Read Online The Golden Ocean by Patrick O’Brian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick O’Brian
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of Munster, through the chops of the Channel and to the very deck of the
Centurion
herself, that noble ship, ending with the heartfelt words, ‘but never did I truly miss the purse until this moment, sir.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said the chaplain heavily, sadly. ‘So you were robbed, and I have beaten you for being robbed. You must forgive me, Peter. But what is to be done? What are we to do? I am at a stand. I protest,’ he said again, after a pause, ‘that I am quite at a stand.’
At this moment there was a great rumbling groan, and the port opened upwards and outwards, letting in a blinding light and a blast of fresh sea air.
‘Mind the ink-well!’ cried the chaplain, as he and Peter darted about after the flying papers, ‘and for the love of Heaven cling to my sermon.’
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said a bearded face, upside down in the opening. ‘We’ve just opened the port, like.’
In time everything was picked up, sorted, squared and made fast under heavy books. They sat, gasping and dazzled, gazing at one another through narrowed eyes; and all that Peter could see in Mr Walter’s face was doubt and anxiety. ‘I might,’ said the chaplain at last, ‘I might give you a letter to Mr Shovell. He hopes he may be given the command of a cutter, a hired cutter, for service in the Channel … but I don’t know, I’m sure.’
He went on musing aloud in this way for some time, and Peter’s gaze wandered to the brilliant sea-scape on the far side of the square gunport: he saw boats passing to and fro between the guardships and the squadron, and for a brief moment the whole of the foreground was filled with the bulk of an eight-and-twenty-gun frigate running before the wind, with studding-sails aloft and alow on either side. The brown faces on her quarterdeck were turned towards the Centurion and he could see them laughing as they looked up. She vanished, and his mind returned to Mr Walter’s discourse: he found that the chaplain was explaining the various categories of ‘young gentlemen’, the King’s Letter Boys, the volunteers, and those who appeared on the ship’s books as captain’s, lieutenant’s and even boatswain’s servants, but who in fact walked the quarterdeck like the other midshipmen; yet he was aware that Mr Walter was not really talking to any purpose. And as time went on he also became aware that Mr Walter was staring at him in a very curious way—staring with a fixed, unwavering gaze at his throat, sometimes half closing his eyes and sometimes leaning his head to one side. In the brilliant light that now filled the cabin there could be no possible doubt of his unwavering stare, nor of its direction. The explanation continued, somewhat at haphazard: the gaze grew even more intense. Peter began to feel uneasy, and at length he put his hand to his cravat to see whether it was undone, or whether perhaps it had dipped into the ink.
‘Peter Palafox,’ said the chaplain, ‘pray reach me thatbuckle.’ And when he had it in his hand he leant back until he was in the sun, holding it to his eye in a very knowing and professional manner. ‘So there you were wandering about Ireland,’ he said, after a long considering pause and countless inspections of the buckle in different lights, ‘wandering about like an Egyptian, I say, with an emerald pinned to your throat. A handsome emerald, though a little flawed, of course, and scratched: but a fine generous colour. At one time,’ he went on, still peering deep into the stone, ‘I taught English to a Dutch jewel-merchant. I loved to see his baubles, and perhaps he taught me more than I taught him. I must not call myself a phoenix—oh, no—but I can tell a true stone when I see one. Look, this is what we call the garden of an emerald—beautiful, is it not? Now if it were not for this unlucky hole bored at the edge—Indian work, for sure—it might fetch two or three hundred guineas. But even so, I am very much out if it is not worth a
Centurion
herself, that noble ship, ending with the heartfelt words, ‘but never did I truly miss the purse until this moment, sir.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said the chaplain heavily, sadly. ‘So you were robbed, and I have beaten you for being robbed. You must forgive me, Peter. But what is to be done? What are we to do? I am at a stand. I protest,’ he said again, after a pause, ‘that I am quite at a stand.’
At this moment there was a great rumbling groan, and the port opened upwards and outwards, letting in a blinding light and a blast of fresh sea air.
‘Mind the ink-well!’ cried the chaplain, as he and Peter darted about after the flying papers, ‘and for the love of Heaven cling to my sermon.’
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said a bearded face, upside down in the opening. ‘We’ve just opened the port, like.’
In time everything was picked up, sorted, squared and made fast under heavy books. They sat, gasping and dazzled, gazing at one another through narrowed eyes; and all that Peter could see in Mr Walter’s face was doubt and anxiety. ‘I might,’ said the chaplain at last, ‘I might give you a letter to Mr Shovell. He hopes he may be given the command of a cutter, a hired cutter, for service in the Channel … but I don’t know, I’m sure.’
He went on musing aloud in this way for some time, and Peter’s gaze wandered to the brilliant sea-scape on the far side of the square gunport: he saw boats passing to and fro between the guardships and the squadron, and for a brief moment the whole of the foreground was filled with the bulk of an eight-and-twenty-gun frigate running before the wind, with studding-sails aloft and alow on either side. The brown faces on her quarterdeck were turned towards the Centurion and he could see them laughing as they looked up. She vanished, and his mind returned to Mr Walter’s discourse: he found that the chaplain was explaining the various categories of ‘young gentlemen’, the King’s Letter Boys, the volunteers, and those who appeared on the ship’s books as captain’s, lieutenant’s and even boatswain’s servants, but who in fact walked the quarterdeck like the other midshipmen; yet he was aware that Mr Walter was not really talking to any purpose. And as time went on he also became aware that Mr Walter was staring at him in a very curious way—staring with a fixed, unwavering gaze at his throat, sometimes half closing his eyes and sometimes leaning his head to one side. In the brilliant light that now filled the cabin there could be no possible doubt of his unwavering stare, nor of its direction. The explanation continued, somewhat at haphazard: the gaze grew even more intense. Peter began to feel uneasy, and at length he put his hand to his cravat to see whether it was undone, or whether perhaps it had dipped into the ink.
‘Peter Palafox,’ said the chaplain, ‘pray reach me thatbuckle.’ And when he had it in his hand he leant back until he was in the sun, holding it to his eye in a very knowing and professional manner. ‘So there you were wandering about Ireland,’ he said, after a long considering pause and countless inspections of the buckle in different lights, ‘wandering about like an Egyptian, I say, with an emerald pinned to your throat. A handsome emerald, though a little flawed, of course, and scratched: but a fine generous colour. At one time,’ he went on, still peering deep into the stone, ‘I taught English to a Dutch jewel-merchant. I loved to see his baubles, and perhaps he taught me more than I taught him. I must not call myself a phoenix—oh, no—but I can tell a true stone when I see one. Look, this is what we call the garden of an emerald—beautiful, is it not? Now if it were not for this unlucky hole bored at the edge—Indian work, for sure—it might fetch two or three hundred guineas. But even so, I am very much out if it is not worth a
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