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I said I'd do this earlier anyway, but tonight's O'Brianspam is ex post facto in honour of me having Maturin'd a great dirty splinter out from under the nail of my middle finger. That fucker was all the way in. 
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Yet even so, the party was not exactly convivial, since it split into two groups: Aubrey and Pullings talking quietly of former shipmates and former voyages, while Stephen and Davidge spoke of the difficulties of remaining alive as an undergraduate at Trinity College in Dublin: Davidge had a cousin there who had been pierced three times, twice by a sword, once by a pistol-bullet.
"I am not a quarrelsome man nor inclined to take offence," said Stephen, "yet I must have been out a score of times in my first year. It is better now, I believe, but it was a desperate place in those days."
"So my cousin said. And when he came to see us in England my father and I gave him some lessons: it was riposte, parry or tierce all through that summer; but at least he survived."
"You are an eminent swordsman, I find."
"Not I. But my father was, and he did make me at least competent. It was useful to me later on, when I was in a sad way, having left the service, because Angelo employed me for a while in his salle d'armes."
"Indeed? It would oblige me extremely if you would exchange a few passes with me after dinner. I am somewhat out of practice, and it would grieve me to be cut down like a simpleton tonight."
[...]
"Now, Doctor," said Davidge, "do you choose to have a bout?"
"I should be very happy," said Stephen, throwing his cigar-butt into the sea, where it gave a momentary hiss.
"These are Angelo's particular patented pride," said Davidge, when they were ready, with their coats folded on the capstan and their neckerchiefs loosed. "They fasten over the point, doing it no harm, so that you can use your real sword. Far, far better than any form of button."
"Glory be," said Stephen.
They saluted and stood poised for a moment, with minute, scarcely perceptible threatening movements of point or wrist; then Stephen, tapping twice with his foot like a torero, flew straight at Davidge with inconceivable ferocity. Davidge parried and they whirled about one another, their swords clashing now high, now low, their bodies almost touching, now at double arm's length.
"Hold hard," cried Stephen, leaping back and raising his hand. "My breeches band is destroyed. Martin, pray do up the buckle, will you now?"
The buckle made fast, they saluted again, and again after the reptilian stillness, Stephen leapt in, crying "Ha! Ha!" It was the same parry, the same whirling and clashing with swords darting so fast that only the swordsmen could follow them -- the same stamping feet and heavy gasping breath as they lunged, the same extraordinary agility -- but then came a check in the rhythm, a subtle flaw, and there was Davidge's sword in the hammock-netting.
He stared at his empty hand for a moment, deeply shocked, but quickly, in the general cheering, he put what face he could upon it and cried "Well done, well done! I am a dead man -- one more of your corpses, no doubt."
Then, having recovered his sword and found that it was unhurt he said "May I look at yours?" Stephen passed it; Davidge turned it about and weighed it and looked closely at its guard and grip. "A spring quillion?" he asked.
"Just so. I catch my opponent's blade here; the whole thing is a matter of timing and leverage."
"It is a murderous weapon."
"After all, swords are for killing. But I thank you very heartily, sir, for this exercise; you are complaisance in person."
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In other news: it is very hard to ignore the upcoming St. Patrick's Day when a key point in the dating of Latin loan-words into Irish hinges on the translation of his name from 'Patricius'; it is likewise hard, when you can feel the impending and inevitable Irish Rage, to try and write an unbiased dissertation that is partly about why the Roman question gives scholars Irish Rage.
Yet even so, the party was not exactly convivial, since it split into two groups: Aubrey and Pullings talking quietly of former shipmates and former voyages, while Stephen and Davidge spoke of the difficulties of remaining alive as an undergraduate at Trinity College in Dublin: Davidge had a cousin there who had been pierced three times, twice by a sword, once by a pistol-bullet.
"I am not a quarrelsome man nor inclined to take offence," said Stephen, "yet I must have been out a score of times in my first year. It is better now, I believe, but it was a desperate place in those days."
"So my cousin said. And when he came to see us in England my father and I gave him some lessons: it was riposte, parry or tierce all through that summer; but at least he survived."
"You are an eminent swordsman, I find."
"Not I. But my father was, and he did make me at least competent. It was useful to me later on, when I was in a sad way, having left the service, because Angelo employed me for a while in his salle d'armes."
"Indeed? It would oblige me extremely if you would exchange a few passes with me after dinner. I am somewhat out of practice, and it would grieve me to be cut down like a simpleton tonight."
[...]
"Now, Doctor," said Davidge, "do you choose to have a bout?"
"I should be very happy," said Stephen, throwing his cigar-butt into the sea, where it gave a momentary hiss.
"These are Angelo's particular patented pride," said Davidge, when they were ready, with their coats folded on the capstan and their neckerchiefs loosed. "They fasten over the point, doing it no harm, so that you can use your real sword. Far, far better than any form of button."
"Glory be," said Stephen.
They saluted and stood poised for a moment, with minute, scarcely perceptible threatening movements of point or wrist; then Stephen, tapping twice with his foot like a torero, flew straight at Davidge with inconceivable ferocity. Davidge parried and they whirled about one another, their swords clashing now high, now low, their bodies almost touching, now at double arm's length.
"Hold hard," cried Stephen, leaping back and raising his hand. "My breeches band is destroyed. Martin, pray do up the buckle, will you now?"
The buckle made fast, they saluted again, and again after the reptilian stillness, Stephen leapt in, crying "Ha! Ha!" It was the same parry, the same whirling and clashing with swords darting so fast that only the swordsmen could follow them -- the same stamping feet and heavy gasping breath as they lunged, the same extraordinary agility -- but then came a check in the rhythm, a subtle flaw, and there was Davidge's sword in the hammock-netting.
He stared at his empty hand for a moment, deeply shocked, but quickly, in the general cheering, he put what face he could upon it and cried "Well done, well done! I am a dead man -- one more of your corpses, no doubt."
Then, having recovered his sword and found that it was unhurt he said "May I look at yours?" Stephen passed it; Davidge turned it about and weighed it and looked closely at its guard and grip. "A spring quillion?" he asked.
"Just so. I catch my opponent's blade here; the whole thing is a matter of timing and leverage."
"It is a murderous weapon."
"After all, swords are for killing. But I thank you very heartily, sir, for this exercise; you are complaisance in person."
- Patrick O'Brian, The Letter of Marque, p.183-185
In other news: it is very hard to ignore the upcoming St. Patrick's Day when a key point in the dating of Latin loan-words into Irish hinges on the translation of his name from 'Patricius'; it is likewise hard, when you can feel the impending and inevitable Irish Rage, to try and write an unbiased dissertation that is partly about why the Roman question gives scholars Irish Rage.
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O'Brian is sneaky. He likes to lull you into a false sense of security for half a dozen books or so, and let you forget, before abruptly reminding you that ugly, nerdy little Stephen Maturin is quite, quite capable of fucking your shit up.
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Also, have you read the Temeraire books? If so, you may notice a, *ahem*, very slight resemblance in certain particulars. And if you were to wonder about it, I might direct you to this page of Master & Commander fanfic by a Certain Author, which - aside from being the most horrendously pitch-perfect and AMAZING Aubreyad fic on the internets (as one might expect), certainly convinced me that a Certain Author, in some small corner of her brain, ships Laurence/Temeraire.