PATRICK O’BRIAN
   The Hundred Days
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
   W.W. Norton & Company
   
   New York * London
   
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
    
   
   Chapter One
   
   The sudden rearmament that followed Napoleon’s escape from Elba had done little to thin the ranks of unemployed sea-officers by the early spring of 1815. A man-of-war stripped, dismantled and laid up cannot be manned, equipped and made ready for sea in a matter of weeks; and the best vantage-points in Gibraltar were now crowded with gentlemen on half-pay who with others had gathered to watch the long-expected arrival of Commodore Aubrey’s squadron from Madeira, a squadron that would do something to refurnish the great bare stretch of water inside the mole - an extraordinary nakedness emphasized by the presence of a few hulks, the Royal Sovereign wearing the flag of the Commander-in-Chief, and a couple of lonely seventy-fours: no stream of liberty-boats plying to and fro, almost no appearance of true wartime life.
   It was a wonderfully beautiful day, with a slight and varying but reasonably favourable breeze at last: the sun blazed on the various kinds of broom in flower, upon the Rock, upon the cistuses and giant heath, while an uninterrupted stream of migrant birds, honey-buzzards, black kites, all the European vultures, storks both black and white, bee-eaters, hoopoes and countless hirundines flowed across the sky amidst a general indifference; for all eyes were fixed upon the middle distance, where the squadron had come about on the starboard tack. Among the earlier of the watchers, both carrying well-worn telescopes, were two elderly naval lieutenants who could no longer bear the English climate and who found that their £127 15s. 0d a year went much
    farther here.
   ‘The breeze is veering again,’ said the first. ‘It will be abaft the beam directly.’
   ‘They will be in on this leg, sure.’
   ‘In at last, after all these weary days, poor souls. Briseis kept them hanging about in Funchal until they almost grounded on their own beef-bones. She was always overmasted; and even now I cannot congratulate her on that botched-together bowsprit. Marsham has always oversteeved his bowsprits.’
   ‘Nor on her new foretopmast: their bosun must have died.’
   ‘Now they have steadied, and the line is as clear as can be. Briseis... Surprise - she must have been called back into service - Pomone, wearing Commodore Jack Aubrey’s broad pennant - that must have put poor Wrangle’s nose out of joint. Dover... Ganymede. Dover... Ganymede. Dover was fitted as a troopship and now she is changing herself back into a frigate as fast as ever she can. What a shambles!’
   The breeze came aft and the whole squadron flashed out studdingsails, broad wings set in a thoroughly seamanlike manner: a glorious sight. Yet now the current was against them and in spite of their fine spread of canvas they made but little headway. They were all of them sailing large, of course, all of them getting the last ounce of thrust from the dying breeze with all the skill learnt in more than twenty years of war; a noble spectacle, but one that after a while called for no particular comment, and presently the old lieutenant, John Arrowsmith, two months senior to his friend Thomas Edwards, said, ‘When I was young I always used to turn to the births and marriages in the Times as soon as I had done with the promotions and dispatches; but now I turn to the deaths.’
   ‘So do I,’ said Edwards.
   ‘...and with this last batch that came with the packet I found several names I knew. The first was Admiral Stranraer, Admiral Lord Stranraer, Captain Koop that was.’
   ‘Oh, indeed? I sailed with him in the old Defender, a West Indies commission where he taught us the spit and polish of those parts. Gloves at all times, whatever the weather; Hessian boots with tassels, on the quarterdeck; up lower yards and cross topgallant yards in under five minutes or watch out for squalls; no reply allowed to any rebuke. If it were not that he is dead, I could tell you many a tale about him in Kingston.’
   ‘Indeed, he was not a well-liked man at all, at all. They say his surgeon and another medico killed him with a black draught or something of that kind: but slowly, you understand me now, like the husband of one of those arsenic wives eager to be a widow but not choosing to swing for it.’
   ‘From my acquaintance with his lordship, what you say does not surprise me in the least. On reflection, I believe I should offer each or either of the physical gentlemen a glass of brandy, were the occasions to offer. Do you see Surprise start her stuns’l sheet not to outrun her station?’
   ‘Aye. She was always a wonderfully swift sailer; and now they have done her proud, as trim as a royal yacht. Webster saw her in young Seppings’ yard where they were fitting her out regardless, diagonal bracing and everything you can think of - fitting her out for a hydrographical voyage. A lovely little craft.’
   For some time they discussed the ship’s perfections; their practised hands holding her steady in their telescopes; but then, the line being perfectly re-established, a cable’s length apart, Arrowsmith clapped his glass to and said, ‘Another death was of quite a different kind of man: Governor Wood of Sierra Leone. He was a fine fellow, very popular in the service, and he kept a noble table - invited whole wardrooms when the King’s ships came in; and youngsters too.’
   ‘I remember him very well. John Kneller and I and nearly all our messmates dined with him after some cruel weather  off the River Plate and weeks of damned short commons - a sprung butt had drowned the bread-room. Lord, how we ate, and laughed, and sang! So he is dead. Well, God rest him, say I. Though when everything is said and done, we must all come to it; which may be some comfort to those that go before. A very handsome wife, as I recall, but on the learned side, which made her neighbours shy.’
   ‘The breeze is strengthening out there. Dover has let fly her foretop-gallant sheets.’
   The gust - the series of gusts - disturbed the picture-book regularity for a while, but it was restored after a remarkably short interval (all hands knew that they were being watched not only by an uncommonly exigent commodore and the even more formidable Commander-in-Chief Lord Keith, but also by an increasingly numerous band of highly informed, highly-critical observers on shore) and presently the two lieutenants’ conversation resumed.
   ‘And then there was another what you might call naval death, a good deal earlier than the others but only now reported. Did you ever meet Dr Maturin?’
   ‘I don’t know that I did, but I have often heard of him. A very clever doctor, they say - called in to treat Prince William - always sails with Jack Aubrey.’
   ‘That’s the man. Well, he has a wife. They live with the Aubreys at his big place in Dorset - but of course you know it, being a Dorset man.’
   ‘Yes. Woolcombe; or Woolhampton as some say. It is rather far for us and we do not visit, but I have been to one or two of the Blackstone’s meets there and we used to see Mrs Aubrey and Mrs Maturin at the Dorchester assembly. Mrs Maturin breeds Arabs: a very good horsewoman and an uncommon fine whip.’
   ‘Well, yes...so they said. But do you know a place called Maiden Oscott?’
   ‘Only too well, with its damned awkward bridge.’
   ‘The report gives no details, but it seemed she pitched over - the whole shooting-match, coach, horses and all, pitched over right down into the river, and only the groom was brought out alive.’
   ‘Oh, my God!’ cried Edwards: and after a pause, ‘My wife disliked her; but she was a very beautiful woman. Some people said she was a demi-rep... she had some astonishing jewels... there was some talk of a Colonel Cholmondeley and it is said the marriage was not a happy one. But she is dead, God rest her. I say no more. Yet I doubt I ever see her like again.’
   They both reflected, gazing out over the brilliant sea with half-closed eyes as the squadron drew inshore and the watching crowd increased; and Edwards said, ‘When you come to think of it, on looking about our shipmates and relations, can you think of any marriage that could be called a happy one, after the first flush? There is something to be said for a bachelor’s existence, you know: turn in whenever you like, read in bed...’