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CHAPTER 13
It was Sunday -
the Lord's Day - the day the Laconians rigged for church.
It was like no church
Anne Wentworth had ever seen.
Since dawn, the
crew had been working with renewed diligence to make the ship
gleam. No piece of brass went unpolished. No length of rope went
un-recoiled. Cannons were re-blacked. What was tarred was re-tarred.
What was white was re-touched. A large awning was erected to
shade the forward end of the quarterdeck and the waist.
Those men not on
duty prepared for the ceremony by washing their faces and hair.
A messmate would help in re-braiding the seaman's queue, a mark
of pride among many an old sea dog. What passed for "dress
uniform" - clean shirt and snow-white canvas trouser - was
carefully removed from haversacks and put on. The gun crew of
the "Lady Anne" had an additional task - sewing on
the ribbons that marked them as Mrs. Wentworth's Champions.
And yet, all this
time, the ship continued on its way to the south/southwest.
At six bells in
the Forenoon Watch (everything seemed to happen then) the cry
went out to report for church. The hands formed up in the forecastle
and waist, by divisions. The officers gathered on the quarterdeck,
swords and dirks placed near the wheel. Those not immediately
needed to sail the ship were required to attend; no matter what
faith they professed. Only those in Sick Bay and in irons were
excused.
Finally, with an
"OFF HATS!" from the First Lieutenant, the Captain
moved to the railing overlooking the waist and began. In larger
ships there was usually a chaplain; some frigate-captains carried
one too. Frederick Wentworth was not one of these men. He had
nothing against the clergy in general; he was a fairly regular
attendee of services whilst on land. But at sea Frederick thought
that every man should pull his own weight and more besides; feeding
a person who but worked one hour each week was abhorrent to him.
Wentworth was not sanctimonious - no long readings from Fordyce's
Sermons for him. Generally he made do with the Psalms or, if
nothing struck his fancy, a re-reading of the Articles of War.
Today he turned to Psalm 107, a particular favorite:
"…Oh
that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His
wonderful works to the children of men! And let them sacrifice
the sacrifices of thanksgiving, and declare His works with rejoicing.
"They that
go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
these see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep.
For He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth
up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down
again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are
at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble,
and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm
a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad
because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired
haven.
"Oh that
men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful
works to the children of men!..."
Everyone was required
to attend church, but not required to "attend" - those
members of the crew that were from lands not yet touched by Christianity
were permitted to gather on a far portion of the forecastle so
that the low tones of their heathen prayers would not offend
more righteous ears. Frederick Wentworth was raised in the Church
of England and could not comprehend a more agreeable path to
Salvation. That others did travel a different road could not
escape his notice. Unlike most of his contemporaries, he was
not threatened by their existence. A happy crew was paramount
in his mind, and Wentworth had had more troubles from the occasional
pompous hypocrite or Evangelical than from the odd Hindu or Buddhist.
He knew that his stance was not universally approved by his officers
- Mumphrey could not be comfortable with it - and in the past
had to part with a subordinate because of it (though it was never
the stated reason). But Wentworth was a man who believed in his
own judgment and he would stand by his decision until proved
wrong by those with superior understanding.
Catholics too were
permitted on this ship to meet together, also on the forecastle,
where they could say their Papist chants over their prayer beads.
Mainly Irishmen, there was only one midshipman among them - his
future rise in the Navy somewhat compromised - and one passenger.
It fell to Stephen Maturin to lead the whispered Mysteries of
the Rosary this day, and although those who gathered contrived
to make themselves inconspicuous, it was noticed by at least
one member of the larger congregation, who eyed them with barely
disguised animosity.
Lt. Colonel Tarleton
could not believe what he observed during the service: Papists
and other heathens practicing their vile chants. Tarleton was
not a religious man - unlike Mumphrey - but he was an Englishman,
and that meant things English were superior to all else. England
was the height of civilization in the world. Therefore, there
was no church but the Church of England.
His uncle and hero,
General Banastre Tarleton, had regaled him of his tales of fighting
the traitorous colonials in America. (We would have won if
not for that idiot Cornwallis, he told his nephew. I was
blocked at every turn. It was not my fault I was not successful
at Cowpens or Yorktown.) His memories of service in Ireland
had left no better impression upon his relative.
The Tarletons of
Liverpool had made their fortune in trade, and unlike others
of less-than-landed roots, took pride in it. That was why his
uncle Banastre had been proud to have led the reaction against
social reformer William Wilberforce's antislavery movement in
Parliament. But that had been in 1797. Now the nation, thanks
to people like Wilberforce and Wellington, had outlawed slavery
and was to use the Royal Navy to stamp it out. Preposterous!
It would hurt trade; and after all, those black savages don't
mind it a bit.
At least the
Welsh have accepted their lot. The Scots and Irish should be
on their knees thanking Heaven that they are part of the great
English Empire that is Britain. Britain - bah! We are England!
England forever!
There was word that
Uncle Banastre would be made a baronet. At least the country
was able to recognize his value, even though they would not give
him a military command worthy of him. Lt. Colonel Tarleton was
determined to remind all of his family's, and England's, greatness.
The officers of
the wardroom had invited the captain and his lady to Sunday dinner,
as well as their illustrious guest. This was Anne's first visit
to the wardroom since her tour of the ship with Lt. Mumphrey.
The party sat at a long table in the center of the room, a servant
standing against the walls behind each guest (Nowak and Lauck
served for Frederick and Anne). Even though the host of the event
was Lt. Price, it was the captain who sat at the head of the
table. Anne was to his right; Price across from her. Lt. Mumphrey
had the honor of sitting next to Anne; the other officers filled
out the rest of the table. Dr. Maturin was seated next to Dr.
Powell at the far end, across from Lt. Colonel Tarleton.
Unobtrusively, Anne
took in her surroundings. Behind her husband was the bread room,
against the stern. To either side were the doors to the officers'
cabins and the two quarter-galleries. The number of doors gave
the lady an idea as to the size of the accommodations afforded
the gentlemen. Why, the closets for my father at Kellynch
are larger than those cabins, I have no doubt! And a gentleman
is expected to live in such close quarters for years on end?
She could not help but shudder; she then recalled the time she
first beheld the midshipmen's berth and shuddered again.
A creaking sound
called Anne's attention to the overhead deck beams (I recalled
its name!). She saw a large horizontal wooden bar move in
a slight arc across the beams. "Mr. Mumphrey, pray tell
what is that device?"
"That is the
tiller, ma'am."
Anne looked at the
man expectantly.
A snort of laughter
came from across the table. "Alex, you can be a dull fellow,"
cried William. "Mrs. Wentworth, the tiller is attached to
head of the rudder; the head of the tiller is attached to the
wheel by those ropes there. Do you spy them?"
"Yes, indeed,
Mr. Price. And in this manner the ship may be directed?"
"Yes, ma'am;
and with the sails, too."
Anne turned to her
embarrassed dinner companion. "I am sure Mr. Price stole
the very words from your lips, Mr. Mumphrey; but let us forgive
him. Tell me something of your home…"
Frederick, who had
remained silent through the exchange, sipped his wine and observed
his wife with pride and gratitude. She had immediately engaged
Mumphrey in conversation, soothing any hurt feelings he may have
suffered, without giving offence to Price. It was skillfully
done; yet he knew his wife was without artifice. It was natural
- it was who Anne was - and that, as much as any other reason
he had (and there were many), was why he loved her to the bottom
of his soul.
It was fortunate
that this dinner occurred early in the voyage. The mess subscription
insured that the officers would eat better than the crew; yet
it was as nothing compared to the table a captain (and a captain's
wages) could provide. The beef and pork were only slightly better
than Navy standard, but it was in better quantity. Wine and seasoning
also helped. The cooks enjoyed making something better than boiled
meat, peas and ship's biscuit, and so they bent to their work.
The result: a joint of beef was the main fare with a ragout of
chicken, peas, soft bread (the last of it for this voyage), and
tolerable Spanish red wine. The soup was such a disappointment
that it remained unnamed. The highlight of the dinner was a noble
Spotted Dog: a suet pudding with currants.
Partway though the
meal, Frederick took pity on his officers. A hand gesture, a
whispered request in Nowak's ear, and within five minutes two
bottle of claret appeared. "Oh, sir - you are our
guest!" William complained -- without conviction. It did
not stop him from sharing a glass with his commander.
However the gift
may have been a mistake - the lower end of the table was consuming
more than its share; the majority of it by one individual. "Doctor,
a glass with you, sir. The bottle stands by you."
"Forgive me,
my dear colleague, but this bottle is empty." Stephen glanced
at the malefactor. "I believe we must ask for another,"
he advised Dr. Powell.
"Oh, never
fear, Doctor," said Greengard. "May I pour you a glass?"
Somehow this bottle had escaped Lt. Colonel Tarleton's notice.
Stephen observed
the Marine colonel from the corner of his eye. The brightened
color upon the cheeks and nose spoke to the state of the man's
sensibilities. He did not pay it too much mind - it was not unusual
for naval officers to drink themselves into a stupor. Even his
dear friend Jack Aubrey had been known to indulge too greatly
on more than one occasion.
"To a safe
and prosperous voyage, gentlemen," Frederick toasted. A
chorus of "Here, here," was the response.
"It should
be prosperous indeed, sir, should we meet with any pirates."
"Why is that,
Mr. Mumphrey?" inquired Anne.
"Why…the
prizes, ma'am…" he sputtered.
"What Mr. Mumphrey
is alluding to, Mrs. Wentworth, is the value of the prizes, should
we take a pirate or privateer," Frederick injected. "The
booty onboard will be worth more than the ship, I dare say."
"'Pirate or
privateer'. Pray sir, what is the difference?"
"A privateer
is a privately owned vessel of war - a converted merchantman
in many cases - furnished with letters of marquee. That is, an
official commission from a state to wage war against another
state. Very important, your letter of marquee. Without it, the
crew could be taken up and hung for piracy. Pirates, as you know,
are the highwaymen of the seas."
"Why would
a nation use privateers?"
"Why, sometimes
war comes about unexpectedly - the only ships to be had are private
ones. Officers on shore are available, as well as an Admiral
or Governor - a bit of scribbling on a piece of paper - a seal
or two, and Bob's your uncle, you are a warship."
"Do you suppose
we shall come across any French men-of-war?"
"Doubtful.
The fleet is ready, you see - we already have Toulon, Brest and
the other major French ports under close blockade. The French
don't have many ships in the Caribbean - that's why they need
privateers."
"Thank you,
Captain. I, for one, am very sorry that Bonaparte has gone away
from Elba. What a delightful voyage we should have together if
not this threat of war. Why, else we should be fighting no one
now that the American war is over."
"Humph!"
"I beg you
pardon, sir." Frederick's voice was like ice. "Did
you have another opinion, Colonel?"
"There's plenty
fightin' to be done…Sir." Tarleton slurred his words.
"Indeed,"
Powell joined in. "Why, it falls to Britain to stem the
slave trade…"
"Who gives
a damn about that, sir? Those blackamoors can look to themselves!
No - our enemy is closer…" Tarleton stared at Maturin.
Frederick was affronted
by the Marine's language, but he held his tongue - they were
in the wardroom, after all. "Whom do you refer to, sir?"
asked Powell.
"Dirty, rotten
traitors - bowin' down to their Italian bishop… We've been
kissin' their arses for too long, I say!"
"Colonel!"
Wentworth exclaimed.
Stephen returned
Tarleton's glare with a dispassionate eye. "You speak of
the Irish, I take it?"
"Fuckin' too
right! Too easy on 'em, I say! Send the Army there - put things
to right. Hang 'em all! Hang every one of those goddamn Irish
Papist bastards! There and on this ship, too!"
"TARLETON!"
Did he know that Maturin was a natural son?
Stephen stood up
with a curious reptilian expression on his face, his head cocked
to one side. "Do you stand by that, sir?" His voice
was as low as Wentworth's exclamation was not.
Tarleton staggered
to his feet. "Damn right I do, you son of a bitch!"
Stephen turned to
the head of the table with a small smile on his face. "If
you will excuse me…" He bowed to Mrs. Wentworth and
left the room.
Wentworth, white
with rage, turned to the Marine, but found that he was not within
his sight. A crash an instant later revealed that the lieutenant
colonel had decided to take his rest upon the wardroom floor.
"Nowak, see to it that this…officer is placed in his
cabin."
Price was distressed.
"Captain! Mrs. Wentworth! I…I am very sorry…"
"I am quite
unharmed, Mr. Price," said a shaken Anne.
As the others began
to offer their apologies, Wentworth held up his hand. "Gentlemen,
I believe enough has been said for one day." He reached
for his glass - somehow he managed not to shatter it in his hand.
"Gentlemen, I give you the king."
No sooner had the
couple returned to the captain's cabin than Frederick exclaimed,
"Damn and blast!"
"Frederick!
Must you?"
"Oh, I am sorry,
my dear. Sorry for my outburst, sorry for that miserable excuse
of a meal."
"It was not
so bad."
"…Sorry
you had to be a witness to that - arggg! Words cannot begin
to describe my feelings about Tarleton! This is what comes of
purchasing commissions!"
Anne did not mention
Frederick's father's purchase of his midshipman's berth. "Frederick,
will there be a duel? Must Dr. Maturin fight Colonel Tarleton?"
"Unless Tarleton
makes his apologies - yes, the good doctor will fight the colonel."
And if he asks it, I would be his second - if I could.
"Oh no! Frederick,
can you not prevent it?" The idea that such an ugly thing
should happen was repugnant to her.
"Anne - you
are trembling! Do not take on so. I will do what I can. I will
see that Dr. Maturin does not fight, if at all possible."
He had actually decided already to take what steps he could -
such a scandal would do no good to the doctor, himself or the
ship. But Frederick could not like Anne's intense concern over
the matter.
"Thank you,
dear. Please do not let them fight." Anne embraced him.
Frederick held his
wife in his arms, trying not to give credit to his jealous heart.
That night Lt. Mumphrey
was manning the quarterdeck when he was approached by Dr. Maturin.
"How are you this fine evening, sir?"
"It is a beautiful
night, to be sure, sir. Which makes my task that much more distressing.
You were a witness to my disagreement with Colonel Tarleton,
who, in public, used and stood by the blackguardliest insult…"
"Oh, yes, Sir.
Very unfortunate; disgraceful. Do you wish for me to be of service
to you?"
"If you would
second me, Sir - on ship and at Funchal?"
The thought of standing
by a Catholic over an Anglican hardly registered to Mumphrey
- he knew an honorable gentleman when he saw one. "Of course
I should, doctor. How very much I regret the necessity. I shall
call on the Colonel directly."
"With the amount
of the wardroom's wine the Colonel consumed, you may have to
wait upon the morrow."
It was the next
morning before Lt. Colonel Tarleton was in a condition to be
summoned to the great cabin. "Ah, Colonel, and how is your
head this morning?" Frederick started mildly.
"I am well,
Captain."
"That is good
to know - there will be no opportunity for misunderstanding,
I trust. You made a grave error yesterday, sir."
Tarleton thought
he caught the captain's meaning. "Captain, I know I must
apologize for my language before Mrs. Wentworth. I feel it acutely.
If given the opportunity, I will say so before your lady; or
I will write it out, if that be your preference."
"Thank you,
Colonel; a written apology would be welcomed. There is another
party that was offended, however. Shall you do the same there?"
Tarelton was puzzled.
"Do you wish a written apology, sir?"
"It would not
be refused. But to clarify my request, I refer to the other injured
party - Dr. Maturin."
"Dr. Maturin?
Whatever for? I spoke but the truth."
"Over a dinner
with shipmates you give a fellow guest the blackguardliest lie
and you call it the truth? I must wonder at it."
"I, sir, must
wonder at your, at the very least, tolerance of heresy
and other slights against Church and Country. I cannot believe
your superiors know of that."
Frederick smiled.
"Are you questioning my authority, Colonel? Are you questioning
my management of this vessel?"
He knew he had gone
too far. "As you have said, I am not a naval officer, so
I am sure I do not know. This is your ship. I regret if, by my
honest feelings, I have called your judgment into question."
Wentworth smirked.
"Very prettily said, sir. You insult me in one breath, and
take just enough back that I can have little official complaint
against you; and yet the insult still stands. I have underestimated
you, I see. But I am not alone in underestimation aboard this
ship. Will you apologize to Dr. Maturin?"
"I will not."
"You prefer
to see him on a field of honor?"
Tarleton laughed.
"A duel? Do you expect that ugly little man to fight me?
He will swallow the judgment of his betters as he should, if
he knows what is good for him."
Wentworth put his
hands together under his chin. "And if he does not? Will
you face him?"
"I fear no
man. If he wishes to leave this world so soon, I will oblige
him."
Frederick stared
at the lieutenant colonel with no little expression of amusement,
which began to unsettle the officer. "Did you purchase your
lieutenant colonelcy?"
"My family
did, yes; as many others have done."
"Good - I am
relived to know that the General Staff of the Royal Marines is
not so lacking in understanding that they would offer a merit
promotion to a man so bereft of basic intelligence as yourself."
Tarleton sputtered.
"How dare you! Do you know who I am?"
"As I said
before, I do. The question is: do you know who Stephen Maturin
is?"
"An Irishman
of no name."
"You should
read more, Colonel. Dr. Maturin is a naturalist of some renown
- he is a fellow of the Royal Academy. As a physician he names
among his patients many of the highest rank - including the Duke
of Clarence." Tarleton's eyes grew wide at the mention of
the king's younger son, Prince William, second in line to the
throne behind the Prince Regent. "He is the particular friend
of Lord Keith, Captain Aubrey and Sir Joseph Blaine, among others.
"Of course,
these facts may not sway you - a man of such excellent courage
and understanding. But I would not be so sure of success if you
try him. I will tell you that Dr. Maturin's skill with the blade
is well known in the Fleet. But of course, you have not sailed,
so…" he held up his hands, "that is unfortunate."
Wentworth then gave him a smile filled with malice. "I can
tell you that he is also the best shot of my acquaintance. He
has been 'out' before and therefore no stranger to these games.
He will most certainly do you, sir!
"Of course,
you may get lucky - stranger things have happened before. Therefore
I feel it is my duty to inform you that if, by some miracle,
you survive an encounter with the good doctor, your career will
not survive me! You fate is thus: should you stand on your refusal
to apologize to Dr. Marurin, you will most certainly lose either
your profession or your life!
"Before you
are pen and paper. You will write an apology to both Mrs. Wentworth
and Dr. Maturin before you leave this cabin, sir, or by thunder,
I'll see you cashiered in Madeira!"
"It was to
laugh!" cried Lauck. "There's himself, standin' before
all of the wardroom, readin' from a scrap o' paper; 'heartily
sorry for any disfavor he may have brought to this distinguished
table…' Ha ha! I tell you, Radle, I had to bite me own tongue
not to chortle in his face!"
"So did the
good doctor accept his apologies, then?" Radle and his messmates
were enjoying their grog after supper, and were joined by a few
others.
"Aye, he did,
good man that his is. Too good for the likes o' Tarleton!"
"I say aye
to that, mate," agreed Stokes. "I'd pay good money
to see Maturin stick that one like the scrub he is."
"Do you think
the Doctor would have done it, seeing that the colonel is a Marine
and all?"
"I was with
the Doctor on the Worcester, Eades, and he's a fine a
swordsman's as any I seen. I heared Cap'n Aubrey hisself sayin'
he'd pity the man who go against the Doctor."
The assembled grunted
with approval.
"Still, for
what Tarleton said before Miz Wentworth - I wish that the Doctor
weren't a fine Christian man. I canna like the colonel,"
continued Lauck.
Eades spoke up.
"I wish I were a gentleman - I'd set that bugger to rights!"
"You a gentleman,
Eades? Ho ho, that would beat all!"
"More gentleman
than you, Lauck!"
"Belay that
talk, mates," advised Radle in a good-natured way. "Mr.
Stokes, how long you think we're for Funchal?"
"Don't rightly
know. It depends on how many ships are in."
"Why would
that make a difference?" asked Lauck.
"Why, for the
court-martial - for Pyke. Got to have enough post-captains to
field a court."
"And if there
ain't?"
"We'll have
to carry Pyke all the way to Bermuda."
"Be a sad day
for Miz Wentworth," remarked Johnson, a man from an adjoining
mess and well-known as a sea-lawyer.
"What do you
mean by that, Johnson?"
"'Tis a capital
case, Lauck. The court needs to read Miz Wentworth's affy-david
aloud, so's that Pyke can have his response." Mrs. Wentworth
would not testify, of course, but she would have to give an affidavit.
"Be bad enough in Funchal, but in St. George? With her to
live there? Bad business."
"With all them
harpies and gossips? Lord!"
"Bad business
is right," agreed Stokes.
Radle listened to
the rest of the conversation with only half an ear - he had much
to think of.
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