The Golden Ocean by Patrick O’Brian Read Free Book Online Page B

was moved too; a tinge of colour came into his face and some animation to his extinguished eyes.
    ‘It would almost be worth while going to sea to be aboard one of those things,’ he said.
    ‘Hullo,’ cried Peter, turning round. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Thank you, the worst is over.’
    ‘It took you pretty badly,’ said Peter, with a grin; ‘you should have tried—you should have tried my recipe. But how do you mean, it would
almost
be worth while?’
    ‘Palafox,’ said FitzGerald earnestly, ‘you do not seriously suppose, do you, that once I have got my feet on dry ground, any mortal persuasion will ever get them off it? If you do, you are mistaken; for the minute I leave this ship—or ketch or brigor whatever you choose to call the horrible machine—nothing, nothing will induce me to get on to it again, nor any other floating inferno. No: my talents lie in another direction, I find.’
    ‘I am very sorry for it,’ said Peter. ‘But you know, it is never so bad again. Have you eaten anything yet?’
    ‘No,’ said FitzGerald, ‘and I do not believe that I ever shall eat again.’
    ‘That is a pity,’ said Peter, ‘for I passed by the galley just now and I saw the cook making a prodigious broth, with a hen in it. Indeed, there’s the steward now. Will you not come down and watch us eat, at least? The smell alone would revive a dying man.’
    FitzGerald hesitated, allowed himself to be persuaded—would just peck at the soup to be companionable—went down, begged the master of the Mary Rose would excuse him, had been much indisposed of late, on account of over-indulgence in pork at Blarney—ate soup, ate more soup, attacked venison pasty—pasty excellent, sea-air capital for giving an appetite—demolished a raised pie—ate solomon gundy, ate lemon posset, ate cheese, ate more cheese—varieties of cheese discussed, all excellent in their kind—ate more cheese. And at the master’s invitation he drank to his future lieutenant’s commission in muddy port; he then voluntarily proposed Peter’s appointment as master and commander, as post-captain, as rear-admiral of the blue, red and white; as vice-admiral and full admiral of the same squadrons; and to himself as first sea-lord; he earnestly promised them his protection and countenance from the moment he reached that high office, and was removed, exceedingly talkative, to his bunk.
    When Peter next came on deck darkness had fallen. His head was proof against the master’s port, for he had been weaned on poteen that would burst into blue flame a yard from the fire—it was usual in Ballynasaggart to employ whiskey as the universal medicine, and indeed it was almost the only thing that kept the inhabitants alive under the perpetual drizzle of rain.
    It was a profound darkness that filled the warm night—no moon, no stars but the riding-lights of other vessels near at hand. He stood against the rail, and the brig worked silently in on the tide past St Helen’s; scarcely a ripple moved her, but the black water gleaming along the side in the reflection of the great stern-lantern showed that she was under way. There were lights on shore, scattered like a necklace broken, and lights at sea, moving steadily to their unseen destinations: voices in the dark, mysterious in their invisibility, and once a ghostly form, pale whiteness reaching into the sky, swept by them, a man-of-war bound for the Jamaica station. He heard the order ‘Hands to the braces’ and a pattering of feet: then the ship was gone.
    ‘Joe!’ hailed the mate of the Mary Rose , shattering the enchantment.
    ‘Ho!’ answered a very loud voice from out of the night.
    ‘Where’s Centurion lying?’
    ‘How come you’re so soon?’ countered the unseen Joe. ‘We did not look for to see you this tide.’
    ‘Is she at St Helen’s yet?’
    ‘Nor this week neither,’ said Joe, apparently right under their stern.
    ‘Joe!’ hailed the master.
    ‘Ho!’ replied the voice, which had