The Golden Ocean. Patrick O’Brian
to help your poor father to some knowledge of Euclid, but it was labour lost; though as a Grecian he outpaced us all.’
‘And as for knowing nothing about the sea,’ cried Peter, red with the humiliating recollection; ‘it is not fair, indeed it is not.’
‘Quietly, quietly.’
‘I beg pardon, but it is not. I can sail a boat with any of them and ’tis I can put a curragh through the surf at Ballynasaggart and it roaring as high as the church. Only I do not know the names of the things in English, so they think me a fool and a landsman.’
‘Have you tried to improve your knowledge of the English sea terms?’
‘Sure the Dear knows I have—’
‘Say “Yes, sir”.’
‘Yes, sir. It was only yesterday FitzGerald and I were in the beakhead asking some of the men—’
‘At the time of that distressing scene with the Commodore?’ said Mr Walter, frowning, and Peter nodded.
‘Tell me exactly what happened. I heard only the words on the quarter-deck.’
‘Well, sir, we had been asking these men the names of the rigging and I had thought for some time that they were gammoning FitzGerald. One said, “And that is the mainbrace. Do you see how badly it wants splicing?”
‘“Where?” says FitzGerald.
‘“There,” says another. “It needs a good splice, but we don’t like to say it. The captain has let it slip out of his mind, and with the first puff of wind the mast will come down.”
‘“He would be very grateful for being reminded,” says the first one, “but we daren’t go aft, being only ratings, you see.”
‘“How very glad he would be,” says another. “Why, it might be the saving of the ship.” And before I could say anything FitzGerald was gone.’
‘Yes,’ said the chaplain, ‘and with a bow—quite out of place—he said to the Commodore, “By your leave, sir, the men up at the sharp end of the boat consider that the main-brace needs splicing.” It was a very shocking piece of effrontery, and although the Commodore passed it off as being accountable to your friend’s inexperience, I really thought Mr Saumarez would have him confined. I understand that Mr FitzGerald enjoys the highest protection; but if he thinks that that will allow him to take liberties with Mr Anson, he is wrong. Mr Anson is not the kind of man to be influenced by such a consideration for a moment. By the by, who were the men who led him to such a monstrous impertinence?’
‘I could not say, sir, I am sure,’ said Peter, with a glazed look coming over his face. ‘All I remember is that they left the beakhead very suddenly when FitzGerald went aft.’
‘Hm. Quite so,’ said the chaplain. ‘But now I am on the subject, my boy, I must tell you that this friendship of yours makes me very uneasy. As I take it, he borrowed an important share of the money I brought you?’
‘Yes, sir; we went snacks. But he bore my charges all the way here. He would have done the same thing for me.’
‘And then there was that very discreditable affair with Ransome.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Peter uneasily.
‘It appears that your friend still bears malice.’ Peter was silent. ‘And if that is the case, he is not playing a gentleman’s part.’
Peter was still silent. He was keenly aware of the strong disapproval that surrounded them in the midshipmen’s berth—a disapprobation that extended to him, because although he could not feel that FitzGerald was right, yet he could not possibly not take his part.
‘I may have heard a distorted account,’ said the chaplain, ‘but from what I have gathered, he insulted Ransome with his birth and Ransome knocked him down. I would have done the same. And now he has not the good feeling to make his apology.’
‘It was not quite like that, sir,’ said Peter. ‘He did truly think Ransome was a servant: I thought he was a seaman myself. We neither of us knew that midshipmen were so old and big. FitzGerald did not intend to insult him, and indeed afterwards he said he would have cut his tongue out rather than say it. He said he meant to express his regret, only it was so difficult. He said, “How can I go to the fellow and tell him I am sorry I mistook him for a servant or a common seaman when he has been one in fact—the apology would be worse than the offence.” But since then the others have been so unpleasant that he has got on his high horse, and whatever I say only makes it worse.’
‘It is bad blood. He has only to go to Ransome and candidly admit that he was wrong. Ransome is a very fine fellow: he behaved extremely well on the lower-deck: he is an excellent seaman and he has a courage that Homer would have mentioned with honour: Mr Anson made him his own coxswain, and then, to reward his merit, rated him midshipman. If I thought your friend had a tithe of Ransome’s merit, I should feel very much happier for you, Peter. Life is not very pleasant for Ransome: there are many of his former shipmates aboard, and it is the nature of low minds to grudge at another’s rise—I do not say that they do, mark you; but I believe he feels his position acutely, far more acutely than ever he need. Certainly there is not a gentleman aboard, not one in the squadron, who would have thrown his origin in his teeth, or who, having done so by inadvertence, would not have apologised in the most full and public manner. No, no. It is very bad, and by associating with Mr FitzGerald you are tarred with the same brush. Believe me, my boy, the Commodore is not a man to be trifled with. He is unceasingly engrossed with the business of preparing the squadron for sea; he has a thousand cares of which you can know nothing—you may have heard, however, of the criminal decision about the invalids?’
Peter nodded. The squadron was undermanned: seamen could not be had, nor soldiers for the military side, and it was said that Government intended to fill out the numbers with pensioners from the Royal Hospital at Chelsea.
‘You have? Well, that is but one of a thousand matters that call for his instant attention. But for all that he knows that his prime duty as captain of the Centurion is the welfare of the ship and her company, and he is certainly informed of all that happens aboard. What kind of opinion will he have of you, Peter? Not only because of this unsuitable friendship, but because of the innumerable scrapes you have got yourself into from the moment you arrived. Do not think to shelter behind my frail protection. I am a very unimportant person here, although Mr Anson honours me with his friendship. But if I were a flag-officer and the Commodore’s own brother, that would avail you nothing if he were to judge you unfit for the service. I put this to you very seriously, Peter; and I put it to you urgently, because at dinner yesterday he mentioned your name: I did not hear what he said; but he mentioned your name.’
Peter walked soberly away. He wanted to think: but in a ship filled with more than four hundred men, all of them active in one way or another, it is not easy to find a place for quiet meditation. He was wondering whether he might presume to go into the tops, or whether that might be a crime, when he heard his name. It was far off, and mixed with a jumble of sound, but one catches one’s name very quickly. ‘Mr Palafox. Pass the word for Mr Palafox.’ Then another voice, a little nearer, and another. His name, shouted, followed him up the ship, growing vastly in sound, and he hurried aft to report himself. But before he reached the quarterdeck he ran into the Commodore’s steward.
‘Wait a minute, young gentleman,’ said the steward. ‘What’s the hurry?’
‘The Commodore has passed the word for me,’ said Peter, trying to get by. ‘I must run.’
‘You can save your breath, sir,’ said the steward, ‘for I am on the same errand. The Commodore sends his compliments to Mr Palafox and would be glad of his company at dinner today: he regrets the short notice.’
‘My compliments to—to the Commodore,’ said Peter, suddenly ill with apprehension, for dinner was no distance away at all, ‘and I shall be most happy.’
He dashed into the midshipmen’s berth and forward