able commander – respect for the abstract enemy, for officerlike conduct.

      ‘You knew him, I believe?’ said his neighbour, Hyde Parker of the Tenedos.

      ‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘He came to see me in Boston. He had captured one of my officers when he took the Peacock, and he was very kind to him. He commanded their Hornet, you know: a fine, gallant fellow. As gallant as you could wish.’

      ‘Ay,’ said Hyde Parker, ‘that’s the devil of it. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, you know; you can’t have a victory that counts without a butcher’s bill. And this is a noble victory, by God! I doubt I have ever been so happy as when I saw Shannon bringing in her prize; certainly I have never cheered so loud or long in all my days. I am as hoarse as a corn-crake still.’

      The general happiness that filled the naval base was even more evident at the Commissioner’s splendid dinner; it flowed into Jack once again as he sat there after the cloth was drawn, going over every move in that memorable action, showing his enraptured fellow-sailors each sail set, each piece of rigging carried away, each movement of the two frigates, with the help of a pair of models brought up from the dockyard.

      It was equally apparent at the port-admiral’s, with a gay and sprightly Colpoys who sang as he went up the stairs, and a cheerful, talkative mistress of the house, intensely pleased with life in spite of the anxieties of the great ball she was to give at such short notice. The universal lightness of heart had infected Diana too – few women loved a ball more than she – and she greeted Stephen most affectionately, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘I am so glad you are come,’ she said. ‘Now I can give you your card instead of sending it. I have been helping Lady Harriet write them since breakfast time. Half the Navy List, and countless soldiers.’

      ‘My card?’ said Stephen, holding it at a distance, with a suspicious look.

      ‘Your card for the ball, my dear. The ball, you know: a vast great party where people dance. You can dance, Stephen, can you not?’

      ‘After my own fashion. The last time I danced was at Melbury Lodge, during the peace. You were good enough to stand up with me, and we walked through a minuet without disgrace. I hope you will be so kind again.’

      ‘Alas, Stephen, I cannot come. I have nothing to wear. But I shall watch from the gallery; you shall bring me an ice from time to time, and we can abuse the dancers.’

      ‘Did you bring nothing in your little trunk?’

      ‘Oh, there was no time to choose, and I did not have my wits about me. Apart from jewels, I just threw in some shifts and stockings – whatever came to hand. And anyhow, I could not have told that I should be invited to a ball.’

      ‘There are mantua-makers in Halifax, Villiers.’

      ‘Halifax mantua-makers,’ said Diana, laughing heartily – the first time he had heard her laugh since they met in America; it moved his heart strangely. ‘No. In this desert there would be only one hope. Lady Harriet has a very clever Frenchwoman who smuggles things from Paris: she brought a whole mass this morning, and among them there was a blue lutestring we both admired. Lady Harriet could not wear it, of course; it has sleeves to here and precious little back or front and as she said herself, she would look like a monument. She chose a wicked merde d’oie muslin, but at least it covers her entirely, and they are letting it out for her at this minute. I should have bought the blue, but Madame Chose asks the earth, and I must make the five cents I brought with me last and last. Do you know, my dear, I positively darned a pair of stockings last night. If this were London or Paris or even Philadelphia I should sell a couple of pearls: the rope is unstrung. But there is nothing but pinchbeck and filigree in this desert. The one thing I really do understand is jewels, and it would be desperate nonsense to sell any of them in Halifax. The Nawab’s pearls in Halifax! Can you conceive such a thing?’

      In any other woman her words would have been a flat demand, and a tolerably coarse one at that; with Diana this was not the case. She had, and as long as Stephen had known her she always had had, a perfectly direct way of talking to him, with no reserve, nothing devious about it, as though they were people of the same kind or even in a way confederates; and she was genuinely surprised when he said, ‘We are in funds. I drew upon London, and you must certainly have your lutestring gown. Let us send for it at once.’

      It came; it was approved; and Madame Chose retired with her swingeing price. Diana held the dress in front of her, peering intently into the looking-glass over the fire. She was not in looks, but the frank delight in a new dress, almost entirely unaffected by years of an unusually wealthy life, gave her a fine animation. Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned. ‘The top is sadly uninspired,’ she said, nodding at the mirror. ‘It was meant to be set off with something: pearls, I dare say. I shall wear my diamonds.’

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