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Killick’s
unceasing concern with the splendid uniform in which Jack was to appear at the
court-martial - his intolerable twitching of the napkin that guarded breeches
and lower waistcoat, his muttered warnings about egg-yolk, butter, anchovy
paste, marmalade.
    At last the mate of the watch came, with the first
lieutenant’s duty and compliments, to announce that Royal Sovereign had thrown
out her signal for the court-martial. A last cup of coffee and they both went
on deck: over the smooth water of the bay captains’ barges could already be seen
converging on the flagship. Jack’s was waiting for him and after a momentary
hesitation he nodded to Stephen, stepping forward to the gangway stanchions as
the bosun and his mates piped their captain over the side and all his officers
saluted.
    ‘Sir. If you please, sir,’ said
a boy’s voice for the second time, now with a certain impatience, and turning
from the rail Stephen saw a familiar face, young Witherby, formerly of the
Bellona. The shifting of officers and ratings since Jack’s appointment to the Pomone
had never been clear to Stephen. He knew that Surprise’s coxswain and the
bargemen had followed their captain, but what this boy was doing  here he could not tell. Indeed, there
were many, many things that remained obscure unless he made a determined effort
of collecting his mind and concentrating upon the present. ‘Mr Witherby,’ he
said, ‘what may I do for you?’
    ‘Why, sir,’ said the boy, ‘I understood you were
for the shore, and I have the jolly-boat under the stern, if you please to walk
this way.’
    Witherby landed him at the Ragged Staff steps, and
once he was through the Southport Gate he found the familiar surroundings a
comfort: the move into the unknown Pomone, though wholly unimportant in itself,
had for once been strangely disturbing. He made his way steadily along to
Thompson’s comfortable, unpretentious hotel, glancing right and left at shops
and buildings he had known these many years. Many red-coats,
many sea-officers, but nothing to touch the hive-like multitudes of Gibraltar in full
wartime.
    He turned in at Thompson’s door. ‘Dr Jacob, if you
please,’ he said. ‘He is expecting me.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Should you like him to
come down?’
    ‘Oh no. Tell me the number of his
room and I will go up.’
    ‘Very good, sir. Pablito, show the
gentleman to the third floor back.’
    Pablito tapped; the door opened, and a well-known
voice said, ‘Dr Maturin, I presume?’
    The door closed. Pablito’s feet echoed on the
stairs. Dr Jacob seized Stephen, kissed him on both cheeks and led him into a
cool, shaded room where a jug of horchata stood on a low table and smoke from
the hookah hung from the ceiling down to eye level.
    ‘I am so exceedingly happy that it is you,’ said
Jacob, guiding him to a sofa. ‘I was so nearly sure of it from Sir Joseph’s calculated
indiscretions that I brought you an example of the palmar aponeurosis and the
contractions which so interested you and Dupuytren.’ He slipped into his
bedroom and came out carrying a jar: but realizing that his gift could not be
fully appreciated in the half-light he thrust open the
balcony doors and led Stephen out into the brilliant sun.
    ‘You are altogether too good, dear Amos,’ said
Stephen, gazing at the severed hand, clear in its spirits of wine, the middle
fingers so hard-clenched against the palm that their nails had grown into the
flesh. ‘You are too good entirely. I have never seen so perfect an example. I long to make a very exact dissection.’
    But Jacob, taking no notice, turned him gently to
the full sun and looked hard into his face. ‘Stephen, you have not made some
cruel self-diagnosis, I trust?’
    ‘I have not,’ said Stephen, and in as few words as
possible he explained the situation - his personal situation. Amos did not
oppress him with any sympathy other than a deeply affectionate pressure on the
shoulder, but suggested that they should