The Surgeon’s Mate. Patrick O’Brian
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problems too, as you know very well. However, before we discuss the copying or indeed anything else, I have an observation to make: an observation and a request. Have you heard of Mrs Villiers?’
‘Diana Villiers, Johnson’s mistress, a renegade English-woman?’
‘No, sir,’ said Stephen, with a cold, unwinking look. ‘No, sir. Mrs Villiers was not Johnson’s mistress: she merely accepted his protection in a foreign land. Nor is she in any conceivable way a renegade. Not only did they disagree most bitterly when he attempted to enlist her in the war against her own country, but it was owing to her that I came into possession of these documents. I should be sorry to hear her name used lightly.’
‘Yet, sir,’ said Beck after a moment’s hesitation, ‘and I speak under correction, without intending the least disrespect to the lady, it appears that she took out papers of naturalization in the States.’
‘That was a thoughtless act, one that she regarded as a trifling formality without the least real effect upon her natural allegiance. It was very strongly represented to her, that the process would facilitate Mr Johnson’s divorce.’ Stephen observed a certain knowingness or fellow-feeling or even connivance in the Major’s eye; he frowned, and went on in a colder tone, ‘But since she is technically an enemy alien, sir, I wish to observe – I wish to state it as my considered opinion, that the usual certificate should be made out in her favour, as to one of our people; although at the same time I may point out that she has little or no notion of my connexion with the department. I have brought her with me, and apart from all other considerations it would not be fitting that she should be molested, or made uneasy in any way.’
‘Directly, sir,’ said Major Beck, ringing a bell. ‘I am glad you told me,’ he said. ‘Archbold would certainly have laid her by the heels before nightfall. We have had any number of females – however, the lady in question belongs to quite another category.’ His assistant came in, a man quite as ugly as Major Beck, with rather more of that indefinable appearance of hidden deformity, but with much less of his apparent intelligence. ‘Mr Archbold,’ said the Major, ‘an X certificate in the name of Mrs Villiers, if you please.’ The paper came, Beck completed it with an official wafer and his signature and passed it over, saying, ‘But you will allow me to observe, sir, that this is valid only for my own region. If the lady were to return to England, there might be very considerable difficulties.’
Stephen could have retorted that he intended to do away with these difficulties by marrying Diana and making her a British subject again; but he preferred keeping his own counsel. In any case, he was very, very tired, both from the extraordinary exertions at the time of his escape and from his almost continual surgical activity aboard both ships ever since the battle. He made no reply, therefore, and after a short silence Beck said, ‘I believe, sir, you mentioned a request?’
‘I did. It is that you will authorize the paymaster to accept a draft on my London banking-house. I have an immediate and pressing need for money.’
‘Oh, as for money, Dr Maturin,’ cried Major Beck, ‘I beg you will not trouble with the paymaster and his seven and a half per cent and all the paper-work. I have funds here at my disposal that can deal with any difficulty of that kind at once. They are intended to procure information, and for a single one of these documents, I should be fully justified in…’
‘You are very good, sir,’ said Stephen, ‘but I must tell you that from the very beginning of my connexion with the department I have never accepted a Brummagem ha’penny for anything that I was able to do, or to produce. No. A note to the paymaster will answer perfectly, if you will be so kind. And perhaps you would let me have a couple of discreet able-bodied men: the frontier is no great way off, and until you have dealt with the agents named in Mr Johnson’s list, I should not choose to wander about Halifax alone.’
Preceded by one discreet man, six foot tall, followed by another, and accompanied by a third, Stephen walked to the paymaster’s office, transacted his business, came out with a comfortable bulge in his pocket, and stood for a while in thought. Then, followed by his companion, he took a few irresolute steps down the street before stopping at a corner. ‘I am at a stand,’ he said.
‘Sir?’ said his guardian.
‘I am at a stand. I do not know where I lodge.’
The street was almost empty, since all those who could get away were down at the harbour, staring at the Shannon and the Chesapeake: in this virtual desert the two other men did their best to be inconspicuous, loitering in negligent attitudes, quite detached; but they soon caught their colleague’s nod, and joined him on the corner. ‘The gentleman is at a stand,’ he said. ‘He does not know where he is staying.’
They all looked at Stephen. ‘Has he forgot the name of his hotel?’ suggested one.
‘Have you forgot the name of your hotel, sir?’ asked the first man, bending down to speak in Stephen’s ear. Stephen ran his hand along his bristly jaw, deep in thought, trying to overcome his weariness of mind.
‘He is probably staying at Bailey’s,’ said another. ‘That is where most of the physical gentlemen put up.’
‘Is it Bailey’s, sir?’ asked the first, bending again.
‘White’s? Brown’s? The Goat and Compasses?’ said the others, addressing not Dr Maturin but their companion.
‘I have it,’ cried Stephen. ‘I have the solution. Pray conduct me to the place where the officers receive their letters.’
‘We must hurry, then,’ said the first man. ‘We must even run, sir. They will be closed, else.’ And some minutes, some few hundred yards later he said, panting, ‘There. I was afraid of it. The blinds are drawn.’
The blinds were drawn, but the door was on the jar; and even if it had been tightly shut Captain Aubrey’s strong sea-going voice would still have spread far out into the street. ‘What the devil do you mean with your “after hours”, you idle young hound?’ he was asking. ‘As God’s my life…’
When Stephen opened the door the sound increased, and he perceived that Jack had the young man by the frill of his shirt, that he was shaking him to and fro and calling him ‘an infernal b –’.
The shirt frill came adrift and Jack turned to Stephen. ‘He says it is after hours,’ he cried.
‘It is not only that, sir,’ said the clerk to Stephen, as to a saviour, ‘but Mr Gittings has the keys. There ain’t nothing in the waiting rack and I can’t open the strong-box without I have the keys, it stands to reason.’ He wiped his tears on his sleeve and added, ‘And there’s nothing in it for Captain Aubrey neither, I could pledge my sacred word: though always willing to oblige any gentleman that treats us civil.’
Stephen contemplated the strong-box. It was an old-fashioned affair with a common tumbler lock and it would probably not resist his solicitations more than a few minutes; but this was neither the time nor the place to display his talents. He said, ‘I am happy to find you, Captain Aubrey. The name of our inn, or hotel, has escaped my mind, and I am mortally fatigued. I would give all I possess to go to bed.’
‘You certainly look uncommonly fagged,’ said Jack, dropping the shirt frill. ‘Quite done up. We are at the Goat, and I will take you there directly. Harkee, sir,’ to the clerk, in a last burst of disappointed fury, ‘I shall be here first thing tomorrow, d’ye hear me, there?’
In the street Stephen thanked his escort, sending him back with his best compliments to Major Beck, and he and Jack walked on alone.
‘A miserable goddam afternoon,’ said Jack. ‘Disappointments at every turn – a heroes’ welcome, truly. The town is crammed with soldiers, and I could only get one room between us at the Goat.’
‘That is bad,’ said Stephen, who had often shared a cabin with Captain Aubrey, perhaps the most resounding snorer in the service.
‘Then when I went up the hill to report, the Commissioner was not in the way. There were a good many