‘I wonder that so fumble-fisted a companion can be as neat as a seamstress when it comes to parcels: or opening your belly, for that matter,’ reflected Jack, watching him.
‘Use makes master,’ observed Stephen.
‘I never said a word,’ cried Jack. ‘I was as mute as a swan.’ Ringle’s boat came alongside. The young officer received the parcel reverentially, and Jack put his ship about, heading back to the coast with the wind two points free, followed by the Ringle. As they passed those bound for Malta they exchanged greetings, some formal, others, from the open gunports, facetious and even bawdy. The Commodore had it in mind to observe an already ancient naval tradition and throw out a signal consisting of book, chapter and verse: ‘Oh that my words were now written, oh, that they were printed in a book’ was the quotation that had been addressed to him in the Baltic by Admiral Gambier when he was very slow with a return of stores; but before he could think of the references, a truly heavenly smell of coffee and kippered herrings wafted along the quarterdeck.
‘Mr Rodger,’ he said to the signal midshipman, ‘should you care to breakfast in the cabin?’
‘Oh yes, sir, if you please.’
‘My compliments to Mr Harding, and should be happy if he were to join us.’
It was a cheerful breakfast, and copious, as Jack Aubrey’s breakfasts always were whenever he was anywhere near a civilized shore; and his present cook Franklin was an old Mediterranean hand, with a genius at shopping in lingua franca, gestures, and cheerful repetition growing louder and louder until the poor foreigner (Dalmatian in this case) understood. The kippers had of course been brought from home, but the perfectly fresh eggs, butter, cream and veal cutlets were from the island of Brazza itself and the new sack of true Mocha from a friendly Turkish ship encountered off the Bocche di Cattaro.
Harding had been in the Adriatic with Hoste in 1811 serving as second in Active, 38, and since they could now see the island of Lissa through the stern windows, on the starboard quarter, with very little prompting he gave a vivid account of that famous action, one of the few frigate-battles of the war, with ten of them engaged, besides smaller vessels, illustrating the movements of the squadrons with pieces of crust.
Breakfast was necessarily late that day and the very exact account of an engagement with so many ships in constant motion made it later still. Favorite had only just run aground in shocking confusion when a midshipman came in, and begging the Commodore’s pardon, asked if he might tell Dr Maturin that Dr Jacob would like to speak to him.
‘I hope not to be a moment,’ said Stephen. ‘I would not miss a single manoeuvre.’
‘Have I done wrong in calling you?’ asked Jacob. ‘I thought you would like to see the first results of our conversations in Spalato.’ In the bright sun flames could not be seen to full advantage, but the great trail of smoke drifting west-north-west was very eloquent. ‘Bertolucci’s yard, of course,’ said Jacob. ‘It had half-completed Nereide, a .
what is smaller than a frigate?’
‘A corvetto.’
‘Just so: a corvetto. The men have not been paid these three weeks and more... I believe I see French sailors trying to put the fire out.’
‘Should you like to climb into that platform up there, with a perspective glass?’
‘Not at all, not at all. Besides, there are our morning rounds, and it is already late. Surely you have not forgotten young Mr Daniel, your guardian spirit?’
So practised a body of men as the Surprises could ordinarily fire a rapid series of broadsides without doing themselves much harm, but this time, almost entirely because of levity and mirth, there were three or four hands in the sickberth, some from rope-burns as they tried to check the gun’s recoil, and some from getting in the way of the carriage itself. The exception was John Daniel, the only true casualty: Captain Delalande, like his opponent, preferred that his gunfire, however formal, should make a great deal of noise, and he too had the charge rammed home with wooden disks. One of these, flying out ahead of the wad, had struck poor Daniel in the chest, breaking his collar-bone and making a great livid bruise.
Stephen had certainly not forgotten him; but later in the morning, with all the patients dressed, bandaged and treated (in Daniel’s case with a comfortable dose of laudanum), he was glad to be able to make his way into the maintop unescorted as the frigate ran (or rather crept, the breeze dying on them) between Sabbioncello and Meleda.
Papadopoulos’ yard on the one and Pavelic’s on the other had already been destroyed: only a little smoke rose from the sail- and rigging-lofts, ropewalks and blackened hulls. He stared fixedly at the southern end of Sabbioncello, where according to his list there was a small yard belonging to one Boccanegra: but as Boccanegra, a Sicilian, had a father-inlaw of importance among the Carbonari and their sometimes very curious allies,
