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Come, sir, cannot I prevail upon you to go to sea? A man-of-war is the very thing for a philosopher, above all in the Mediterranean: there are the birds, the fishes – I could promise you some monstrous strange fishes – the natural phenomena, the meteors, the chance of prize-money. For even Aristotle would have been moved by prize-money. Doubloons, sir: they lie in soft leather sacks, you know, about so big, and they are wonderfully heavy in your hand. Two is all a man can carry.’
‘It is always said to be weak, and impolitic, to show oneself at a disadvantage,’ said Stephen, bearing him down. ‘But you speak to me with such candour that I cannot prevent myself from doing the same.
‘Certainly,’ said Stephen. ‘For a philosopher, a student of human nature, what could be better? The subjects of his inquiry shut up together, unable to escape his gaze, their passions heightened by the dangers of war, the hazards of their calling, their isolation from women and their curious, but uniform, diet. And by the glow of patriotic fervour, no doubt.’
The Sophie shot forward, and by the time Dillon called ‘Belay’ she had increased her speed by at least two knots, plunging her head and raising her stern as though she were surprised at her rider, as well she might have been.
Jack did not hear it: he was quite unconscious of the tension around him, far away in his calculations of the opposing forces – not mathematical calculations by any means, but rather sympathetic;
James Dillon knocked on the door. ‘The wind is increasing, sir,’ he said. ‘May I hand the mainsail, or reef at least?’ ‘No, no, Mr Dillon … no,’ said Jack, smiling.
Oh, and Mr Dillon, all the women ashore.’ ‘All the women without exception, sir?’ ‘All without their lines. All the trollops. Trollops are capital things in port, but they will not do at sea.’
The sky was still grey and it was impossible to say whether it was clear or covered with very high cloud; but the sea itself already had a nacreous light that belonged more to the day than the darkness, and this light was reflected in the great convexities of the topsails, giving them the lustre of grey pearls.
The sound of the creaking blocks, the gently straining cordage and sailcloth, the angle of the living deck and the curved line of guns in front of him sent such a jet of happiness through his heart that he almost skipped where he stood.
Stephen Maturin was not afraid of any vulgar betrayal, nor was he afraid for his skin, because he did not value it:
he watched the regular, dreamlike procession in the diffused light of the racing moon.
Stephen who, preferring to die in the open, had crept up on deck, had been made fast to a stanchion and who now stood, mute, sodden and appalled, behind him.
‘I remember the fact of extreme, prostrating terror,’ he said, keeping his eye on the tiny bird, ‘but the inward nature of the emotion now escapes me.’
‘You mean to sail directly away from that ship, giving it no assistance?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Upon your own head, then.’ ‘Certainly.’
He wanted to think: he wanted to think there on deck, in the closest possible touch with the situation – with the shifting wind on his face, the glow of the binnacles just at hand and not the least interruption.
‘Oh, I am not consistent, of course; particularly in little things. Who is?
‘Lord, James, we have known one another long enough to tell our minds freely, without any offence. Will you reach me the bottle?’
‘My heart bleeds for you. I have never yet known a man admit that he was either rich or asleep: perhaps the poor man and the wakeful man have some great moral advantage.
‘Dr Maturin, please take your friend away,’ said Molly Harte in a low, urgent tone. ‘Tell him his ship is on fire – tell him anything. Only get him away – he will do himself such damage.’
‘Did you notice my bowing in the pump-pump-pump piece?’ asked Jack. ‘I did indeed. Very sprightly, very agile. I noticed you neither struck the hanging shelf nor yet the lamp. I only grazed the locker once myself.’
Anything can happen, in five minutes’ time, at sea –
