Stephen was not sure that his yard was part of the bargain. He stared with increasing intensity as the frigate moved gently across the placid Adriatic, focusing and refocusing Jack’s telescope, some remote part of his mind was aware of the striking of eight bells, the assembly of officers making the noon observation, the cheerful sound of hands being piped to dinner; and then at one bell the fife’s squeaking out the expected but still very welcome news that grog was ready.
The cheers and the beating of wooden plates on messtables that greeted its arrival were still quite audible from far below when a nervous ship’s boy in a bright blue jacket, nominally Dr Maturin’s servant, nipped into the top and said, ‘Oh sir, if you please...oh, sir, if you please...which Mr Killick bids me remind you that the Commodore, his honour, is to dine in the gunroom and you are all filthy. Which he has powdered your best wig.’
‘Thank you, Peter; you may tell him that you have delivered the message,’ said Stephen. He looked at his hands. ‘Not as who should say filthy,’ he murmured. ‘But it is true I had forgotten.’
Although he led Peter a hard life, Killick had not yet recovered the power, consequence or esteem that had been his before he broke the horn, nor anything like it, either in the cabin or on the lower deck, he could still point out, in a tolerably shrewish voice, that the gentlemen were all assembled, that they were only waiting for the Commodore, and that Dr Maturin’s clean breeches, his brushed best coat, and his newly-powdered wig were on that there chair: there was not time to more than just sponge his face in this here warm basin and how did he manage to get into such a pickle? ‘We shall never do it in the time, oh dear, oh... dear.’
They did do it in the time, however, and five or even ten seconds before the Commodore walked in, Stephen was already in his place between Whewell and the master, his servant behind his chair, and Dr Jacob opposite him. They exchanged a calm, unconscious look as the door opened and the Commodore walked in. Everybody stood up.
‘Be seated, gentlemen; I beg,’ cried Jack. ‘I was so very nearly late that I do not deserve such courtesy. For one who tends to cry up timeliness more than faith, hope or charity it is a very shocking performance. Absurdly enough, I was looking for my glass: I looked in every conceivable place - no glass. But here is consolation’ - draining his admirable sherry.
A chill fell upon Stephen’s heart: without leave he had taken the telescope, and slinging it about his neck in a seamanlike or fairly seamanlike fashion, had carried it up into the maintop. And there, shocked by Peter’s news, he had left it, lying on a neat heap of studdingsails. To cover his guilt he said, ‘We often hear of people calling their daughters Faith, Hope, Charity, or even Prudence; but never Justice, Fortitude or Temperance; nor yet Punctuality, though I am sure it has its charms.’ He helped himself to soup, and the talk flowed on. Nobody said anything particularly witty or profound or really memorable for foolishness but it was agreeable, friendly conversation, accompanied by acceptable food and more than acceptable wine.
When they had drunk the loyal toast Stephen excused himself: there ‘was something he had forgotten’, he told the president, avoiding Jacob’s eye. There was indeed: but he had completely overlooked the difficulty, for those unrelated to the more nimble kind of ape, of climbing in tight breeches, buckled shoes, and a fine long-tailed coat. In his hurry he slipped again and again, for the ship, now almost becalmed in the lee of a headland, was rolling, wallowing, in a very disgraceful and uncharacteristic fashion. Sometimes he hung by both hands, writhing to get his feet back onto the ratlines, sometimes by one. He was in this ludicrous posture, much disturbed in his mind, when Bonden came racing up the shrouds, seized him with an iron grasp, wheeled him round to the outboard side and at his faint, wheezing request, propelled him into the top, where he gave him the buckled shoe that had dropped on deck. He asked no questions, he gave no advice; but he did look very thoughtfully at the Commodore’s telescope: he was, after all, Jack Aubrey’s coxswain.
‘Barret Bonden,’ said Stephen, when he had recovered his breath, ‘I am very much obliged to you indeed. Deeply obliged, upon my word. But you need not mention that telescope to the Commodore. I am about to carry it down to him myself, and explain...’
‘Why,’ cried the Commodore, heaving his powerful frame over the top-brim, ‘there’s my glass. I had been looking for it everywhere.’
‘I am so sorry - I should not have made you uneasy for the world - thank you, Bonden, for your very timely help: please be so good as to tell Dr Jacob that I may be a few minutes late for our appointment.’ When Bonden had disappeared, Stephen went on, ‘That dear good fellow gave me a hand when a hand was extraordinarily welcome: I found breeches and shoes a sad embarrassment. The truth is...’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘The truth is,’ he went on with more conviction, ‘that there was something on the shore that interested me extremely: I could not be certain of the object without bringing it closer, so seeing your glass on its usual peg, and you not being in the way, I took the perhaps unwarrantable liberty of seizing it and running aloft as fast as my powers would admit; and upon my soul it was worth the journey. And, although it is scarcely decent in me to say so, the liberty.’
All this time - and it was not inconsiderable, for diffidence reduced Maturin’s ordinarily rapid canter to a hobbling walk with frequent pauses - Jack had been examining his precious telescope, one of Dollond’s achromatic masterpieces, with a jealous eye: but finding it quite undamaged he said, ‘Well, I am glad you saw your object. A double-headed
