The Surgeon’s Mate

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.’

Stephen looked down. The diamonds, a rivière of diamonds with an astonishing pale-blue pendant stone in the middle, had been given to Diana by Johnson in their early days: by some mental process of her own she had entirely dissociated them from their source; Stephen had not. His pain was not the piercing thrust of jealousy but rather a certain grief at hearing her say something crass. He had always taken it for granted that whatever Diana might actually do, her tact was infallible and that she could not, without intending it, say anything that would give offence. Perhaps he had been mistaken: or perhaps this long stay in America, living only among the loose, expensive set of Johnson’s friends, together with her distress, had coarsened her for the time, just as it had given her a hint of a colonial accent and a taste for bourbon and tobacco … a refuge in coarseness, as it were. But then again, he reflected, Johnson had certainly taken the diamonds back, and Diana, recovering them and escaping with them at great risk, might well feel that she had thereby established an independent title to the jewels, much as one pirate overcoming another pirate would appropriate his goods with a tranquil mind, whatever their provenance. He looked up, and said, ‘Might they not look a little excessive in what is, after all, a provincial gathering?’

‘Not at all, Maturin,’ said she. ‘There are several women of fashion here, apart from the rest. Many of the soldiers’ wives have followed them – I saw at least half a dozen names I knew when I was addressing the cards – and there are some among the sailors: Mrs Wodehouse, for example, and Charlotte Leveson-Gower, and Lady Harriet herself. She may be no Aphrodite, but she has emeralds as big as soup-plates and she is determined to wear ’em all, together with everything else her bosom can contain; which is not inconsiderable.’

The first stab past, Stephen did not care one way or another: in any case, Diana no doubt understood these things better than he did; she had kept very good or at least very fashionable company in London and India. He felt in his pocket and brought out some papers: the first was not the one he was looking for, but he smiled when he saw it and instead of putting it back he said, ‘This came for me this morning, and whimsically enough I had been dreaming of Paris not half an hour before.’ He passed the letter over.

‘They ask you to address the Institut de France – Lord, Stephen, I had no idea you were such a great man. They want you to tell them about the extinct avifauna of Rodriguez. What is an avifauna?’

‘Birds.’

‘What a pity you cannot go. You would have enjoyed it so. I suppose they took you for a neutral, or an American.’

‘Yet perhaps I shall go too. As you see, the date is well ahead, and if we can take a reasonably expeditious vessel, I believe I shall go. This is their second invitation, and the last time I regretted not being there extremely. It is perhaps the most flattering honour I have received, and I should meet some of the most interesting men in Europe. The Cuviers are sure to be there, and I have some remarks on the antarctic cetaceans that will amaze Frédéric.’

‘But how can you possibly go? How can you possibly go to Paris in the middle of a war?’

‘Oh, as for that, with the proper consent and safe-conducts, there is no difficulty. Natural philosophy does not regard this war, or any other, with very close attention, and interchange is quite usual. Humphry Davy went and addressed them on his chloride of nitrogen, for example; and he was much caressed. But that is not what I meant to talk about.’ He took up the second cover and laid it on the table before her, saying with some embarrassment, ‘This is for pins.’

‘Pins, Stephen?’ cried she, astonished.

‘I have always understood that women required a reasonable sum for pins.’

‘Stephen,’ – laughing with pleasure – ‘you are blushing. Upon my word and honour, you are absolutely blushing: I never thought to see you blush. No. It is infinitely kind of you, but you have been far too kind already. I have a hundred and twenty-five dollars, plenty for pins. Keep it, Stephen dear, and I promise I will tell you when I am quite penniless.’

‘Well,’ said Stephen, taking up his third paper. ‘Now here is a certificate for you, stating that although you are an enemy alien you may be admitted to Canadian soil and that you may remain upon it while of good behaviour.’

‘Oh, I shall behave quite beautifully,’ she said, laughing again. ‘But what nonsense it is, Stephen: I am on Canadian soil already. I have always thought papers and legal formalities great nonsense, but I have never seen such a simple one as this. During His Majesty’s pleasure,’ she read, ‘and his poor dear old Majesty has not the least notion I am here. Oh, what stuff !’

‘No, but his servants have. I tell you in all sad sober earnest, Villiers, this is an important document. Without it you would have been taken away, Admiral or no Admiral. It is known that in law you are an American citizen, and as such you would ordinarily be placed under restraint: perhaps sent back again.’

‘Who cares for the law and quibbles of that kind? Anyone can tell that I am perfectly English and always have been and always shall be. But tell me, how did you get it?’

‘Sure, I went to the proper quarters, to the officer that deals with things of this kind.’

‘It was so kind of you to think of it,’ she said: then she cried, ‘Oh, Stephen, I had quite forgot,’ – and he could have sworn the thought passed from his head to hers – ‘were they pleased with the papers you brought from Boston? I remember you told me they were for an army intelligence officer here. How I hope they were useful to him.’

‘Alas, it appears that they were more in the political than the military line. They are not without a certain value, I am told, but it seems that I could have chosen much better. I should not make much of an intelligence-agent, I am afraid.’

‘No,’ said Diana, laughing. ‘I cannot imagine anyone less suited for it. Not that you are not intelligent, dear Maturin,’ she added with a kind look. ‘In your way you are one of the most intelligent men I know, but you would be far happier among your birds. To think of you as a spy – oh, Lord!’ Amusement turned her a fine rosy pink. He had rarely seen Diana so gay.

‘Will you give me the certificate, now?’ he said. ‘I must show it to the priest. He cannot marry us without it. Would Friday suit you, Friday morning, quite early in the day? You would not wish much ceremony, as I suppose; but Jack can give you away, and then you will be a British subject once more.’

All the gaiety was gone from her face, completely gone, leaving it pale: an ill-looking, somewhat earthy pallor. She started up, walked to and fro, and then stood by the long window looking out into the garden, twisting the paper as she stood.

‘But now I have the certificate, what is the hurry?’ she said. ‘What does it matter, all these formalities? Do not think I don’t want to marry you … it is only that … Stephen, make me one of your little paper cigars, will you?’

He took out a cigar, cut it in two, and made two small rolls in a fine leaf from his pocket-book, one for her and one for himself. He held up an ember for her to light it, but she said, ‘No. I cannot smoke here. Lady Harriet might come in. I do not want her to think – to know – that she is harbouring a dissolute dram-drinking tobacco-smoking creature. Light yours and come into the garden: I will smoke it there. You know, Stephen,’ she said, opening the french window, ‘ever since you told me about bourbon and complexion, I have not drunk a drop of anything but wine, and precious little of that; but by God I could do with a drink now.’

In the secluded shrubbery they paced side by side, and a thin cloud of smoke followed them. She said, ‘With all this hurry – the business of the ball – gossiping with Lady Harriet – worrying about what to wear – I was quite out of myself. I forgot where I was. Maturin, do not be disappointed when I say I should like to wait.’ A pause. ‘You are the only man I have known who never asks questions, who is never impertinent even when he has the right to be.’ She was looking at the ground, her head drooping; and although he had known her many years, in many states of temper and mind, he had never seen her in such distress or confusion. She was standing with the sun full on her and his penetrating, objective eye examined her downcast face; but before he had time to say ‘Not at all’ or ‘As you please, entirely’ a footman came stumping into sight at the end of the gravel walk and called out in a strong voice, ‘The Honourable Mrs Wodehouse and Miss Smith to see you, ma’am.’

Diana threw Stephen a quick, apologetic glance and ran into the house. She might be in a strange hurry of spirits, but she moved with the perfect, unconscious grace that had always touched him, and he felt a wave of tenderness, allied to his former passionate love; perhaps its ghost.

The footman was still standing there, his wooden leg firmly planted in the gravel, waiting for Stephen: that is to say, a person dressed as a footman in the Admiral’s hideous orange and purple livery was waiting there; but his independent attitude, his long pigtail, his pleasant battered old face made his true nature and origin obvious at a cable’s length.

‘I hope I see you well, sir?’ he said, touching a crooked forefinger to his eyebrow.

‘Very well, I thank you,’ said Stephen, looking at him attentively. The last time he had seen that face it had been bloodless, glistening with sweat, tight-clenched not to cry out beneath his knife, as the Surprise limped westwards to Fort William, cruelly mauled by a French seventy-four. ‘But you were not an amputation,’ he said.

‘No, sir: Bullock, forecastle-man, starboard watch, in the old Surprise.’

‘Of course,’ said Stephen, shaking him by the hand. ‘What I mean is, I saved that leg. I did not cut it off.’

‘Nor you did, sir,’ said Bullock, ‘but when I was in Benbow off the Cays, I copped it something cruel with a bar-shot; and our surgeon not being Dr Maturin, off it came, without so much as by your leave.’

‘I am sure it was necessary,’ said Stephen.

The remark, the support of his colleague, at least was necessary: but it seemed to carry no conviction at all, perhaps because the surgeon of the Benbow was nearly always drunk, and when sober, notoriously unskilful. The footman looked affectionately at Dr Maturin and said, ‘And I hope Captain Aubrey is well, sir? I heard he come ashore off of Shannon as pleased as the Pope and twice as tall.’

‘Prime, Bullock, prime. I shall be seeing him at the hospital directly.’

‘My duty and very best respects, sir, if you please. John Bullock, forecastle-man, in the old Surprise.’

As prisoners of war in Boston, Aubrey and Maturin had been very kindly treated by their captors; they were penniless, they had no cold-weather clothes, and the officers of the USN Constitution had seen to all their needs. Neither intended to be behindhand in an action of this sort, and as he expected, Stephen found Jack with a wounded American lieutenant.

‘Do you remember a man called Bullock, in the Surprise?’ he said, as they walked away.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Jack. ‘Forecastle-man, and a very good hand.’

‘He sends his old captain his best respects.’

‘Why, that’s kind,’ said Jack. ‘John Bullock: he laid a gun as true as you could wish – dead on the mark, though rather slow. He was captain of the starboard bow-chaser. But I tell you what, Stephen: old captain is dead on the mark too. What with funerals and the blue devils and natural decrepitude, I feel like Methusalem’s grandad.’

‘You eat too much, brother, you drink too much, and you allow yourself to brood. A brisk ten-mile walk in the damp but interesting forests of the New World, outpacing the blue devils, will set you up – will renew your animal spirits. Ponce de Leon was of the opinion that the Fountain of Youth was to be found in these parts. And you are to consider, that a packet may arrive from England at any minute.’

‘I dare say you are right about the Fountain of Youth, Stephen, but you are out as far as the packet is concerned. None sails before the thirteenth, and with these everlasting westerlies, we cannot hear for a great while yet. And anyhow, I could not take a walk today, even if there were a dozen Fountains of Youth and a tap-room too at the end of it. I have a damned unpleasant job at the prison, trying to identify the English deserters taken in the Chesapeake: they nearly all of them ran from our men-of-war. But before that I am going to see their master’s mate, the one that was not knocked on the head. Shall you come?’

‘No, sir. The combatant officers are your natural province, the non-combatant mine. My particular concern today is their surgeon, an unusually learned man.’

The unusually learned man was sitting with a mug of spruce-beer in the empty operating-room, looking careworn, sad and weary, but resolute. He accepted Stephen’s offering gracefully, and they talked about some of their cases for a while, taking alternate sips at the mug. When the spruce-beer – ‘a dubious anti-scorbutic, sir, but a grateful beverage on such a day, and no doubt mildly carminative’ – was done, Stephen said, ‘I believe you told me, sir, that before you took to the sea, your practice lay chiefly among the ladies of Charleston?’

‘Yes, sir. I was a man-midwife; or, if you prefer it, an accoucheur.’

‘Just so. Your experience in these matters is therefore very much greater than mine, and I should be grateful for your lights. Apart from the obvious classical symptoms, what do you find to be the earliest signs of pregnancy?’

The surgeon pursed his lips and considered. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘there is nothing wholly reliable, of course. But I believe the general facies rarely deceives me – the thickening of the skin; the pasty complexion in the very first stages, rapidly clearing; the cerous appearance of the eyelid and orbicular folds; the pallor of the caruncula lachrymalia; while the old wives’ method of inspecting the nails and hair is not to be despised. And where the physician is familiar with his patient’s ordinary behaviour, he can often form an opinion from variations in it, particularly in the case of younger women: abrupt, apparently causeless changes from gloom and anxiety to a high flow of spirits, even to exultation, will tell him much.’

‘Sir,’ said Stephen, ‘I am much indebted to you for these remarks.’

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