he had seen since they came north of Capricorn; yet he would have given a five-pound note to slip his piece through the scuttle or even, veiled in a handkerchief, into his pocket. It called for an iron determination to get the whole mass down under the approving eye of Mowett, who had saved him the particularly glutinous end, and of the gunroom steward, who had supervised the cooking.
Fortunately soon after this the cloth was drawn and the toasts began. Among others they drank Wives and sweethearts and although the usual facetious murmurs of and may they never meet were heard all round the table it was remarkable that hardly a man, on this last leg of their voyage, was unaffected. Vinous sentiment might have played some part in this but it certainly did not in every case; Jack, for example, had drunk nothing at all and yet he was so moved by a sudden diamond-sharp vision of his home – by this vision, coming on top of his horrible day, and by the thoughts that crowded into his head – that the only way he could think of to do his convivial duty by the gunroom and its guests was to drink to them each in turn. This he did not by order of seniority but counter-clockwise: ‘Mr Mowett, a glass of wine with you, sir, and to the Muses. – Mr Butcher, I drink to you, sir, and to the shores of the Potomac.’ Allen, the grey-headed master of the Surprise, was a splendid seaman, but in formal gatherings he was usually so shy, ill-at-ease and constrained that it was no kindness to address him; but this afternoon he was bright pink with pleasure, and he replied to Jack’s proposal by bowing low, filling a bumper and draining it with the hearty words ‘And my dear love to you, sir.’ Beyond Allen sat Honey, a master’s mate whom Jack had appointed acting-lieutenant, and when Honey had finished explaining the English peerage to his right-hand neighbour, Jack called down the table and drank with him. Then, when the decanter came full circle he said to the neighbour in question, ‘Mr Winthrop, sir, let us drink to the ladies of Boston.’ Adams the purser came next, a cheerful man, now in full glow from having his pork, beef, bread, candles, tobacco, spirits and slops aboard and exactly booked; but when he poured his wine Jack cried, ‘Come, sir, I see some of the Almighty’s daylight in that glass, which is close on high treason. Let it be abolished.’ Much the same could have been said for Martin’s modest toast, but Jack had too much respect for the cloth to point it out; and having emptied his own glass he poured another, saying ‘Killick, take this to Mr Maitland,’ – the other acting-lieutenant, who had the deck – ‘and say I drink to him.’ Then came Howard, the Marine officer, whose face was as red as his coat and whose body was scarcely capable of taking another drop of wine, though his spirit was clearly willing. And lastly there was Jack’s left-hand neighbour: ‘Dr Maturin, a glass of wine with you.’
The table was in a general din with three separate animated conversations going on at once, and both Mowett and Mr Allen had to rouse Stephen from his reverie (an unhappy reverie, alas) to make him understand the Captain’s proposal. ‘A glass of wine? He wishes to drink a glass of wine with me? By all means. Your very good health, sir, and may no new thing arise. God send us luck on our voyage.’ It was clear from his tone that he thought luck would be needed, and this might have cast a chill on the party had not the Marine officer chosen the same moment for gliding under the table, a smooth plunge into smiling, speechless coma.
A little after this farewells began, and presently the Americans were rowed back to their empty, echoing whaler, there to pack for their homeward voyage in the Swedish cartel.
In the cabin, as they were preparing their instruments for another evening with the Admiral, Jack said, ‘It is great nonsense to say that wine changes your mood. I drank clean round the table, and yet I am as melancholy as a gib cat and as sober as a judge.’
‘Are you in fact quite sober, Jack?’
‘Oh, I may slur my notes a little more than usual in a quick passage, but my mind is stone cold sober. For example, there is not the slightest danger of my wrecking my career just for the pleasure of telling that old hound what I think of his Sunday hanging.’
‘Your wits are unaffected, I find. Then listen, Jack: the secretary made a most improper and foolish communication to me this afternoon, from which it appears that the Spartan, the corsair that pursued Tom Pullings, sailed from New Bedford five days ago. No doubt the Admiral will tell you in due course, but it might be as well for you to know it now.’
‘Sailed? The Devil she has,’ said Jack, a dark gleam coming over his face. ‘Then I may be able to cook two geese with one – I may both get out of this damnable hanging and have a chance of nobbling the privateer. Killick, Killick there. Pass the word for Mr Mowett. Mr Mowett, there is a possibility that we may be able to slip away on tomorrow’s tide rather than wait until next week. The ship is ready to sail, I believe?’
‘All except one last Moses of rum and two of sugar, sir, and some firewood.’
‘Then once they are aboard, let there be a reasonable number of liberty-men tonight and tomorrow till noon. But there must be enough perfectly sober hands to carry us out with credit in the event of our sailing on the evening tide. So unless there are orders to the contrary you will stand by to weigh the moment my barge shoves off tomorrow. There will be at least one stone-cold sober watch to make sail and cat the anchors; and there will be no women on board whatsoever, no women at all. I cannot be sure of it, of course, but I hope the proceedings will be over before the turn of the tide.’
‘It would be most improper in me to try to influence the proceedings of a court-martial in any way whatsoever,’ said the Admiral at the end of their first trio, while sheet-music and little Barbados buns were being handed round. ‘But I do hope you gentlemen will be able to make up your minds one way or another tomorrow. If the trial has to be adjourned until next week a great deal of the effect will be lost.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack. ‘I hope so too – I very much look forward to an early end, because with your leave I should like to sail on the evening tide. Mr Stone tells me the Spartan privateer sailed from New Bedford five days ago, and it seems to me that with a fair wind I might find her this side of the Azores; though of course there would not be a moment to lose.’
‘I wish you may find her, with all my heart. The privateers are ruining this island – the planters are continually making representations to the Governor and me – and she is the worst of them all. But did Stone also tell you she has shipped forty-two-pounder carronades? I have been hoping to send Harrier and Diligence after her, but I can never spare both of them at the same time and neither is strong enough to tackle her alone: even you may find you have caught a Tartar, if you come up with her. A forty-two pound ball makes an ugly great hole in scantlings like yours. I beg your pardon, Doctor. Here are we tarpaulins talking shop and keeping you from your music. Pray forgive me, and let us set about the Dittersdorff.’
The Dittersdorff was a charming piece. It played on in their heads as they rowed through the warm moonlight and the lapping sea back to the Surprise, and it was still playing in Jack’s inward ear as he stood on his quarterdeck, waiting to step into his barge the next morning. But it was cut short by the sight of a hoist running up to the flagship’s peak. ‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked his youngsters, six boys gathered there to take part in the ceremony of piping the side – six boys he had taken aboard as children; and even now they were little more. ‘No, sir,’ said two breaking, unsteady voices and four clear trebles. ‘No, sir: we have never seen it before.’
‘You are an unobservant set of lubbers,’ said Jack. ‘You saw it yesterday and you saw it the day before, and a damned unpleasant sight it is. Union at the peak, a court-martial. Mr Boyle, tell the Doctor if he is not here in five seconds he will miss the boat. Mr Mowett, it would be as well to let Jemmy Bungs go ashore and pick up some old knocked-down slack-casks, enough to give the appearance of a deck-cargo, and about fifty yards of that scrim they use for lining sugar-barrels. He may spend ten pounds.’
Stephen came running with a piece of toast in his hand and hurried down into the barge; Jack followed him, in greater state, to the howl of pipes; and as the barge shoved off he said to himself, ‘I hope to God this is the last time: it will be a horrible session.’
It was the last time; and it was a horrible session, even more horrible than he had expected. When the court was cleared after the prisoners’