there was a vacancy.'
'Marines, Captain Aubrey?'
'It would have been Colonel Aubrey if they had. Have I never told you about the Marines, sweetheart? It is a plum they give you when you have done well. They cannot promote you - there is no such thing as promotion out of turn once you are a post-captain, and even the King could not make you an admiral over the heads of the captains above you on the list - if he did, half his senior officers would resign. So since they cannot promote you, and since you cannot eat a baronetcy or the naval medal, they make you a colonel of the Royal Marines instead, and you draw a colonel's pay, without doing anything for it.'
'But is that not corruption, Jack? You were always very much against corruption when you were young, I mean younger.'
'So I am still: corruption in others is anathema to me. But you would scarcely credit the depths of turpitude I should descend to myself for a thousand a year; and a colonel's pay is rather better than that. Let me see: eighty pound five and fourpence multiplied by thirteen; for they go by lunar months too, you know ...one thousand and forty-three, three and fourpence, which is better than a shove in the eye with a dry stick. No, my dear, that ain't corruption; it is an understood thing, quite above-board, a reward of merit. But I don't suppose I am meritorious enough, nor senior enough - after all, I am not much more than half way up the captain's list yet.' Then, as he turned to the other letters, he said in a much more serious voice, 'No, but real corruption, corruption in the dockyards, the dirty jobs with contractors and private ship-builders, that is the real goddam bane of the Navy ...This one is from Stephen's man, Mr Skinner.' He read, nodding with approval at each paragraph. 'I am very pleased with him. A capital man of business, clear-headed, and as brisk as a bee. He is carrying the war into their camp, the infernal dogs: that is what I like to see. Says a writ of duces tecum will compel them to show the paper I signed, and put an end to the uncertainty; and he has already sued one out. Duces tecum: that's the stuff.'
'What does it mean?' asked Sophie.
'I never was much of a fist at Latin,' said Jack. 'Not like Philip Broke. But I do remember dux, a leader, an admiral as you might say: and the plural is duces. So you could construe duces tecum as the admirals are with thee; and I don't ask better than that. Excellent Mr Skinner.' He passed over the sheets and turned to the remaining letters. 'This is from Grant,' he said, frowning.
'I hate him,' said Sophie. This was a rare, almost an unprecedented remark for her; but Mr Grant, an elderly, embittered lieutenant, had left Jack in the Leopard when that unfortunate ship struck an iceberg in the high southern latitudes and appeared to be sinking; he had reached Cape Town in the launch and England in a man- of-war; and he had written to Sophie to tell her, as he had already told his superiors, that there was no hope for Captain Aubrey - that his obstinancy in staying on board a sinking ship must have fatal consequences.
'The man has run mad,' said Jack. 'He says I have been spreading rumours that he behaved badly. And that is completely untrue, Sophie: I distinctly told Admiral Drury that Grant left with my permission, and that I was satisfied with his conduct up to that time. I went out of my way to do it. I never liked the fellow, though he was a good seaman, but I went out of my way to make the statement, because I thought it was due to him. Now he is unemployed - I don't wonder at it: the affair caused a good deal of comment in the service - and he says it is all my fault. He says that unless I immediately retract and do him justice, stating that I ordered him to leave - which is not the case: I only gave him permission - he will consider it his duty to his own character to lay the true facts of the case before the public and the Admiralty, including a number of circumstances such as my incapacity after the action and my keeping of false musters. Poor fellow: I am afraid his intellects are very much astray. I shall not answer; you cannot properly answer a letter of that sort. He would never have wrote it in his right mind: perhaps he was drunk at the time.' He laid it aside. 'Now here is one from Tom Pullings; I know his hand. Yes. He and Mowett and Babbington and young Henry James were all dining together in Plymouth, and they join in congratulations on my return and best wishes and everything that is kind. Beg to be remembered to you and Stephen, and have drunk to us in three times three. They wish us increase ...They mean it kindly, I am sure, but three is quite enough, with wheat at a hundred and twenty-six shillings a quarter,' he said, turning the page. 'No. I am out - they wish us increase of health and wealth and happiness. That's more the mark. Honest fellows.' These young men had all been on Jack's quarterdeck as midshipmen and officers and they had followed him from ship to ship whenever it was possible: he was thinking of them with a smile on his face as he considered the next letter, turning it in his hand. He did not know the handwriting or the seal, and even when he had opened it some seconds passed before he realized that it was for him - that it was neither a joke nor a mistake. Miss Smith embraced this opportunity of a transport going home to write to her hero - a wounded officer of the 43rd Foot would put it in the post the moment he landed, for she was sure her hero would rejoice to learn that their love was to bear fruit ere long - if it was a girl she should call it Joanna - she was sure it would be a little girl. As soon as there was a place in a packet she should fly to his arms; but perhaps he might prefer her to come home in a man-of-war - a simple note to any of his friends on the North American station would surely be enough - she hoped Mrs A would prove more understanding than Lady Nelson - he was to tell her at once whether he preferred the packet or a man-of- war -she was sure he could not wait to fold her to his bosom -that should he be prevented from flying to meet her by the requirements of the service, she would quite understand -there would be no womanly reproaches: the service must come first, even before Love - and would her hero be so good as to place say five hundred pounds in Drummond's hands? She could not move until she had paid her debts in Halifax - they had mounted surprisingly, perhaps because she had always scorned accounts - and she did not like to ask her brother. She did not in the least mind asking her hero, however; she felt no false shame, because it showed how entirely she was his - if the roles had been reversed, how delighted she would have been with this mark of confidence! He was to write immediately: she would sit on the quay every morning, scanning the horizon like Ariadne.
Stephen Maturin stood in the light of the declining sun, holding his face so that a horizontal ray impinged upon it as he shaved; the face itself was grave, and paler than usual: in an hour or so he was to address the Institut, and some of the keenest, most distinguished minds in Europe would be there. His black coat and his satin smallclothes, brushed and newly pressed, lay by his new and spotless shirt, his neckcloth and his silk stockings, below them his gleaming silver-buckled shoes: this was to be a full-dress evening affair, and although he had attended the Royal Society in pantaloons that would not do for a foreign guest in Paris on such an occasion.
'Come in,' he cried, in answer to a knock.
'Monsieur Fauvet asks if Dr Maturin can receive him,' said the servant.
'Dr Maturin infinitely regrets that he is unable to do so at the moment,' said Stephen, shaving on. 'But hopes to have the pleasure of seeing him at the reception.'
Fauvet was not the most outstanding of literary men in Paris, but he was one of the most fashionable and certainly the most persistent and indiscreet. This was the fourth time he had profited by Dupuytren's introduction to call on Stephen, asking him to take a letter back to England, a letter to the Comte de Blacas. Since Blacas was the exiled French king's chief adviser, it did not call for much penetration to be sure that the letter would contain protestations of unfailing loyalty to Louis XVIII, total devotion to the Bourbon cause, and utter rejection of the present tyranny: indeed, Fauvet had practically said as much at their second interview. And Fauvet was not the only one, by any means. During these last weeks he had been approached by several others who wished to ensure their position in the event of Napoleon's downfall and the return of the king. Most had been more cautious or more subtle than Fauvet, and some had sent their wives, as being more gifted for this kind of thing; but subtle or brutally direct, male or female, Stephen would have nothing to do with them. There was always the strong
