I see no sign of diminishing interest in the Aubrey-Maturin adventures for me. Like one of the frigates described here, the series pushes on with all sails hoisted proudly, with a fair wind pushing the friends forward to distant, exotic shores.
These winds were actually tempestuous in the last installment (Desolation Island), describing one of the most fraught with danger and disaster journeys, as plague, Dutch raiders, hurricanes, icebergs, mutiny on board and hostile American sloops prevent Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin from reaching their destination in Botany Bay. I was expecting the follow up to show me an episode at the Antipodes, but nothing of much interest seems to have happened there, and the story picks up a few months later, as the battered HMS Leopard reaches Pulo Batang, a former Dutch colony that is now of interest to the British crown. Here, Aubrey receives a new comission and embarks on a fast ship (La Fleche) back to England where a brand new frigate waits for his command. Maturin is completely absorbed in the extensive collection of plants and animals , both alive and preserved in alcohol, that he has gathered at various stops in their journey. Maturin is also responsible for much of the comic relief as his pets eat Jack's hat, and he blissfully redefines the rules of the game of cricket.
The first chapters of the present novel almost lull the reader into a sense of peace, with smooth weather and plenty of humour to heal the scars of their ordeal on Desolation Island:
The monsoon bore them steadily west and south over a limitless and amiable sea, with never an island, never a ship, and rarely a bird to recall them to any sense of the terrestrial, clouds their only companions. It was a sea-borne life, ordered by an exact sequence of bells and of naval rites: the sound of the decks being holly-stoned, swabbed, and flogged dry in the early morning, hammocks piped up, the fore-noon tasks, the ceremony of noon itself, when a dozen sextants shot the sun from La Fleche's crowded quarterdeck and Captain Yorke said "Make it so, Mr Warner", the bosun and his mates piping the hands to dinner, the fifer fifing them to grog; then the drum for the gun-room's meal, the quiet afternoon, and the drum again for quarters and for retreat, the piping down of hammocks, and the setting of the watch.
Alas, the tranquil interlude is cut short when a fire aboard sinks La Fleche in about one hour, and leaves Jack and Stephen stranded in a small boat in the middle of the Atlantic with little water andn o food, all their belongings and precious collections sunk to the bottom of the ocean. A last minute rescue by a British frigate only serves to land them in the middle of the recently declared War of 1812, between the mighty Royal Navy and the upstarts in the American fleet. The reason the book is called Fortune of War becomes clear now, as our protagonists find themselves prisoners of the Americans and are sent to Boston, Jack Aubrey with an added complication of a grievous injury to his left arm.
An extensive part of the novel is now taking place in Boston and I was expecting to find this section of less interest than the naval battles, but I believe here is an example of how good a writer O'Brian is. Instead of boring, the time spent in Boston turns out into a thrilling spy novel that would make even Le Carre envious. Jack is suspected of espionage, and his exchange of prisoners is delayed, while Maturin is pursued with deadly intent by his French counterparts in the intelligence game. A good account of the reasons behind the 1812 War and of the positions of different factions on the American political scene is an added bonus. For me though, the main interest in Boston is the reunion between Maturin and his love interest, the tempestuous and inconstant Diane Villiers, now the mistress of an American Southern gentleman that may also beinvolved in the spying game. With Jack Aubrey happily married, it is Stephen who still goes through the pain of unrequited love and who is torn, like in one of my favorite Chris de Burgh tunes Fatal Hesitation, between the head and the heart. He may be disillusioned by the woman he meets now in Boston, but he cannot deny his passion of the past.
Flower: is it a flower?
Mist: is it a mist?
Coming at midnight
Leaving with the dawn.
She is there: the sweetness of
a passing springtime.
She is gone: the morning haze
- no trace at all.
I'm not sure if this fragment of poetry is penned by O'Brian or quoted, but it captures the divide between man and woman, and Stephen's dillema in particular: "... women often expect oranges to grow on apple-trees, and men look for constancy to a purely imaginary ideal: how often a woman proves to be no more than the morning mist."
No matter how many women come into their life, the friendship between Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin remains the backbone of the series, like the North - South axis around which the world spins. Their relationship has grown comfortably old and reliable, as illustrated in this thorny exchange aboard yet another small boat that takes them to another deadly sea battle:
'Not to know the odds between a halliard and a sheet, after all these years at sea: it passes human understanding', said Jack.
'You are a reasonably civil, complaisant creature on dry land', said Stephen, 'but the moment you are afloat you become pragmatical and absolute, a bashaw - do this, do that, gluppit the prawling strangles, there - no longer a social being. It is no doubt the effect of the long-continued habit of command; but it cannot be considered amiable.
There are only two naval actions in the novel, but they are enough, considering how interesting and edge-of-your-seat thrilling was the Boston interlude. In a foreword, the author lets us in on one of his secret ingredients that made his stories so succesful: they are based on actual battles and actual officers that took part in the conflict:
It seems to me that where the Royal Navy and indeed the infant United States Navy are concerned there is little point in trying to improve the record, since the plain, unadorned facts speak for themselves with the emphasis of a broadside; and the only liberty I have taken is to place my heroes aboard.
Speaking of historical actors, I couldn't help noticing the name of a small character who appears towards the end of the novel and whose role is only to carry a letter of challenge from the British to the Americans. I wonder if this Slocum is related to the famous solitary navigator who first sailed around the world alone. I have had Joshua slocum's journal on my TBR for years, and maybe I have now a final push to bring it forward.
The author also graces us with an afterword, a rare glimpse into the domestic life of a reclusive writer, who prefers to stay away from the limelight and let his novels speak for themselves:
.. the man does not coincide with his books, which, if the Platonic "not who but what" is to be accepted, are the only legitimate objects of curiosity. [...] privacy is a jewel; and not only one's own privacy but also that of one's friends, relatives, connexions.
The appeal to respect for privacy is especially significant for me in this year 2015 when I read daily about new proposed laws that would strip us of every dignity and right to control our own information.