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Authors: Patrick O’Brian
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secrets are kept in this degenerate age. I must tell the Commodore. How long have the Spaniards been aware of the plan, I wonder?’ He paused. ‘However, we must get back to the matter in hand. So you have no sea-chest, Peter, I collect?’
‘No sea-chest, sir,’ said Peter again, looking so wan that even in this dim light the chaplain could make out his distress. They remained silent for some moments, Peter’s heart dying within him—so near to his goal, the ship actually stirring under his feet at this minute, and then to be turned back—and Mr Walter’s mind busily turning over the meagre resources of a lean, lean purse and an overloaded credit.
‘Peter,’ he said, ‘you must know that unhappily I am not a rich man, and that my own provision for this great voyage has quite exhausted what wealth I had. I cannot tell what to do, upon my word. To equip you very modestly might cost as much as twenty pound …’
‘Oh sir,’ said Peter faintly. In Ballynasaggart twenty pounds kept the whole family for twelve months of the year.
‘Twenty pound … Tell me, did your friends not give you somewhat to bear your charges—something for contingencies unforeseen in Ballynasaggart?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Peter. ‘My father gave me a purse of gold. Six broad pieces, sir, no less.’
‘Why then,’ cried Mr Walter, flinging out his hands in relief and knocking down a pile of books, ‘why then, there you are! O what a relief to my mind this is! It is not enough, to be sure, but with some pinching and contriving and with the advice of my good friend the purser—a most experienced sea-provider—we may rig you out creditably enough to pass muster. So your good father gave you a fine round plump purse, bless him.’
‘He did, sir,’ said Peter, and he hesitated for a moment before adding, ‘But it was all lost at the races.’
‘Lost at the races?’ said Mr Walter, in a wondering, dubious voice.
‘Yes, sir. I grieve to say that at the races it was lost.’
‘Lost at the races!’ cried the chaplain, now flushed with anger. ‘Do you presume to tell me that it was lost at the races? Profligate boy!’ he cried, striking the table an ominous blow.
‘Oh sir, by your leave …’ began Peter.
‘No, sir, not a word: no, no,’ cried the angry chaplain. ‘The brisk intemperance of youth may excuse much; but not this. You know the value of a gold piece to a clergyman with a living like your father’s as well as I do: you know, or you should know, the self-denial and privation needed to put by a single half-guinea. To squander his substance in this manner is an example of heartlessness such as I have rarely encountered. I am disappointed in you, sir; I am profoundly displeasedwith your conduct; and I wish you good day.’ Mr Walter was a man of high principle, opposed to violence, and he had meant the interview to end with these words. But his unprincipled right hand (much given to generous indignation) rose of its own volition, and swinging forward in a pure arc it struck Peter’s left ear, knocking his head against the gun so briskly that the metal rang again; and Peter fell off his stool, quite amazed.
It took him some moments to collect his wits. In the meantime the chaplain picked him up, straightened his sprawling limbs and put him back on his stool; and Peter heard the words, ‘Dear me, dear me … never should have done it … poor boy … temptation, no doubt … there, now … why, he looks but palely …’
‘By your leave, sir,’ cried Peter suddenly, ‘it was not the betting. Oh sir, it was not the betting, but a cutpurse, a rapparee, an unlucky black thief of a pickpocket that did be stealing it in the crowd. Will I tell you the way it was, sir?’
‘Do, my poor boy, do: for I fear I have done you an injustice,’ said the chaplain, dusting Peter’s face with his handkerchief. And Peter told him the way it was, in very great detail, right through Connaught and the greater part
‘No sea-chest, sir,’ said Peter again, looking so wan that even in this dim light the chaplain could make out his distress. They remained silent for some moments, Peter’s heart dying within him—so near to his goal, the ship actually stirring under his feet at this minute, and then to be turned back—and Mr Walter’s mind busily turning over the meagre resources of a lean, lean purse and an overloaded credit.
‘Peter,’ he said, ‘you must know that unhappily I am not a rich man, and that my own provision for this great voyage has quite exhausted what wealth I had. I cannot tell what to do, upon my word. To equip you very modestly might cost as much as twenty pound …’
‘Oh sir,’ said Peter faintly. In Ballynasaggart twenty pounds kept the whole family for twelve months of the year.
‘Twenty pound … Tell me, did your friends not give you somewhat to bear your charges—something for contingencies unforeseen in Ballynasaggart?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Peter. ‘My father gave me a purse of gold. Six broad pieces, sir, no less.’
‘Why then,’ cried Mr Walter, flinging out his hands in relief and knocking down a pile of books, ‘why then, there you are! O what a relief to my mind this is! It is not enough, to be sure, but with some pinching and contriving and with the advice of my good friend the purser—a most experienced sea-provider—we may rig you out creditably enough to pass muster. So your good father gave you a fine round plump purse, bless him.’
‘He did, sir,’ said Peter, and he hesitated for a moment before adding, ‘But it was all lost at the races.’
‘Lost at the races?’ said Mr Walter, in a wondering, dubious voice.
‘Yes, sir. I grieve to say that at the races it was lost.’
‘Lost at the races!’ cried the chaplain, now flushed with anger. ‘Do you presume to tell me that it was lost at the races? Profligate boy!’ he cried, striking the table an ominous blow.
‘Oh sir, by your leave …’ began Peter.
‘No, sir, not a word: no, no,’ cried the angry chaplain. ‘The brisk intemperance of youth may excuse much; but not this. You know the value of a gold piece to a clergyman with a living like your father’s as well as I do: you know, or you should know, the self-denial and privation needed to put by a single half-guinea. To squander his substance in this manner is an example of heartlessness such as I have rarely encountered. I am disappointed in you, sir; I am profoundly displeasedwith your conduct; and I wish you good day.’ Mr Walter was a man of high principle, opposed to violence, and he had meant the interview to end with these words. But his unprincipled right hand (much given to generous indignation) rose of its own volition, and swinging forward in a pure arc it struck Peter’s left ear, knocking his head against the gun so briskly that the metal rang again; and Peter fell off his stool, quite amazed.
It took him some moments to collect his wits. In the meantime the chaplain picked him up, straightened his sprawling limbs and put him back on his stool; and Peter heard the words, ‘Dear me, dear me … never should have done it … poor boy … temptation, no doubt … there, now … why, he looks but palely …’
‘By your leave, sir,’ cried Peter suddenly, ‘it was not the betting. Oh sir, it was not the betting, but a cutpurse, a rapparee, an unlucky black thief of a pickpocket that did be stealing it in the crowd. Will I tell you the way it was, sir?’
‘Do, my poor boy, do: for I fear I have done you an injustice,’ said the chaplain, dusting Peter’s face with his handkerchief. And Peter told him the way it was, in very great detail, right through Connaught and the greater part
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