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Authors: David Donachie
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EmilyBarclay. Unlike everyone else aboard, his interest was not carnal; he had a lively curiosity about most things, but most particularly about the project which had brought him aboard the vessel; his desire to study sailors in conditions of both normality and extreme stress, to discern the motives by which they lived and accepted the privations of the service, their attitude to death and discomfort, in short to compile a survey on what made sailors the kind of people they were.
Unlike most medically trained men, he found the physical side of his occupation dull, one amputation much like another, a dose of pox cured repetitive, the wrenching of a tooth boring. What interested Lutyens was the mind, to him the seat of all activity and emotion. He had come aboard this frigate because the size made close observation possible. In his coat was the book, one of a number, in which he scribbled what he saw, every detail of shipboard life and how each member of the crew felt, what they said, and how their words differed from their true emotions. There were notes on Captain Barclay and his officers, and there were observations on Emily Barclay too; the way she had interceded on behalf of the pressed seaman Pearce, caring little for her husband’s wrath. What had caused that; was it a sense of justice or something more primal? He longed to know, but he was astute enough to be aware that asking would get him no information. Not that it mattered; Lutyens worked on a different set of principles, believing that human beings often told you more by what they omitted to say, than by the words they uttered.
‘Captain Barclay is regaling Captain Gould with the story of the recent action.’
‘I daresay it is already embellished,’ Lutyens replied. The frown that engendered pleased him, for it was not entirely disapproval, more an acknowledgement that what he said was bound to be true. ‘You did not wish to stay and hear it told?’
Emily looked at her book, to avoid the probing eyes of the surgeon, made uncomfortable by his all too obvious scrutiny. ‘I daresay I shall have ample time in my life to hear it.’
‘I cannot help but feel the role of Pearce and his fellows will diminish in direct proportion to those of others aboard the ship.’
He meant her husband, but did not say so, and was pleased at the almost infinitesimal reaction, a tiny jerk in her frame at the mention of John Pearce, for he had suspected he had seen her, on the first day she could have observed him, openly admiring him. What would happen if he told her what he knew about the man, the secrets regarding his parentage which Pearce had spilled when drugged with laudanum, of the letter he had written to aid his cause once he landed in England? It was tempting to speculate, but that was all it could be, for the oaths of his profession bound him to silence. The arrival of coffee broke the mood, and as he poured for her he observed the look of pity that she gave to the still comatose Roscoe.
‘I believe your father is a chaplain to the Royal Family?’Lutyens let her change the subject; doing so confirmed how uncomfortable she found the previous one. ‘He is, but only in the Lutheran faith, which the Queen, being German born, is wont to practise more than His Majesty. Even if he were to desire it otherwise he must be seen as the committed Anglican.’
‘Surely there is not much to choose between them?’
‘You’re right, but do not ask me to enumerate what those differences are. I’m afraid I find the whole subject of religiosity and its variations baffling.’
‘Would you think me too bold if I said that many wonder at your being aboard such a ship as HMS Brilliant .’
Lutyens smiled, well aware of the curiosity his presence had engendered. ‘You mean with my connections?’
‘Not many surgeons can boast of proximity to royalty.’ She looked at Roscoe again. ‘I’m sure he would be grateful if he knew.’
‘Perhaps, though I think the notions of
Unlike most medically trained men, he found the physical side of his occupation dull, one amputation much like another, a dose of pox cured repetitive, the wrenching of a tooth boring. What interested Lutyens was the mind, to him the seat of all activity and emotion. He had come aboard this frigate because the size made close observation possible. In his coat was the book, one of a number, in which he scribbled what he saw, every detail of shipboard life and how each member of the crew felt, what they said, and how their words differed from their true emotions. There were notes on Captain Barclay and his officers, and there were observations on Emily Barclay too; the way she had interceded on behalf of the pressed seaman Pearce, caring little for her husband’s wrath. What had caused that; was it a sense of justice or something more primal? He longed to know, but he was astute enough to be aware that asking would get him no information. Not that it mattered; Lutyens worked on a different set of principles, believing that human beings often told you more by what they omitted to say, than by the words they uttered.
‘Captain Barclay is regaling Captain Gould with the story of the recent action.’
‘I daresay it is already embellished,’ Lutyens replied. The frown that engendered pleased him, for it was not entirely disapproval, more an acknowledgement that what he said was bound to be true. ‘You did not wish to stay and hear it told?’
Emily looked at her book, to avoid the probing eyes of the surgeon, made uncomfortable by his all too obvious scrutiny. ‘I daresay I shall have ample time in my life to hear it.’
‘I cannot help but feel the role of Pearce and his fellows will diminish in direct proportion to those of others aboard the ship.’
He meant her husband, but did not say so, and was pleased at the almost infinitesimal reaction, a tiny jerk in her frame at the mention of John Pearce, for he had suspected he had seen her, on the first day she could have observed him, openly admiring him. What would happen if he told her what he knew about the man, the secrets regarding his parentage which Pearce had spilled when drugged with laudanum, of the letter he had written to aid his cause once he landed in England? It was tempting to speculate, but that was all it could be, for the oaths of his profession bound him to silence. The arrival of coffee broke the mood, and as he poured for her he observed the look of pity that she gave to the still comatose Roscoe.
‘I believe your father is a chaplain to the Royal Family?’Lutyens let her change the subject; doing so confirmed how uncomfortable she found the previous one. ‘He is, but only in the Lutheran faith, which the Queen, being German born, is wont to practise more than His Majesty. Even if he were to desire it otherwise he must be seen as the committed Anglican.’
‘Surely there is not much to choose between them?’
‘You’re right, but do not ask me to enumerate what those differences are. I’m afraid I find the whole subject of religiosity and its variations baffling.’
‘Would you think me too bold if I said that many wonder at your being aboard such a ship as HMS Brilliant .’
Lutyens smiled, well aware of the curiosity his presence had engendered. ‘You mean with my connections?’
‘Not many surgeons can boast of proximity to royalty.’ She looked at Roscoe again. ‘I’m sure he would be grateful if he knew.’
‘Perhaps, though I think the notions of
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