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Blue at the Mizzen begins with a festive display of bonhomie and largesse that belies Aubrey's deep unease. The men of the Surprise have profited handsomely from their recent capture of a Moorish galley at the close of The Hundred Days. But the one prize Jack most desires -- his commission -- remains elusive. And with Napoleon safely bottled up once again, his frigate, lately attached to the Royal Navy, now officially reverts to its former status as a hydrographical vessel. Worse, this sudden outbreak of peace means that Jack runs the very real risk of losing his seasoned "Your seaman," he muses, "can put up with uncommon dirty weather, endure great hardship and very short commons -- a good, steady, courageous, uncomplaining creature under officers he can respect.... What he cannot bear is sudden wealth. It goes straight to their heads, and if there is the least possibility they get drunk and disorderly, and desert in droves."
To forestall such an event, Jack orders Surprise to slip away from Gibraltar at dusk. But this stealthy gambit takes the ship into the first of several near-disasters that will bedevil her peacetime mission. In the dead of night, Surprise is struck a glancing blow across the bows by a dark Scandinavian timber carrier and nearly sunk. The ship is forced to put into port for repairs -- only to find that the recent cessation of hostilities has taken its toll on the Mediterranean's choice shipyards. While delayed in Madeira, however, Stephen Maturin contacts his intelligence network to sound out the Admiralty's position on the recent political situation in South America, where Chile and Peru are making their bid for independence from Spain.
Carrying a set of indecipherable dispatches, Maturin proceeds to Whitehall aboard Surprise's tender, Ringle, with Jack sailing hard in his wake to Sepping's Yard for proper repairs and crew. Among those who enlist is 15-year-old midshipman Horatio Hansen, the bastard son of the Duke of Clarence (a former naval man himself and the future King William IV). Refitted, remanned, and given the not-quite-official commission to "help the independent and republican Chileans to form a navy, " Surprise at last sets out on its "South American caper." But Dr. Maturin has one last surprise for his old friend Aubrey; he begs the favor of a brief leave in Sierra Leone, in order to discuss Linnaean classification of avifauna with a beautiful widow, Christine Wood -- and, incidentally, to ask her hand in marriage.
Gently rebuffed, Maturin leaves Sierra Leone with a renewed dedication to his relationship with his "dear Mrs. Wood." One of the book's most memorable sections is his record of the ship's southern passage around the Horn, exquisitely depicted in a serial letter to his beloved Christine. In recounting this portion of the journey from Maturin's perspective, O'Brian captures both the sublime and the quotidian aspects of the endeavor with brilliant philosophical detachment. Constant damp, cold meals, frostbite, tedium, and physical exhaustion are contrasted with the more intellectual impressions of the the spiritual ache of depression, loneliness, and isolation; the awesome power and harsh beauty of nature's extremes.
Perhaps shocking to some modern moralists, Dr. Maturin does not deny himself the psychic balms available to a 19th-century man of science -- coca, tobacco, laudanum, alcohol -- though he does keep to a strict personal code of moderation in all things (except, perhaps, an immoderate fondness for coffee). But there is little he can do to alleviate his old friend's deepening depression. For Aubrey, this uncertain escapade represents the last hope of attaining his personal "blue at the mizzen" -- the pennant that signifies an admiral at the head of his squadron. The only prescription for such a malady is action, and where swift and decisive action is concerned, Blue at the Mizzen does not disappoint. Allied with the factious Chilean juntas under Directo...
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First published January 1, 1999

It was inconceivable that the deluge should last till dawn - the sky could not hold so much - but it did, leaving them stunned, deafened, amazed at the light of day to eastward and the familiar sails of Ringle making three or even four knots towards them, a tiny breeze right aft. Incomprehensibly the deck had become littered, even covered in places, with strange forms of deep-sea life, presumably sucked up by some remote series of waterspouts and liberated here.
But Jack Aubrey was having absolutely none of them: Surprise's only care, and Ringle's too, was to get out of this odious part of the sea without a moment's pause - no breakfast, even, until they were well under way with clear decks, rigging free of seaweed, flying squids and various monsters - Stephen had to content himself with pocketing the less gelatinous creatures and hurrying them below before his stony-faced captain had him forcibly removed.

‘Please tell the Senhor that I have never eaten better porco in my life,' said Jack, holding up a bare white bone. Jack had a variety of little imbecilities, but none irritated Stephen more than his way of tossing in the odd word or two of a foreign language.
[Of Americans]: “Well, may it prosper them,' said Jack. 'Though they are little better than republicans and democrats, may it prosper them.”
“You are doing very well,' said Stephen in that rather loud, distinct voice that even quite intelligent medical men use to their foreign patients, 'and if Mr. Hanson will call a shipmate to make sure you do not fall, you may go up on deck for a while, now that the ship is so still”
A certain cloud hung over the ship. It disappeared after grog and an enormous supper of fresh seal steaks: and stupidly I did not attend to the proportion of those who were affected and those (mostly countrymen and accustomed to killing as a matter of course from childhood) who were not; yet I did notice, since we were in the same boat, that Hanson and his particular friend Daniel did what little they could to hide their distress in our many bloody voyages to and fro, with the skuas screaming just over our heads.
The sea, if it teaches nothing else, does at least compel a submission to the inevitable which resembles patience. And all those concerned contained themselves with a decent appearance of that virtue through the clear hours of approach.
[on authority]: Inside there were four large chests of silver and a moderate chest of gold: curiously enough they were only closed with a hasp, and on seeing their contents a soldier who had been in the Surprise said they had all risked their lives to gain this wealth and that in his opinion it should be shared out equally at once: now, now, equally and at once. His opinion was supported by several men there, but O'Higgins said, 'A fig for your opinion,' and shot him dead.
[nerds, FRS]: ‘A parcel of excited young women screeching aloud and agitating their persons and limbs is enough to make one retire to a monastery. Our Fellows did not present a very elevating spectacle.'
'I did notice some of the Spaniards looking rather grave, and I did regret the last bowl of punch. Yet on the other hand, ours is an eminently respectable society: the Proceedings are known all over the learned world, and the men of the Isaac Newton, however bibulous on occasion, carry recommendations to the government, foreign office and universities of whatever country they visit. I do assure you, Stephen, that our connexion with them, with the Society as a whole in its most sober and learned mood, is a singular advantage to us.'
'My dear, I am entirely in agreement with you, no other Fellow more: yet even so, I could wish they would not laugh; or at the least, if they are truly amused, that they would laugh like men rather than eunuchs’
'As for an end,' said Martin, 'are endings really so very important? Sterne did quite well without one; and often an unfinished picture is all the more interesting for the bare canvas. I remember Bourville's definition of a novel as a work in which life flows in abundance, swirling without a pause: or as you might say without an end, an organized end. And there is at least one Mozart quartet that stops without the slightest ceremony: most satisfying when you get used to it.