The Unknown Shore (33 page)

‘We cannot afford it,’ whispered Captain Cheap.

‘We must,’ hissed Jack.

‘All ashore, sir,’ said the coxswain of the cutter. ‘Thankee kindly, sir,’ said he, pocketing the guinea and looking pleased. ‘Cutter’s crew is much obliged.’

All the stage-coach places, inside and out, were bespoken for the next many days, so they hired horses and rode as far as Canterbury by nightfall. In the morning it was decided that Captain Cheap, who had been scarcely able to sit on his horse by the end often miles, could not go on in that way, but would have to take a post-chaise. ‘I knew we could not afford that guinea,’ said the captain despondently. ‘We cannot run to a post-chaise – I am sure of it.’

Now followed the paying of their bill for the night and a very minute and anxious calculating of distance, cost and available capital.
Their common purse would stretch to a post-chaise for Captain Cheap and Mr Hamilton, and what was left, exactly as if it had been worked out by a somewhat parsimonious guardian angel, was precisely the amount needed for horse-hire for Jack and Tobias as far as the Borough – that is to say, as far as the southern suburbs of London. Angelic nature, however, does not require material sustenance, and the angel had overlooked this point: there was horse-hire, but not the price of a halfpenny bun on the road.

‘It don’t signify,’ said Jack. ‘We have put up with rather worse than one day’s fast, I believe. You don’t mind it, Toby?’

‘No,’ said Toby, ‘I don’t mind it. But I wish I could feel sure that the carrier would take due care of my unborn whale: he seemed a man of gross and earthy understanding.’

Outside the inn the post-chaise set off, and the hirelings were brought round.

‘French dog of a Turk,’ shouted an ill-conditioned boy, as they mounted.

‘I did not like their ugly foreign faces,’ said the mistress of the Pelican, counting her spoons and looking after them. ‘They might have murdered us all in our beds.’

It is true that by daylight, in an English country town, they presented a curious appearance: fashions differed very much from nation to nation, and the Spaniards at that time wore breeches and coats of an inordinate length; but even if they had not, the poncho that clothed Tobias would have attracted a great deal of attention.

‘The little ugly wicked one is a native,’ said the waiter.

‘He is not,’ said the ill-conditioned boy. ‘He is a Popish priest,’ and with this he threw a turnip. It struck the horse, the horse moved, and thus they left Canterbury, followed by the hooting of its inhabitants.

‘You know, Toby,’ said Jack, reining in at Harbledown, ‘I promised I should make your fortune if you came to sea with me.’

‘Yes,’ said Tobias, ‘and I am very sensible of your kindness in doing so, Jack. My molluscs, to say nothing of my annelids, are beyond anything  …’

‘Yes, but I meant in money,’ said Jack, ‘and I do heartily wish that I had made a better piece of work of it. Because, do you see,
if I had, we should not be afraid of that damned turnpike ahead.’ He pointed down the road to a little neat box, where at that moment a horseman was paying his toll to the keeper. The guardian angel had slipped again: he had brought them up through Patagonia; but Patagonia had no turnpikes. ‘There is no help for it,’ said Jack. ‘We shall have to ride through them all.’

This they did, sometimes by low cunning – walking up as if to stop and then suddenly spurring away – but more often by thundering along straight through, in spite of pressing appeals to stop and pay. Sometimes they had to get round by going through the fields, and twice they had to leap the barrier – a chancy thing to do on an unknown horse. It was exciting at first, but rather unpleasant in the long run, and at the last two pikes, Deptford and New Cross, whose keepers were often plagued by Cockneys and had therefore grown unnaturally alert, they were very nearly taken. But at length it was over, and they rode through the crowded streets of the Borough to the George with thankful (though very hungry) hearts, and there they left their horses. Now they were within that area of civilisation that was served by hackney-coaches, and Jack hailed one. He told the man to drive to Marlborough Street, and leant back with immense relief on the musty leather-cushioned seat. ‘Lard, Toby,’ he said, ‘how surprised they will be.’

They rumbled over London Bridge into the City; the mist swirled up from the river and blurred the lights. They crawled along past the brilliant shops of Cheapside among a hundred other coaches, and Tobias, coming out of a deep meditation, said, ‘I am very happy to tell you, Jack, that I have a satisfactory theory at last – a comprehensive theory – an irrefragable theory.’

‘I am glad you are so pleased,’ said Jack. ‘What is it a theory about?’

‘Tombs,’ said Tobias, recognising the place where he had been hunted down by the press-gang and pointing it out with mild approval. ‘Those tombs that we found are my
terminus a quo,
and I conclude that the whole of the country south of the Chonos islands is the Indians’ Holy Land. They go there for religious motives, as it were on pilgrimage: this explains their presence in such barren, unpleasant regions, and their displeasure at seeing strangers – they may have thought us unclean spirits. There were several different
tribes, but although they were so savage they did not fight. They did not kill us – they did not steal from us. All this points in the same direction – a peculiarly extensive local sanctity. And the fact that they carry their dead thither to bury them confirms it. Besides, those bloody ceremonies at which they howled all night and gashed themselves with oyster-shells were certainly religious.’

‘A pretty rum religion,’ said Jack.

‘Not more so than burning people at the stake,’ said Tobias, who still felt rather strongly upon this point. ‘And we read in Strabo  …’

‘Marlborough Street,’ called out the driver, pulling up.

‘Ha, ha,’ cried Jack, bounding out. He darted up the steps, and gave a great thundering double knock on the door. He was smiling to the widest extent of his face.

Slowly his smile grew less. He knocked again, and looked up at the windows: they were all shuttered, lightless, blind. He went round to the mews at the back, but there was no answer. The coachyard door was locked and barred.

‘Drive to Little Windmill Street,’ said Jack to the coachman, who was now growing anxious about his fare. But Mrs Fuller’s house was no longer there; a new street had been driven through it, and everything was strange.

Jack was dog-tired, very hungry and cold; he felt that he could scarcely grapple with the situation, and for a moment or two his spirits were as low as can be imagined; but while he stood musing his eyes rested upon a shop-front that said William Boden Linen-Draper, or to be more exact, William Linen-Draper Boden, the linen-draper part being in the middle, in different letters. Suddenly the familiarity of the name and the shop pierced into his mind: the family always shopped there – Boden made his shirts.

‘Wait a moment,’ he said, and crossed the street. The coachman, convinced that he was going to be bilked, followed him closely into the shop, breathing on his neck. ‘Mrs Boden,’ said Jack, to a well-remembered face, ‘how glad I am to see you.’

‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Boden placidly, without a moment’s hesitation, ‘how you have grown, Mr John. A fourteen neck by now, I do believe.’ Nothing that Jack had heard – not all the English in the streets, nor the well-known London din – had made him feel so much at home; and this simple observation also wonderfully
strengthened his faith in the stability of the universe. A moment before it had appeared to be toppling from its base.

‘I have just come from abroad,’ he said, by way of explaining his growth. ‘And the house is shut up. Pray be so good as to pay the coachman, Mrs Boden – I have no money with me.’

‘Why, of course the house is shut up,’ said Mrs Boden wonderingly, as she gave the man his money, ‘and has been, ever since Miss Isabella married my lord Carlisle. Such a wedding, Mr John: thirty-seven yards of Mechlin lace and forty-three of right Valenciennes, counting the bridesmaids. And then the lawn, cambric and baptiste – is this gentleman with you, sir?’ she cried, breaking off at the sight of Tobias, who, having been put out of the coach, had wandered in out of the drizzle, looking not unlike a walking umbrella in his poncho – a lowered umbrella.

‘Yes, yes. Where are they now, Mrs Boden?’

‘Why, in Soho Square, of course. Her ladyship is giving a rout tonight.’

‘Toby,’ said Jack, steering him out of the shop, ‘it is an astonishing thing, but the girls all seem to have grown up – married – most extraordinary. But then it was always understood that Carlisle should marry into the family. I don’t object to him as an in-law. We must go to Soho Square, and find them there.’

Tobias stopped, very pale. ‘He has married Georgiana?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Jack, ‘Isabella. Isn’t it funny? Cousin Frances wanted him to marry Georgiana – always said he was going to – but he has married Isabella instead. But it’s all one, you know – it’s all in the family.’

‘Well,’ said Tobias, who did not seem to think it was all one at all; and after a pause he exclaimed, ‘Isabella! How I shall delight in seeing her. Do you think Georgiana will be there too?’

Jack, observing that all the girls might be at Medenham, as far as he was concerned, so long as supper was to be had at his brother-in-law’s house, guided Tobias along Oxford Street and down Soho Street. ‘Not that they are not dear girls,’ he explained, ‘and very near to my heart: but supper, do you see, is a great deal nearer, just at present.’

The fog was dripping from the railings of the square; thin black mud ran underfoot; in front of Lord Carlisle’s house two flambeaux,
in holders either side of the door, threw a warm flaring light into the darkness, very welcoming. A few people loitered to stare up at the lighted windows: there was a sound of music, busy activity, a party in progress.

Jack knocked at the door, which swung wide at once.

‘What
do you
want?’ said the hall-porter, half-closing it again at the sight of such a strangely clothed, barely reputable pair.

‘Isabella  …’ began the one.

‘Georgiana  …’ began the other.

‘Bah,’ said the hall-porter, and clapped the portal to.

‘Ha, ha,’ went the little crowd outside.

‘Come,’ said Jack, ‘we must do better than that.’ He knocked again. To the intense delight of the crowd, the door opened with a vindictive suddenness that promised great things. But the instant the door was one foot ajar, Tobias, crouching inhumanly low, darted furiously in with such terrible impetuosity that his head, coming into contact with the porter’s waistcoat, drove every particle of breath from that worthy’s body, and left him gasping on the floor of his unguarded hall. Jack closed the door behind him, and they walked upstairs towards the big double drawing-room.

‘Now, sir,’ cried Lord Carlisle, looking suddenly out of a door at them.

‘Ha, ha, brother,’ cried Jack, immensely tickled by the situation. ‘You don’t recognise me. I wish you joy, however. Where’s Isabella?’

‘Is Georgiana here?’ asked Tobias, fondly taking his lordship’s elbow.

Lord Carlisle glanced down at his stricken porter, and again at the maniacs who had broken in, and he bawled for his footmen. But hardly had he ceased bawling before his bride appeared – a little quicker in the uptake, and a loving sister as well. Instant recognition, laughter, tears, joy, infinite surprise expressed and repeated indefinitely – a proper homecoming at last. In all this family turmoil, that drifted off vaguely to Isabella’s boudoir, Tobias was somehow separated from Jack. He walked composedly into the drawing-room, where the dowager Lady Carlisle was entertaining a large circle of guests. She received him with tranquil complacency (she was a very well-bred woman) and introduced him to a Mrs Hankin, who had an empty chair by her. ‘The gentleman is a great traveller,’ she said.

‘Indeed, sir?’ cried Mrs Hankin. ‘It is a vastly interesting thing, to travel. Pray sir, was you gone long? Was it an interesting voyage?’

‘Tolerably so, ma’am,’ said Tobias, stealing a piece of sugar from her saucer.

‘The Grand Tour, sir?’ asked his left-hand neighbour. ‘Did you kiss the Pope’s toe? My cousin Gardner kissed the Pope’s toe. Did you pass by Pisa?’

‘No, ma’am – a voyage by sea.’

‘Oh’ – disdainfully – ‘only a voyage by sea. But in a voyage by sea you miss all the charming variety of travel –'tis all one, by sea – a monotonous desert of water – I do not think that I should care for a voyage by sea. Surely, sir, there is no variety, in a voyage by sea, no diversity?’

‘No, ma’am,’ said Tobias, stealing another piece of sugar.

‘The grand object of travelling,’ said a heavy gentleman, ‘is to see the shores of the Mediterranean. Sir,’ said he, turning to Tobias, ‘did you see the shores of the Mediterranean?’

‘But, on the other hand,’ said the lady, ‘travelling by land is prodigiously dangerous. Cousin Gardner lost the wheel of his chariot, by the lynch-pin dropping out near Pisa – that was why I mentioned Pisa, sir; a very dangerous place – and was like to be thrown down, which could never have happened at sea. And in Florence, his pocket was picked.’

‘No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail,’ said the heavy gentleman, in a booming roar, ‘for being in a ship is being in a jail, with a chance of being drowned.’

‘No, sir –’ began Tobias, with equal positiveness, but at that moment Georgiana came into the room, sedulously attended by the Duke of Lothian and Sir James Firebrace. ‘Ha, Georgiana, my dear,’ he cried, starting up and throwing down a little round table and two gilt chairs, ‘there you are at last. How very, very happy I am to see you,’ he said, kissing her heartily. The duke turned red with anger: the knight grew pale with fury. ‘Come,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to a distant sopha, ‘come and sit by me, and let us talk of bats.’

THE UNKNOWN SHORE

PATRICK O’BRIAN was the author of the acclaimed Aubrey-Maturin tales and the biographer of Joseph Banks and Picasso. His first novel, Testimonies, and his Collected Short Stories have recently been reprinted by HarperCollins. He translated many works from French into English, among them the novels and memoirs of Simone de Beauvoir and the first volume of Jean Lacouture’s biography of Charles de Gaulle. In 1995 he was the first recipient of the Heywood Hill Prize for a lifetime’s contribution to literature. In the same year he was awarded the CBE. In 1997 he was awarded an honorary doctorate of letters by Trinity College, Dublin. He died in January 2000 at the age of 85.