Scurvy by Stephen Bown

Source of book: Borrowed from the Library

Scurvy: How a Surgeon, a Mariner, and a Gentleman Solved the Greatest Medical Mystery of the Age of Sail is exactly what it sounds like: a tale of the discovery and implementation of the cure for a baffling and deadly disease.

From our 21st Century perspective, it is easy to think of scurvy as a really easy disease to cure. Why didn’t people figure out how to cure it sooner? Well, lots of reasons, as this book points out. 

First, let’s look at the carnage. The Age of Sale lasted roughly from time that transoceanic voyages became practical and common through the invention of steam-powered watercraft. During that time - 400ish years - the death toll from scurvy is believed to have been in excess of two million sailors. That’s a lot. In fact, it is more than the deaths from combat, shipwreck, storms, and all other diseases. Combined. In fact, that is more than all of the combat deaths in the history of the United States - including both sides of the Civil War. That’s a lot of bodies.

As this book makes clear, there are a number of reasons why it took hundreds of years to finally understand the disease, and significant impediments to gaining definitive knowledge.

As we now know, scurvy is a disease caused by deficiency of Vitamin C - ascorbic acid. (The name itself is a contraction of “antiscorbutic” - anti-scurvy.) Most animals can create their own ascorbic acid - but humans cannot. Neither can guinea pigs, which is one reason that they became popular for animal testing. On long sea voyages, without fresh food, this deficiency would cause the breakdown of the connective tissue of the body. Basically, people fall to pieces, crumble to sludge, without this necessary nutrient.

One of the most interesting things about the history of scurvy is that the cure was actually discovered multiple times...then “forgotten” by those who came afterward. The most crazy example of this is that back in 1601, Sir James Lancaster proved that lemon juice prevented scurvy - and the British Merchant Marine believed him and adopted his recommendations. For a while. Likewise, the Dutch merchants used lemon juice as well. But the navies, which at the time tended to say near port, thought themselves above the lowly merchants. And anyway, while merchant vessels could carry a lot of supplies and stop in to port along the way, the navy had few similar options.

Eventually, the cure was forgotten, and not rediscovered until right before the Napoleonic Wars.

There were several inherent obstacles to the discovery and adoption of a cure. Some of these were problematic because of the specifics of the disease. Scurvy can mimic a lot of other diseases that were common at the time, and thus, it took a while before it was recognized as a single disease, rather than a constellation of symptoms which might have been other illnesses. Likewise, because of the generally poor nutrition of the lower classes, scurvy tended to afflict the common sailors before the officers. This meant that other factors were naturally suspected, such as the overcrowded conditions below decks, the generally poor food supplies, infectious diseases (which would come aboard the same way gaol fevers would), and other class-based causes.

There were also scientific reasons scurvy was difficult to pin down. We can test for potency these days, but that wasn’t the case back then. Different citrus fruits have differing amounts of ascorbic acid - as do other fresh fruits and vegetables. And this differs too based on freshness, preparation, and source. So there were a ton of variables which were difficult to account for. Likewise, in the human subjects, there were variables such as whether they had been at sea recently (and thus already pre-scorbutic), whether there were other health issues, how good nutrition was at home, and so on. These all tended to make it difficult to pin down the cause and the cure.

But perhaps the greatest obstacle was philosophic. The medicine of the day was in thrall to an erroneous belief: the “humour” theory of disease. There were four “humours”: blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm - and all disease was an imbalance of these fluids. This was, to put a fine point on it, utter baloney. But that wouldn’t be known for many years.

The reason that this was a problem was that it required, as the author puts it, “great philosophical backflips and other mental acrobatics in a vain attempt to reconcile common sense with their theoretical constructs.” And, on a related note, it meant that practical experimental evidence was disregarded if it couldn’t be made to fit the theory.

Yes, that is a problem. It was a problem then, and it is a problem now. (Regular readers will know that this is one of my biggest beefs with American Evangelicalism’s approach to, well, everything. The theory always trumps reality or experience. Thus, there is no way to learn anything - everything is already known.) This was a big reason that the navies didn’t listen to the mere merchants. After all, their success in preventing scurvy was merely experimental, not based on intellectual theory. It took irrefutable evidence to topple the theory, and in the meantime, millions died.

In a weird moment, I ran across another bizarre theory in this book - one that was all too familiar. It was this idea of acid and alkaline balance. Because scurvy was (in this theory) either acid or alkaline, depending on the symptom, treatments varied. While one particular acid could have cured it, not all acids are equal. Thus, advocating for vinegar, sour wine, or - I am not making this up - “oil of vitriol” - that is, sulfuric acid - as a cure wouldn’t be effective, even though lemon juice would be. I mention this because as part of my childhood, we cycled through some scientifically ludicrous “alternative medicine” approaches to nutrition. Most were pretty harmless, although annoying. But this idea of classifying foods as acid or alkaline (often in ways that were contrary to the actual facts) and using that to treat disease was neither some ancient “wisdom” nor science. It was a faddish 18th Century piece of malarkey.

One thing that really struck me in this connection was the reason that the ancient Greek and Roman writings were considered authoritative in medicine. These days, we tend to (usually correctly) assume that more recent - and better controlled and designed - studies tend to be more accurate, and that the more modern, the more likely something is to be correct. In the past, the opposite was often true. In this case, the Greeks and Romans were revered on the theory that mankind has been degenerating since the Fall, and thus the older minds were less clouded and more brilliant. Sad to say, this ridiculous idea (which flies in the face of the evidence - and that includes morality too) remains current in certain religious circles. I have literally heard stuff like “imagine what the ancients could have done with their brilliant minds and our technology” and “we should trust the superior wisdom of the past and [fill in morally abhorrent thing here.]” There is nothing magic about the past, or the people of the past. Sometimes they were right. Often not.

By the way, it wasn’t just the “science” of the day that was problematic. Then, as now, there was a tendency to blame the victims of disease. Many dismissed sailors as morally degenerate, and scurvy merely as divine disfavor displayed against them. And of course, no sense in trying to cure a disease caused by divine disfavor - particularly if it afflicts people who you consider inferior. Hmm, I can think of another disease that got this treatment.

Eventually, three persons managed to get the treatment right - and it took the efforts of all three to do so.

The first was the surgeon, James Lind. He did the first truly controlled experiment in this area, discovering that lemon juice was effective in treating and preventing scurvy. Unfortunately, Lind never did shake the “humours” explanation, and so failed to make a coherent case for why it worked. Lind’s writings, however, would eventually influence others.

Captain James Cook was the next important figure. Working off of Lind’s recommendations, he brought citrus along on his voyages, and made sure to take on fresh vegetables whenever possible. He thus kept scurvy to a minimum during his famous voyages. Alas for Cook, he became mentally erratic on his last voyage, and managed to get himself into a deadly conflict in the Hawaiian Islands, and was killed. Thus, his effective technique never had an effective advocate.

The last was the aristocrat Gilbert Blane. He took the foundation laid by Lind’s experiments and Cook’s experiences, and used his influence to make the use of citrus the official policy of the British Navy, thus saving millions of additional lives, and contributing significantly to world history. (More on this below.)

Blane was successful, in part, because he drew a seemingly obvious connection that the British bureaucrats running the navy didn’t seem to grasp:

Scurvy wasn’t just costing “expendable” lives. It was causing the loss of expensive ships, and endangering national security.

Yeah, that sounds pretty callous. And it is. Because Naval policy was darn calloused. Ships would be stuffed with twice the number of necessary men, because it was assumed that half would be lost to scurvy over the course of the voyage. That’s pretty appalling. And horribly inefficient, as Blane pointed out. The loss of skilled sailors was leading to the sinking of ships and bad results all around. Furthermore, Britain would struggle to defend her vulnerable homeland if she couldn’t keep ships in the necessary places to prevent an invasion. It was by this calculation that Blane was able to convince the Navy bosses that it was worth the expense of keeping citrus (and concentrated citrus juice) in ready supply on board their ships.

Unsurprisingly, this change paid off. Suddenly, Britain had an immediate advantage over her foes: she could stay afloat longer, and could field more experienced and skilled sailors and gunners.

The author contrasts two wars with different results as an illustration of the difference. In the American Revolution, scurvy was a significant reason why England struggled to supply its troops - and prevent the Spanish and French from lending aid and sending troops. We have this American myth that the Revolution was a bunch of farmers with pitchforks throwing off the yoke of the most powerful nation on earth. That’s not really true. We were led by our own aristocratic class, and significantly aided by other superpowers who had a vested interest in keeping England occupied.

The contrast, however, is in the wars against Napoleon a few decades later, when England’s newfound ability to avoid scurvy led to its successful blockade of French and Spanish ports. This kept those sailors unable to practice at sea. But it also kept Napoleon from being able to launch an invasion of the British Isles - which probably would have been successful if he had put his superior army on the ground. (By Waterloo, England had been able to increase and train its army - because of the delay France suffered in invading. Not unlike the Battle of Britain in World War II…)

One final quote from Gilbert Blane regarding the cure of scurvy is apropos.

“There is not probably to be found in the whole range of human affairs a finer illustration of the practical benefits of progressive knowledge in promoting the great interests of mankind: so that science, while it lends an aid, also sheds a grace and dignity over the useful arts: nor can there be a more striking proof of the maxim, that humanity, like every other virtue, is the best policy.”

Two things stand out here. First is the love for science and progressive knowledge as used to benefit mankind. The second is that “humanity,” in the sense of “being humane,” isn’t just morally good - it is good public policy too. If saving impoverished sailors from death for moral reasons wasn’t enough, one could do it because of the good it brought to the nation as a whole.

If you want to understand the frustration that many of us who think and read and learn have with the current state of the Right in America, this is a good place to start. Some of us still believe that science isn’t a vast conspiracy - but it often is and should be a benefit to mankind. We also believe that humane public policy is ultimately beneficial. We all benefit from a healthy, educated, employed population. And we all suffer when we refuse (usually with fiscal objections) to invest in education, health care - and humane policies in general.

***

I couldn’t find a place to put it in the main review, but I did have to mention that The War of Jenkins’ Ear gets a mention in this book. War usually sucks - and this one is no exception. But that is the coolest name for a war that I can think of.

The Commodore by Patrick O'Brian

Source of book: I own this.

This book is number 17 in the Aubrey/Maturin series of novels about the British Navy during and after the Napoleonic Wars. I have read all of the previous books, and reviewed the last few for my blog. Because I do not duplicate all of the background information in each post, it is probably best to read them in order. And by all means, read the books in the correct order, as a particular adventure will often be stretched across several books.

The Letter of Marque

            The Nutmeg of Consolation

The Thirteen Gun Salute

            The Truelove

            The Wine Dark Sea

This book picks up at the end of the fairly disastrous South American campaign in the last book. The Surprise returns to England, where both Stephen and Jack have family issues to deal with. 

Stephen’s wife, Diana, has given birth a few years back - Stephen hasn’t yet met his daughter Brigid. However, Diana, apparently overstressed by parenthood, has run off to goodness knows where, leaving Brigid in the care of Clarissa Oakes (a fascinating character from The Truelove). Brigid also appears to be autistic, unable to speak.

Jack, meanwhile, finds he has offended his wife Sophie by using some of the fabric intended for her to make a wedding dress for Ms. Oakes. (As I said, a really fascinating story…) So all is not well at the Aubry home, and Jack is predictably eager to be off on his next adventure.

If that wasn’t bad enough, one of Stephen’s enemies in Parliament has decided to make trouble for him. Technically, Clarissa is a criminal, having been transported to Australia, where she managed to stow away on the Surprise. Likewise, Stephen’s loyal assistant, Padeen, was transported a few books back for an incident involving Stephen’s laudanum. Basically, they both need an official pardon before they can legally be in England. This would be forthcoming in light of the circumstances (and Stephen’s influence), but for this enemy.

Fortunately for all concerned, a new mission is at hand. They will spend some time off the coast of Africa suppressing the slave trade while they wait for news that a French fleet has left for Ireland. They are to intercept this fleet and prevent it from inciting rebellion there.

So much for the basic setup of the plot. I won’t reveal the rest.

However, there are some great lines and passages worth mentioning.

Preserved Killick is one of the great characters in the series. Jack’s steward, he is described in this book as a “lean, cantankerous, and out of work ratcatcher.” And of course, plenty more of “Which I was already doing, ain’t I?”

Also interesting on the psychological side in this book was Jack’s response to female sexuality - both in theory and in practice. Anyone who is familiar with this series knows that Jack - particularly the younger Jack - slept around a good deal. He has an illegitimate son he fathered with an African woman, and spent a portion of the first book in bed with the wife of a fellow captain - an act which came back to bite him big time.

In a conversation with Stephen, Jack discusses a fellow captain who just came home to find his wife pregnant by another man. Jack notes that the captain “has never set up for chastity any more than I have,” and Jack reminded him of that. Of course, the captain responded with the double standard: “Oh, it is different for women.” At this point, Jack actually asserts that fair is fair.

And it is. But the problem is that Jack’s emotions do not follow his logic, and later in the book, when he believes (probably incorrectly) that Sophie is cheating on him, he cannot just let it go as “fair is fair.” Ah, such a difficult thing in practice when men are used to the entitlement to sow their oats when and how they like, but woe to the woman who does likewise.

The issue of slavery is front and center for the middle part of the book. O’Brian does not gloss over the horrors of the trade, and there are some very difficult scenes to read. (For what it is worth, I am concurrently reading Homegoing by Yaa Gayasi, which centers around the slave trade and its consequences over the ensuing centuries. Stay tuned for a review on that one.)

At one point, a particular sailor who has been stymied in his advancement is promoted by Jack, who, having a black son, understands that the “African great-grandmother” is the reason this competent seaman has been unable to become a lieutenant despite passing the test.

Another harrowing chapter in this book is the one where Stephen nearly dies of Yellow Fever. Poor Stephen has had a bad run of late, suffering greatly for his love of nature and attempts to collect specimens. Of course, back then, they didn’t know mosquitoes spread the disease, so prevention was difficult at best.

However, Stephen does manage to obtain a Potto, which is a cousin of the Loris. O’Brian manages to sneak some fauna into most of his books, and this is a particularly cute one. 

It isn’t just questions of sex that disquiet Jack in this book. There is also that of the captains he commands. For this mission, Jack is a Commodore and has several ships under his command. However, he mistrusts two of the captains greatly. One of them is a disciplinarian, intent on having the ship look good. But his seamanship is sloppy, his crew ill trained, and their gunnery is unspeakably bad. Another ship has a different problem. The captain is openly homosexual, and has a series of young men in and out of his cabin - men he then favors in front of the other sailors. Jack’s objection to this isn’t the sexuality per se: he likens it to keeping a hooker on board - it destroys morale and discipline, particularly since the captain is involved. He will not be respected if he doesn’t show respect to all his crew. So Jack is uneasy, because he does not have confidence in his captains. The one may face mutiny, and the other may not fight well at all.

Predictably, this leads to serious tension, particularly when the crews of each of the two ships get into it under the influence of adult beverages. One lieutenant insults another, and as noted in Commandment One (see below), if offense is given and no apology is forthcoming, then a duel is inevitable. Sadly, the young men forgot the 11th Commandment - shoot in the air - and they end up killing each other.

(And yes, that was definitely a good enough excuse to link “Ten Duel Commandments.”)

There is a great line before the climactic scene, where Stephen and Jack, each worried for their own reasons, exchange sympathy.

Stephen looked up, and after a moment said, “To a tormented mind there is nothing, I believe, more irritating that comfort. Apart from anything else it often implies superior wisdom in the comforter. But I am very sorry for your trouble, my dear.”

“Thank you, Stephen. Had you told me that there was always a tomorrow, I think I should have thrust your calendar down your throat.”

That’s just outstanding. And true.

One final humorous bit. Jack and Stephen are string players. (The large Jack on violin, the scrawny Stephen on cello.) Many evenings on board are wiled away with duets - and the pieces mentioned are often fun. In this book, Jack asks Stephen (again…) to borrow his rosin.

“I wonder - I have my own reasons for wondering - that a man of your I might almost say wealth, and of your standing, a member of Parliament, high on the post-captain’s list, and well at court, cannot or rather will not afford himself a piece of rosin.”

“You are to consider that I am a family man, Stephen, with a boy to educate and daughters to provide a dowry for, and clothes - half-boots twice and sometimes three times a year. Tippets. When you come to worry about Brigid’s fortune, and Brigid’s tippets, you too may economise on rosin.”

As the guy who always has extra strings, rosin, and a pencil, I sympathise with Stephen. At least my colleagues are great about paying me back.

Anyway, this book was another solid entry in a truly epic series. Unfortunately, I am nearing its end. If you haven’t discovered O’Brian, I do indeed recommend these books. But definitely read them in order.

Trafalgar, edited by Tom Pocock

Source of book: I own this. A beautiful Folio Society hardback given to me by my brother.

This book is unusual in that it lacks an attributed author. The majority of the text of the book consists of the actual accounts of the Battle of Trafalgar written by those who lived through it, both from the English perspective, and that of the French and Spanish forces. The connecting material, which I assume was written by Tom Pocock, ties the narrative together, putting the primary sources in perspective with each other and with the timeline.

I found the print layout to be interesting in the way it denoted the quoted sources. In most books, the quoted matter is indented, and often printed in a smaller typeface. This tends to de-emphasize the quotation as not as important as the main text. In contrast, this book prints the primary sources in a slightly larger typeface, thus bringing them into the limelight. Pocock’s transitional narratives are thereby given less visual weight than the source material, which works because the connecting material feels naturally important in explaining each quotation.

The Battle of Trafalgar was fought on October 21, 1805, between the British Navy and the combined fleets of Napoleon’s France and his ally, Spain. The British won a spectacular victory, establishing supremacy over the sea which was to last well into the 20^th Century. Losing no ships of their own, they captured or destroyed 22 ships of the Franco-Spanish fleet, without a single loss of their own. The loss in lives was similarly lopsided, attributable to superior tactics, better sailing skill, and more accurate gunnary. The cost was high, however. Admiral Horatio Nelson was killed in the battle, thus becoming one of the most famous British war heroes.

While this book was well written and engaging, it was also painful to read. Fiction and even movie depictions cannot do justice to the bloodiness of naval combat in the age of sail. Masses of iron in sizes ranging from 42 pound balls to chains to grape shot fired at point-blank ranges at splintery wooden ships lead to a gut churning result. The writers of the day pull no punches, even in writing to their wives. There are endless details of limbs and even heads being instantly severed, of men cut in half by chains, blood running all over the decks despite the sand placed there, pieces and chunks of human flesh spattered everywhere, amputations without painkillers. In the ships that first engaged each other at the outset of the battle, casualties were high. Several French and Spanish ships lost nine-tenths of their crews. In some ways, this is a good reminder that our modern wars are far less devastating in terms of actual casualties. We would consider the risk of losing half of a fighting force to be unacceptable.

One particular narrative captured my imagination. James Spratt (nicknamed “Jack”, of course), a midshipman, was eager to be part of a boarding crew of an enemy ship due to his skill in swordsmanship. When the wind died, making it impossible to get close enough to board directly, he obtained permission to take a crew of 50 or so to swim across and board that way. Unfortunately, in the din of the battle, his followers missed the signal, and he found himself climbing into the stern cabins of a French ship alone. He fought his way through a series of enemies in true action movie fashion, and eventually was able to get on deck and signal to his shipmates. The wind picked up enough to allow the ships to contact, and the hand-to-hand battle was on. Spratt describes the combat and his role in it, including his act of saving the life of a French officer who was attempting to surrender. Soon afterward, his right leg was broken by a musket ball. As he describes it, “I felt something like an electric shock and darted at [his opponent], but my right leg turned up between my thighs with my shinbone resting on the deck.”

The battle ended soon afterward with the surrender of the French ship, and Spratt was returned to his own ship. Amputation of the leg was recommended, but he refused. After the battle, a storm blew in, keeping the fleet at sea for another five days, during which his leg was continually battered about. In port later, his leg was set in a wooden frame, the closest to a cast that was available in those days. He was feverish for a few days, then had an awful itching in his leg, which turned out to be a colony of maggots. While he didn’t know it, it is likely that the maggots kept the leg from turning gangrenous. His leg healed, but was three inches shorter than it was. Although he attempted to return to a life at sea, his leg was never able to take cold weather. He was given a land-based assignment at a signaling station, where he was instrumental in developing a visual signal system related to the semaphore signals to which they led.

While this story is the most dramatic, there are many more in this book. The characters tell their stories rather well. Since letters were the only form of communication with home for sailors, even those with low educational levels appear to have written at least a little – or had someone write for them. Thus, this book is able to give a picture of the battle from a multitude of perspectives.

Since this is a Folio book, it is truly beautiful to hold and read. Everything is of excellent quality, but the illustrations stand out. Tom Pocock, in addition to being a respected author and war correspondent, is a relative of Nicholas Pocock, a painter known for his depictions of naval battles from the age of sail. As a contemporary of the battle itself, he was able to give us the details of the ships and battles in a memorable and accurate way. His paintings are represented in this book, along with those of Benjamin West, J. M. W. Turner, and others. Also included are portraits of the various British captains, newspaper illustrations, and photographs of Nelson’s sketches of the plan of battle.

I doubt this book is readily available, but it is worth a look if you can find it used. For those interested in a good fictional depiction of this era, I recommend the books written by Patrick O’Brian, one of which, The Letter of Marque, was previously reviewed in this blog. 

One of several paintings by Nicholas Pocock included in the book:

Trafalgar Battle - 21th of October 1805 - Situation at 17h by Nicholas Pocock

 

 My favorite illustration is this painting: The Battle of Trafalgar, as seen from the mizzen
starboard shrouds of the Victory by J. M. W. Turner (oil on canvas, 1806 to 1808)

A further note: The Victory, Nelson's flagship (and also where he died) still exists, although it is now in permanent dry dock after nearly 200 years afloat. It is still in commission in the Royal Navy, and used as a museum ship in Portsmouth, England. One of the sails, shot through with balls, is also on display at the Royal Naval Museum. Someday, perhaps, I will get a chance to see this ship, along with the rebuilt Cutty Sark, the last of the clipper ships. 

The Letter of Marque by Patrick O’Brian

Source of Book: I own this. 

 

The Letter of Marque is number twelve of the twenty and one-half books in the Aubrey-Maturin series that O’Brian wrote between 1970 and his death in 2000. The series follows the lives of the two main characters throughout their careers, and thus may be considered to be one exceedingly long novel.

Originally born in England as Richard Patrick Russ, he changed his name in 1945 after marrying the ex-wife of Russian nobleman Dimitri Tolstoy (a distant cousin of the famous author). O’Brian was quite secretive about the early part of his life, and there is some evidence that he was involved in the secret services during World War II, which might explain his wish to leave his past and past name behind.

The Aubrey-Maturin series is the story of Jack Aubrey, naval captain; and Stephen Maturin, a physician and secret agent. The two meet for the first time in Master and Commander, and afterward are inseparable both personally and professionally. The series is often compared to C. S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower series, as both used the real life adventures of the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars as the basis for their plots – particularly the exploits of Captain Thomas Cochrane, the inspiration for Jack Aubrey. However, O’Brian’s novels have appeal beyond the exciting episodes. The character and personalities of the two men are central to the narrative, and keep the series from becoming a mere naval thriller in long form. In fact, O’Brian is most often compared to Jane Austen for his characterization and sparkling dialogue.

The novels themselves are notable for a wealth of careful detail. O’Brian made a study of the geographical details of the places around the world in which the events occur, and is able to use these details in his descriptions of the battles in a vivid manner. I found it easy to picture the position of the characters in each assault on land, the lay of the obstacles around a difficult harbor entry, and the lines taken by the ships in battle as each tries to gain the best position regarding the wind and the orientation of the guns. O’Brian uses plenty of nautical terms, and doesn’t explain them all at first, so the reader must keep up as best he can until things start to make sense. This parallels the disorientation that Maturin feels at sea the first time. (He never quite gets over his lubberly tendencies.) Maturin is also a naturalist, so his adventures bring an abundance of plants and animals to the story, in their natural habitats, and occasionally aboard the ship. The cloak and dagger episodes involving Stephen’s work in intelligence are also full of authentic atmosphere and incident – perhaps lending some credence to the idea that he had lived this life.

O’Brian has an interesting writing style that almost defies a short explanation. On the one hand, his dialogue is similar to Austen and other contemporaries – it certainly isn’t modern speech. On the other, the writing itself feels modern in texture. The words flow naturally, without the stilted feeling typical for 19^th Century writing. Also unique is O’Brian’s choice of pacing. He will dwell in loving detail on a seemingly insignificant scene: insignificant to the plot at least. These scenes are often important for character development. O’Brian uses his pacing in other scenes to suggest the perception of time. The preparation for a battle will seem long and tense, building gradually to the big climax, which will then fly by breathlessly, with little chance to notice even the details of the fight. Then, O’Brian will skip over certain events altogether. Some of these, I wished he had fleshed out, but he chose which portions of the story he felt were most important. This is not to say that important plot points are left out, because they are not. I never felt lost, just a bit concussed. I suspect this is intentional. The experience of war isn’t like the movies, or even most books, but the author makes an attempt to recreate the feelings through pacing.

Another more modern facet of the writing is the realism as to the less savory elements of society. Disease and prostitution are ever present in the 19^th century world. The fact of adultery is not denied, nor is it glorified. Sex is treated frankly, but not graphically. (There is a scene of rather graphic insect sex, though.) The typical novel of the period either ignores these issues, or treats them in a lurid and unrealistic manner. I found O’Brian’s approach to be a more honest one. There is no bodice ripping here. Venereal disease is common, as are illegitimate children. (Maturin himself is one.) Adultery isn’t the grand romance of certain modern literature, but has real life consequences. Nothing is there for the titillation factor. Everything serves the plot and the characterization.

As to this particular volume of the story, it is set much more at sea than the previous one, The Reverse of the Medal, which takes place primarily on land. It is also less dark in its events than its predecessor, and has plenty of exciting naval action. It also explores Maturin’s opium addiction and Aubrey’s inner torment in more detail than previous books, giving a contrast to the rather sunny events of the book. (Assuming you consider kicking French posterior to be a happy affair, of course.) The book also brings the character of Diana Villiers (now Stephen’s wife), the most interesting female character in the series, back into the story.

It would be pointless to spoil the plot of this or any other book in the series. Suffice it to say that O’Brian can be counted on to tell a good tale. The story is hardly the main point, however, or there would be no reason to re-read these after the plot is known. The excellent writing and characterization are what raise these books above the average adventure tale. 

Some notes on stuff beyond the books:

I have not seen the movie version of Master and Commander. In general, I have a hard time with movies that are based on good books, because a disappointment is likely. There are a few great adaptations of good books: Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy comes to mind, as well as the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice and the first two Anne of Green Gables movies.

I will admit I am prejudiced against this one from the start because of one detail. The plot of the movie is taken from The Far Side of the World, rather than Master and Commander. This is not the problem. The problem is that the enemy in The Far Side of the World is not France, but the United States. Perhaps Hollywood thinks American audiences can’t handle being the villain. Perhaps Hollywood reads American taste well, seeing as Adam Sandler has a career. It still hacks me off. Let Aubrey shoot at Americans!

I have, however, enjoyed one item connected with the movie. Aubrey’s favorite ship, the Surprise was lovingly recreated for the movie. It is now preserved as a functioning ship at the San Diego Maritime Museum. While a purist would quibble that the “actual” Surprise was a bit bigger than the movie one, this is still a truly amazing reproduction. For those of ample means, it is possible to train as a deck hand, and sail this thing on a cruise. If that is beyond your budget and time allotment, the museum itself is well worth the price. In addition to the Surprise, you can tour the Star of India, an actual ship from the end of the age of sail. My kids loved this. One of the original bay ferries has been turned into the main museum, with plenty of displays regarding steam power and other stuff irresistible to young boys. 

Finally, we classical musicians can enjoy the books for the fact that Aubrey and Maturin play violin and cello, respectively. Numerous chamber works from the era find their way into the books. One wonders whether O’Brian played, or if he was a just a fan.