Dr Maturin's New Object

As Jack's barge pulled away from the quay, the wind ruffled the otherwise smooth surface of the water. The sun was rising higher in the sky now, and the promise of a splendid day's sailing, should they collect the tide, was apparent; gulls wheeled low over the harbour and small craft plied to and fro, serving the various ships of the fleet that lay at anchor, some near, some far off in the huge expanse of sheltered water.

An air of supreme contentment spread over Jack. He was made Post, had a crack frigate - albeit a borrowed one - under his command and the prospect of a cruise on the West Indies stations, with prizes a-plenty to restore his shattered fortunes. He would be clear of his creditors in the short term, and could now contemplate buying them off altogether, leaving enough aside for Sophie and he to buy a small cottage, nothing of the grand about it, above the Downs, get her away from that brutish mother of hers, general thoughts regarding mothers-in-law, kitchen gardens, animal husbandry, natural history - there must be something for Stephen there, a nest of kittiwakes, a rare newt or the like...

Jack slowly became conscious of a voice calling. "Holloa, there, Jack. Give you joy of this morning." It was Stephen in the coxswain's cutter, now drawing across the bay in a line that would shortly converge with the course taken by Jack's barge, leaving them to come on to the Lively in company. As he called out in answer, Jack became strongly aware of a certain constraint upon the men in the cutter, a certain rigidity of bearing. "Look there, Jack, do not you see the guillemot and his mate circling. It is most unusual in these waters at this time." Stephen stood up excitedly, forgetting that he was perched precariously in a small craft, and then Jack saw that he was wearing a very tight, entirely form-fitting garment made entirely of bright yellow material, emblazoned with various names and words, each of a different type and weight, and some on differing grounds, white, orange, blue, as the case may be. Jack had never seen anything quite so hideous, certainly nothing so little Navy-like and on Stephen's meagre frame so particularly likely to draw attention to any deficiencies about the wearer's person.

Jack drew himself up in the boat and called out in response: "Why, ahh, yes...that is, no, Doctor." His crew, thrown awry by Stephen's garb, pulled out of time and Jack called out harshly to them "In time, you lubbers...Damned unseamanlike lot. Fall in behind us, if you please, Mr Babbington," this last to the cutter. "Aye, sir," came the strangled yelp. All the men stared straight ahead and said nothing, steeling themselves to the forthcoming indignity, knowing that their approach could be seen by the whole fleet and, in particular, and which mattered more to them, by the crew of the Lively.

"Do not you see the splendid boat that lies ahead, Jack?" he enquired. "Is it not the Lively? Sure, nothing so fine can be our home for the next months. Can it be possible?" And there indeed, ahead, lay the Lively, a crack frigate, her lines clean and beautiful in the early morning light. She had been in the East Indies these past two years, under Captain Hammond, who had now been called to Parliament; Jack was to have her temporarily and, while he had been allowed to choose certain of his own personal followers - his coxswain, Bonden, his servant, Killick, and of course his particular friend, Dr Maturin - he was otherwise to have Hammond's crew in its entirety. Hammond was a Tory and so were his officers, and thus unlikely to be wholly sympathetic to Jack, as a Whig.

"Jack. Ho there, Jack, for all love, have you remarked upon my garment?" Stephen, still standing, turned, nearly falling, showing off to its best advantage, if any could be described as such in so sub-fusc an item, the gaily-coloured apparel in which he took such clear delight. "See? Is it not eminently rational?"

Jack looked sidelong at Stephen and called back, his voice grating and formal: "Why, yes...entirely...good day to you, Doctor". "I do believe the wicked old creature is drunk," he thought to himself. "Mr Campagnolo, an Italian acquaintance of mine, was good enough to make me one up, Jack. Do you remark, too, that it bears the name of our vessel upon it?" and as he turned, Jack saw, to his amazed horror, that the words "HMS Lively" were boldly picked out in yellow on lilac across the entire width of Stephen's shoulders. "Quite, Doctor, thankee...yes, indeed, the Lively". His voice trailed off into the morning. "He is making one for you as well Jack, and I am having it sent on board today." Stephen took off the small, peaked cap, in matching yellow, that completed his outfit and waved it joyously to his friend. Jack shuddered inwardly.

As the barge approached the Lively's side, the bosun's pipe wailed. Jack scrambled nimbly, for a man of his bulk, up the ladder, and stepped smartly on deck, where a glittering array of perfection greeted him. The Marines stamped and crashed their salute, the yards were squared to the precise degree, the furled sails gleamed like fresh snow and the sheets, of Manilla hemp, were coiled and hung exactly so.

The first officer greeted him civilly. "Good morning, Sir and welcome aboard. My name is Jenkins. Permit me to name my fellow officers." The usual routine - introductions, congratulations on first command, expressions of admiration for the Polychrest action, were Captain Aubrey's wounds healing, etc, etc. With a great commotion and banging, Stephen was handed up the side of the ship; he was, despite his years afloat, no seaman and could not be trusted anywhere near water. "Allow me to introduce my particular friend, Dr Maturin," said Jack to Jenkins and the other officers, at which Stephen made a leg, a particularly awful gesture given the nature of the garment, which so plainly displayed the wearer's physique. Jack winced to himself and continued in a tone more fierce than he had intended: "The Doctor is currently engaged on a physical experiment. He sails with me in his private capacity".

One of the foredeck watch leaned to his mate: "Watch out for this one. There's a real Tartar, a hard-horse captain."

"A right Son of Wrath, and no mistake," his friend agreed.

Stephen stepped forward, walking around the quarterdeck, gazing in awe at the yardage. At each step, what appeared to be cleats in the soles of his shoes gouged scars into the smooth, polished deck, to the horror of all the men and to the extreme consternation of Captain Aubrey. "Such space, such grandeur - one might almost imagine oneself aboard an Indiaman," Stephen exclaimed. This was too much, at last, for one of the small gentlemen and there was a wild laugh, quickly smothered, and then a stifled scream as the boy was led down the companionway.

As Stephen's dunnage was being brought aboard, he raced to the taffrail. "Oh, pray do be careful of my bicycle!" he called out. "Never you fear, sir," said one of the midshipmen, "I shall care for it as my own". And the precious object was handed gently up the side to the general curiousity of all who saw it. Once on deck, Stephen busied himself with the contraption, a small machine that appeared to be no more than a few spars of iron, a length of chain and two small wheels. "Mr Brompton has made it for me, a device to ease transport, both on board and when safely docked; it can carry small loads and allow of the transportation of men with speed, ease and silence; think of the uses for your raiding party", this last with a nod to the Marines, who looked on, uncomprehending but interested at least in anything that might assist them in an engagement. As Stephen pulled and fiddled, gradually the machine revealed itself - a saddle rose up, pedals were unfolded, the front reared up and finally the back wheel was hoisted with a flourish up and the item was complete. All the officers and all the men, looked on, Jack with an air of foreboding. "Pray, Stephen...," he began, but got no further.

"And now, look, gentlemen," said Stephen and climbing astride the device, he put his feet to the pedals and moved gently forward. There was a gasp of amazement. Maturin weaved unsteadily towards the far-side rail and brought himself to an awkward if effective stop by lowering his feet to the deck, scraping two uneven lines in the smooth oak. Jack sighed deeply, as Stephen then brought the contraption - the bicycle - around again and set off once more, this time faster and with disastrous consequences: Stephen had not yet fully grasped the concept of the brakes and, gathering speed in the confined space of the quarterdeck, scattered the Marines to left and right, caught the handles in a coil of rope that had come adrift and plunged down the ladder onto the main deck, his head saved from serious injury by landing on a furled sail, his feet still firmly attached by the cleats, which Jack had not hitherto seen but whose existence he now surmised, onto the pedals.

Nothing daunted, Stephen gazed up happily at the appalled faces. "A few teething problems, but we shall soon be there," he announced breathlessly, then looked down sadly at the blood from a nasty gash on his temple which splashed down onto the bright yellow of his garment. "Bear a hand there for the Doctor," bellowed Jack and he helped lead Stephen below to the main cabin.

Despite the incident, Stephen glowed with happiness and thus it was with something of a heavy heart that Jack said to him: "Stephen, you will think this very unphilosophical of me, I know, but this is only an acting command and I cannot afford to be taken lightly. I must ask you not to wear that garment on board this ship." Stephen looked down disappointedly, plucking at the material clinging to his chest. "See, Jack, it is of Lycra; it fits close to the skin and is thus ideal for ascending to the topmost parts of the ship; nothing will snag on it and even the wind must glide smoothly off, thus not delaying our passage even for a moment. It permits of the free and easy movement of the pantaloon, and the protection of an oilskin. It is the best possible garment for sailing." "And yet, Stephen, I must insist." "But you wear Nankeen breeches, a thing I should never ever countenance, for all love."

Yet Stephen knew the cost to his friend and, though disappointed, he wore the garment no more.