Canning walked into the room, a big man who moved lightly on his feet. ‘How long has he been outside?’ thought Stephen; and Diana said, ‘Canning, Dr Maturin finds the heat a little much. I am trying to persuade him to put on a gown and to sit by the fountain in the peacock court. You remember Dr Maturin?’
‘Perfectly, and I am very happy to see him. But my dear sir, I am concerned that you should not be entirely well. It is indeed a most oppressive day. Pray give me your arm, and we will take the air. I could do with it myself. Diana, will you call for a gown, or perhaps a shawl?’
‘How much does he know about me?’ wondered Stephen as they sat there in the relative coolness, Canning and Diana talking quietly of his journey, the Nizam, and a Mr Norton. It seemed that Mr Norton’s best friend had run away into the Nizam’s dominions with Mrs Norton.
‘He gives nothing away,’ Stephen reflected. ‘But that in itself is significant: and he has not asked after Jack, which is more so. His bluff, manly air cannot be assumed, however; it is very like Jack’s and it certainly represents a great deal of the man; but I also perceive a gleam of hidden intelligence. How I wish he had Lady Forbes’s gift of displaying his secret mind. Mr Norton, the ornithologist?’ he asked aloud.
‘No,’ said Diana, ‘he is interested in birds.’
‘So interested,’ said Canning, ‘that he went off as far as Bikanir for a kind of sand-?grouse, and when he came back Mrs Norton had flown. I do not think it a pretty thing, to seduce a friend’s wife.’
‘I am sure you are right,’ said Stephen. ‘But is it indeed a possible offence? A booby girl may be led away by a wicked fellow, to be sure, but a woman, a married woman? For my part I do not believe that any marriage was ever yet broken by an outside force. Let us suppose that Mrs Norton is confronted with a choice between claret and port; she decides that she does not care for claret but that she does care for port. From that moment she is wedded to her muddy brew; and it is impertinent to assure her that claret is her true delight. Nor does it seem to me that any great blame attaches to the bottle she prefers.’
‘If only there were a breath of air from the sea,’ said Canning, with his deep belly-?laugh, ‘I should tear your analogy limb from limb: besides, you would never have ventured upon it - a foul bottom, if ever there was one. But my point is that Norton was Morton’s particular friend: Norton took him into his house, and he made his way into Norton’s bed.’
‘That was not pretty, I must confess: it savours of impiety.’
‘I have not asked after our friend Aubrey,’ cried Canning. ‘Have you news of him? I believe we are to drink to his happiness - perhaps we should even do so now.’
‘He is here, in Bombay: his frigate, the Surprise, is refitting in Bombay.’
‘You astonish me,’ said Canning.
‘I doubt that very much, my friend,’ said Stephen inwardly: he listened to Canning’s exclamations upon the service, its ubiquity, its wide commitments - Jack’s excellence as a sailor - sincere and reiterated hopes for his happiness - and then he stood up, saying he believed he must beg permission to withdraw; it was some time since he had been to his lodgings and work was waiting for him there; his lodgings were near the yard; he looked forward to the walk.
‘You cannot walk all the way to the dockyard,’ said Canning. ‘I shall send for a palanquin.’
‘You are very good, but I prefer to walk.’
‘But my dear sir, it is madness to stroll about Bombay at this time of night. You would certainly be knocked on the head. Believe mc, it is a very dangerous city.’
Stephen was not easily overcome, but Canning obliged him to accept an escort, and it was at the head of a train of bearded, sabre-?bearing Sikhs that he paced through the deserted outer streets, not altogether pleased with himself (’Yet I like the man, and do not entirely grudge him the satisfaction of knowing that I am off the scene, and that I do in fact live at such and such an address’), down the hill, with the funeral pyres glowing on the shore, the scent of burning flesh and sandal-?wood; through quiet avenues tenanted by sleeping holy cows; pariah dogs and one gaunt leafless tree covered with roosting kites, vultures, crows, through the bazaars, filled now by shrouded figures lying on the ground; through the brothel quarter by the port -life here, several competing musics, bands of wandering sailors: but not a Surprise among them. Then the long quiet stretch outside the wall of the yard, and as they turned a corner they fell upon a band of Moplahs, gathered in a ring. The Moplahs straightened, hesitated, gauging their strength, and then fled, leaving a body on the ground. Stephen bent over it, holding the Sikhs’ lantern; there was nothing he could do, and he walked on.
From a distance he was surprised to see a tight burning in their house; and he was more surprised, on walking in, to find Bonden there fast asleep: he was leaning over the table with his head on his bandaged arms; and both arms and head were covered with an ashy snow - the innumerable flying creatures that had been drawn to the lamp. A troop of geckoes stood on the table to eat the dazzled moths.
‘Here you are at last, sir,’ he cried, starting up, scattering the geckoes and his load of dead. ‘I’m right glad to see you.’
‘It is kind in you to say so, Bonden,’ said Stephen. ‘What is up?’
‘All hell is up, sir, pardon the expression. The Captain is in a terrible taking over you, sir - reefers and ship’s boys relaying one another here, messengers sent up every hour
- was you there yet? and afeared to go back and say no you wasn’t and no word either. Poor Mr Babbington in irons and young Mr Church and Callow flogged in the cabin with his own hands and didn’t he half lay it on, my eye - they howled as piteous as cats.’
‘Why, what’s afoot?’
‘What’s afoot? Only blue murder, that’s all. No liberty, all shore-?leave stopped, barky warped out into the basin, no bum-?boats allowed alongside for a drop of refreshment, and all hands at it, working double tides, officers too. No liberty at all, though promised weeks ago. You remember how the old Caesar got her new masts in by firelight in Gib before our brush with the Spaniards? Well, it was like that, only day after day after bleeding day - every hand that could hale on a rope, sick or not, gangs of lascars, which he hired ‘em personal, drafts from the flagship, riggers from the yard - it was like a fucking ant-?heap, begging your pardon, and all in the flaming sun. No duff on Sunday! Not a soul allowed on shore, bar shrimps that was no use aboard and these here messengers at the double. Which I should not be here myself, but for my arm.’
‘What was it?’
