Desolation Island. Patrick O’Brian

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      ‘Surely you do not mean that you will disturb my buzzards, Jack?’

      ‘Never you fear for them. There’s a long way to go yet: Kimber still needs time and money to make his patents watertight, and for certain experiments; they will have hatched and flown before we have even lit our furnaces, I dare say. And what is more, Stephen, what is more, you will be well on your way to wealth; because although Kimber is unwilling to admit many venturers, I made him promise to let you in on the ground floor, as he puts it.’

      ‘Alas, Jack. What I have is all bespoke, locked up in Spain. Indeed, I am so short in England that it is my intention to beg you to lend me, let us see –’ consulting a paper, ‘seven hundred and eighty pounds.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, when Jack came back with a draft on his banker. ‘I am obliged to you, Jack.’

      ‘I beg you will not speak nor think of obligation,’ said Jack. ‘Between you and me, it would be precious strange to speak of obligation. By the way, that is drawn on London, but for these coming days, there is plenty of gold in the house.’

      ‘No, no, my dear: this is for a particular purpose. For myself, I am as comfortable as my best friend could wish.’

      His best friend gazed at him doubtfully: Stephen did not look comfortable in his mind, and he seemed ill at ease in his body too, weary, sad, constrained.

      ‘What do you say to a ride?’ he said. ‘I am half engaged to meet some men at Craddock’s: they promised me my revenge.’

      ‘With all my heart,’ said Stephen, but with so melancholy an attempt at heartiness that Jack could not refrain from saying, ‘Stephen, if anything is amiss, and if I can be of any kind of use, you know…’

      ‘No, no, Jack: you are very good, however. I am a little low in my spirits, to be sure; but I am ashamed that it should be so apparent. I lost a patient in London, and I am by no means sure that I did not lose him through my own fault. My conscience troubles me: and I grieve for him extremely, a young man full of promise. And then again, in London I met Diana Villiers.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Jack awkwardly. ‘Just so.’ And after a pause in which the horses were led to the door and in which Stephen Maturin reflected upon a third factor of his distress – the hare-brained leaving of a folder containing highly confidential papers in a hackney-coach – Jack added, ‘You said Villiers, not Johnson?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Stephen, mounting. ‘It seems that the gentle man already had a wife in America, and that the decree of nullity or whatever they have in those parts was not to be obtained.’

      Diana Villiers was an uncomfortable subject between the two, and after they had ridden for some way, Jack, to change the current of his mind, remarked, ‘You would not think there was any skill in a game like Van John, would you? No. Yet these fellows strip me bare almost every time we sit down together. You used to do the same at picquet, but that is another pair of drawers.’

      Stephen made no reply: he pushed his horse on faster and faster over the bare down, sitting forward with a set, urgent expression on his face, as though he were making an escape; and so they cantered and galloped over the firm turf until they came to the brow of Portsdown Hill, where Stephen reined in for the steep descent. They stood for a while, surrounded by the smell of hot horse and leather, looking down at the vast sweep of the harbour, Spithead, the Island, and the Channel beyond: men-of-war at their moorings, men-of-war moving in and out, a huge convoy tiding it down off Selsey Bill.

      They smiled at one another, and Jack had a premonition that Stephen was about to say something of great importance: a false premonition. Stephen spoke only to remind him that Sophie had desired them to pick up some fish at Holland’s, and to add three dabs for the children.

      Craddock’s was already lighting up when they left their horses with the ostler, and Jack led Stephen under a series of noble chandeliers to the card-room, where he gave a man at a little table inside the door eighteen-pence. ‘Let us hope the game will be worth the candle,’ he said, looking round. Craddock’s was frequented by the wealthier officers, country gentleman, lawyers, officials in Government employ, and other civilians; and it was among these that Jack saw the men he was looking for. ‘There they are,’ he said, ‘talking to Admiral Snape. The one in the bag wig is Judge Wray, and the other is his cousin, Andrew Wray, pretty eminent in Whitehall – spends most of his time down here on Navy Office business. I dare say they have made up our table already: I see Carroll standing by until they have finished with the Admiral – the tall fellow in a sky-blue coat and white pantaloons. Now there’s a man who understands horses for you. His stables are over behind Horndean.’

      ‘Running horses?’

      ‘Oh yes, indeed. His grandfather owned Potoooooooo, so it’s in the blood. Do you choose to take a hand? We play the French game here.’

      ‘I believe not; but I will sit by you, if I may.’

      ‘I should be very happy; you will bring me some of your luck. You was always lucky at cards. Now I must step over to the desk and buy some counters.’

      While Jack was gone, Stephen paced about the room. Many of the tables were already occupied, and some quiet, intense, scientific whist was going on; but he had a feeling that the evening had not really begun. He met some naval acquaintances, and one of these, Captain Dundas, said, ‘I hope he will prove to be Lucky Jack Aubrey again this evening: last time I was here…’

      ‘There you are, Heneage,’ cried Jack, bearing down on them. ‘Will you join us? We have a table of Van John.’

      ‘Not I, Jack. We half-pay paupers can’t stand in the line with nabobs like you.’

      ‘Come along then, Stephen. They are just going to sit down.’ He led Stephen to the far end of the room. ‘Judge Wray,’ he said, ‘allow me to name Dr Maturin, my particular friend. Mr Wray. Mr Carroll. Mr Jenyns.’ They bowed to one another, uttered civil expressions, and settled down to the broad green baize. The judge carried judicial impenetrability into his social life to such a pitch that Stephen received little impression but that of self-consequence. Andrew Wray, his cousin, was a somewhat younger and obviously far more intelligent man; he had served under the political heads of the Admirality, and Stephen had heard of him in connection with the Patronage Office and the Treasury. Jenyns was neither here nor there, a man who had inherited a vast brewery and a broad, pale, unmeaning countenance; but Carroll was a more interesting creature by far, as tall as Jack though less burly, with a long face very like that of a horse, but of a horse endowed with a high degree of life and wit. As he shuffled, his jovial eye, as blue as Jack’s, fell upon Stephen, and he smiled, a singularly winning smile that compelled a return: the cards flowed through his hands in an obedient stream.

      Each drew in turn, and the deal fell to Mr Wray. Stephen was not familiar with their version of the game, although its childish basis was clear enough; and for a while their cries of ‘imaginary tens’, ‘rouge et noir’, ‘sympathy and antipathy’, ‘self and company’, and ‘clock’ were amusing enough. He also took some pleasure in watching their faces – the judge’s pomp yielding to a sly satisfaction, and that succeeded by a sourness and an evil-tempered jerk of his mouth; the deliberate nonchalance of his cousin, betrayed now and then by a sudden blaze in his eye; Carroll’s intense eagerness, his whole person vividly alive with a look that reminded Stephen of Jack’s when he was taking his ship into action. Jack seemed very well with them all, even with the phlegmatic Jenyns, as though he had known them these many years; but that did not mean a great deal. With his open, friendly character, Jack was always well with his company, and Stephen СКАЧАТЬ