‘Dogs,’ said the chaplain, who was not one to leave his corner of the table silent long. ‘That reminds me of a question I had meant to put to you gentlemen. This short watch that is about to come, or rather these two short watches — why are they called dog watches? Where, heu, heu, is the canine connection?’

‘Why,’ said Stephen, ‘it is because they are curtailed, of course.’

A total blank. Stephen gave a faint inward sigh; but he was used to this. ‘Mr Butler, the bottle stands by you,’ said Jack. ‘Mr Lydgate, allow me to help you to a little of the undercut.’

It was the midshipman who first reacted. He whispered to his neighbour Dashwood, ‘He said, cur-tailed: the dog-watch is cur-tailed. Do you twig?’

It was the sort of wretched clench perfectly suited to the company. The spreading merriment, the relish, the thunderous mirth, reached the forecastle, causing amazement and conjecture: Jack leaned back in his chair, wiping the tears from his scarlet face, and cried, ‘Oh, it is the best thing — the best thing. Bless you, Stephen — a glass of wine with you. Mr Simmons, if we dine with the admiral, you must ask me, and I will say, “Why, it is because they have been docked, of course.” No, no. I am out. Cur-tailed — cur-tailed. But I doubt I should ever be able to get it out gravely enough.’

Post Captain – Patrick O’Brian

‘Beg Dr Maturin to come on deck, if he is not engaged,’ said Jack. ‘Dr Maturin, is it possible to tell the sex of an ape by its teeth, or that kind of thing?’

‘It depends on the ape,’ said Stephen, looking eagerly at the object in Jack’s hands. ‘This, for example,’ he said, taking it and turning it about, ‘is an excellent specimen of the male simia satyrus, Buffon’s wild man of the woods: see the lateral expansion of the cheeks, mentioned by Hunter, and the remains of that particular throat-sac, so characteristic of the male.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Jack. ‘Ajax it is. Thank you very much, Doctor. The charge of theft is dismissed. But you must not knock people about, Rogers. Has anyone something to say in his favour?’

The second lieutenant stepped forward, said that Rogers was in his division — attentive to his duty, generally sober, a good character, but apt to fly into a passion; that flying into a passion was a very bad thing — it would certainly lead him to the gallows, if indulged in. He was to command his temper, and do without grog for the next week. The head was confiscated temporarily, for further examination — indeed, it had already vanished into the cabin, leaving Rogers looking somewhat blank. ‘I dare say you will get it back in time,’ said Jack, with more conviction than he felt.

Post Captain – Patrick O’Brian

‘Stephen,’ he said, ‘how are your bees?’

‘They are very well, I thank you; they show great activity, even enthusiasm. But,’ he added, with a slight hesitation, ‘I seem to detect a certain reluctance to return to their hive.’

‘Do you mean to say you let them out?’ cried Jack. ‘Do you mean there are sixty thousand bees howling for blood in the cabin?’

‘No, no. Oh no. Not above half that number; perhaps even less. And if you do not provoke them, I am persuaded you may go to and fro without the least concern; they are not froward bees. They will have gone home by morning, sure; I shall creep in during the middle watch and close their little wicket. But perhaps it might be as well, were we to sit together in this room tonight, just to let them get used to their surroundings. A certain initial agitation is understandable after all, and should not be discountenanced.’

 Post Captain – Patrick O’Brian

‘Stephen, will you for the love of God take off that thing?’

‘My wool garment? You have noticed it, have you? I had forgot, or I should have pointed it out. Have you ever seen anything so deeply rational? See, I can withdraw my head entirely: the same applies to the feet and the hands. Warm, yet uncumbering; light; and above all healthy — no constriction anywhere! Paris, who was once a framework knitter, made it to my design; he is working on one for you at present.’

‘Stephen, you would favor me deeply by taking it right off. It is unphilosophical of me, I know, but this is only and acting-command, and I cannot afford to be laughed at.’

‘But you have often told me that it does not matter what one wears at sea. You yourself appear in nankeen trousers, a thing that I should never, never countenance. And this’ — plucking at his bosom with a disappointed air — ‘partakes of the nature both of the Guernsey frock and of the free and easy pantaloon.’

Post Captain – Patrick O’Brian

‘Listen, Jack,’ he said, smiling. ‘Put your ear firmly to the top and listen while I tap.’ The parcel gave a sudden momentary hum. ‘Did you hear? That shows they are queen-right – that no harm has come to their queen. But we must open it at once; they must have air. There! A glass hive. Is it not ingenious, charming? I have always wanted to keep bees.’

‘But how in God’s name do you expect to keep bees in a man-of-war?’ cried Jack. ‘Where in God’s name do you expect them to find flowers, at sea? How will they eat?’

‘You can see their every motion,’ said Stephen, close against the glass, entranced. ‘Oh, as for their feeding, never fret your anxious mind; they will feed with us upon a saucer of sugar, at stated intervals. If the ingenious Monsieur Huber can keep bees, and he blind, the poor man, surely we can manage in a great spacious xebec?’

‘This is a frigate.’

‘Let us never split hairs, for all love. There is the queen! Come, look at the queen!’

‘How many of these reptiles might there be?’ asked Jack, holding pretty much aloof.

‘Oh, sixty thousand or so, I dare say,’ said Stephen carelessly. ‘And when it comes on to blow, we will ship gimbals for the hive. This will preserve them from undue lateral motion.’

‘You think of almost everything,’ said Jack. ‘Well, I will wear the bees, like Damon and Pythagoras – ho, a mere sixty thousand bees in the cabin don’t signify, much. But I tell you what it is, Stephen: you don’t always think of quite everything.’

‘You refer to the queen’s being a virgin?’ said Stephen.

‘Not really. No. What I really meant was, that this is a crack frigate.’

‘I am delighted to hear it. There she goes – she lays an egg! You need not fear for her virginity, Jack.’

Post Captain – Patrick O’Brian

But this was nothing to the trial of meeting Dr Maturin on the water; for Stephen had been inspired to put off from the shore at about the same time, though from a different place, and their courses converged some three furlongs from the frigate’s side. Stephen’s conveyance was one of the Lively‘s cutters, which saluted Jack by tossing oars, and which fell under his wherry’s lee, so that they pulled in close company, Stephen calling out pleasantly all the way. Jack caught a frightened glance from Killick, noticed the wooden composure of the midshipman and the cutter’s crew, saw the grinning face of Matthew Paris, an old Polychrest, Stephen’s servant, once a framework knitter and still no kind of seaman — no notion of common propriety in his myopic, friendly gaze. And as Stephen rose to wave and hoot, Jack saw that he was dressed from head to foot in a single tight dull-brown garment; it clung to him, and his pale, delighted face emerged from a woolen roll at the top, looking unnaturally large. His general appearance was something between that of an attenuated ape and a meagre heart; and he was carrying his narwhal horn. Captain Aubrey’s back and shoulders went perfectly rigid: he adopted the features of one who is smiling; he even called out, ‘Good morning to you — yes — no — ha, ha.’ And as he recompose do them to a look of immovable gravity and unconcern, the thought darted through his mind, ‘I believe the wicked old creature is drunk.’

Post Captain – Patrick O’Brian