WHILE WALKING FROM THE village of Buriton to Ashgrove Cottage, Stephen Maturin observes that the Hampshire landscape is “ordinary country raised to the highest power.” Indeed, the rolling, wooded South Downs of southern England are subtly splendid. But for the O’Brian reader, this countryside is raised yet another notch in its appeal—by the author in the fiction he has set there.
Readers have many reasons to rejoice in the Aubrey-Maturin novels, for Patrick O’Brian has the gift not only of raising the ordinary to a higher power but of making the extraordinary human. In his central characters we admire their honor, dignity, skills, and knowledge, and we empathize with their foibles and flaws. In his plots we escape into a world where etiquette and order seem to rule, relishing for instance the formalities of a Navy officers’ banquet—and the inevitable transgression of those formalities—and where even war has its civilities. And of course O’Brian, his sense of humor never curtailed, frequently sends us into fits of laughter.
Of all things we admire, though, the most rewarding is perhaps the curiosity that O’Brian inspires in us. For me, these novels have sparked many learning adventures, among them visits to Mystic Seaport, where I saw a capstan turned to a shanty and watched a mainsail unbent, to the Musée de la Marine in Paris, which displays spectacular 15-foot-tall ship models, and to the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, where the Battle of Trafalgar recurs in a narrated panorama through the stern window of a French first rate. On my way down to Portsmouth for a stroll on the decks of Nelson’s Victory (whose round tumblehome greatly increased my appreciation for Maturin’s shipboarding talents), I even stopped in the village of Buriton.
It is in The Reverse of the Medal that Maturin alights here from the Portsmouth night coach one fine morning for a walk across the fields and through the woods to Ashgrove. I quickly discovered why, in addition to its proximity, he might have paid an extra three shillings to be dropped off in this quaint farming village. The famous historian Edward Gibbon (1737-1794), who lived in a manor house by the pond and across from the Norman rectory, once wrote, “No more typical scene of 18th century England could be found.” It’s still true today.
After eating a “full-cooked” English breakfast at the Master Robert Inn—a walker’s meal if ever there was one—I visited the village’s peaceful flint-wall Norman church. The morning sun glistened on the dew-soaked tombstones as I prepared to strike off over the fields. Soon the sign for the South Downs Way, a national footpath, pointed up a tree-covered cart track, and I took it. As I dodged the deep, muddy ruts of the track, a covey of pheasants burst from a ragged hedge onto a cow pasture.
At the top of the cart track, I reached a lane guarded by two gnarly, silver-barked beech trees whose sagging branches were weighted by the half centuries they had seen. This was a lane that meandered over hills, through forests, and past farms. It was a lane for pleasant walking, and as my goal was to discover what I could about Ashgrove Cottage, a fictional place, I took my time. Like Maturin I was alone, and I did as I pleased. That included savoring ripe blackberries beside the road.
Soon I heard the clopping of horses. Around the bend, on big brown mounts, came four women in field boots and riding caps. Out front a perky, unblinking brunette greeted me with an irrepressible “Hello,” long on the first syllable. Behind her, side by side, were a sturdy, upright blond and a stout, silver-haired matron, the very countenance of the landed gentry, and bringing up the rear, a plumpish youngster. Surely, I thought, this was the Williams family out for a day’s ride. As I stifled a sudden desire to ask if they knew of a certain Jack and Sophie Aubrey, it occurred to me how delightful it is to go in search of fact and find fiction.
Eventually I reached Butser Hill, the highest point on the South Downs Way, and, looking south over the rippling Downs, I fancied I could make out Spithead and the Isle of Wight, just as Aubrey could from his observatory. My journey was well rewarded, and I couldn’t help but think of Maturin’s words as he traversed the same countryside: “ ‘Why do I feel such an intense pleasure, such an intense satisfaction?’ ... [H]e searched for a convincing reply, but finding none he observed ‘The fact is I do’ ” (The Reverse of the Medal, p. 178). I’m sure that Maturin’s profound curiosity and the opportunity to carelessly, purely indulge it were at least part of that intense satisfaction.
Indeed, curiosity seems to be a staple characteristic of O’Brian readers. From the comments and inquiries that poured in after the initial publication of A Sea of Words, it became apparent that the book had merely wetted that curiosity. Hence, Harbors and High Seas: An Atlas and Geographical Guide to the Aubrey-Maturin Novels, which explores the routes and the places where O’Brian leads his characters, and Every Man Will Do His Duty, an anthology of firsthand accounts from the men who fought the battles. Among them are Thomas Cochrane’s account of the cruise of the Speedy, upon which much of the action of Master and Commander is based, as well as accounts of the Glorious First of June, the battles of Cape St. Vincent and Trafalgar, and the frigate action between the United States and the Macedonian.
The second edition of A Sea of Words simply attempts to answer many more of the questions generated in reading these thought-provoking novels: What are the marthambles, and is there a historical basis for the chelengk that Aubrey receives from the Grand Turk? Who is Maturin’s famous patient the Duke of Clarence, and who the remarkable, precocious British prime minister William Pitt the Younger? On which days were honorary salutes required of all British warships, and what precipitated the Gordon Riots?
In this edition you will find many more entries regarding natural history, music, geography, and actions of the Napoleonic wars and the War of 1812. There are entries from The Commodore and The Yellow Admiral, neither of which was published when the first edition of A Sea of Words came out. This edition also refocuses on what I consider to be the seminal book of the series, Post Captain.
In this second edition you will also find many more translations of foreign words and phrases. In cases where passages have several foreign phrases together or near one another, the whole string has been translated together with ellipses linking them, so that by looking up the first foreign word of the passage, you will find all of the necessary translations. The new “Time Line of the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, and the Fight for Independence in Chile” (see the appendix, page 483) should help readers place the events of the novels in the context of the history of the era.
I humbly confess to a number of corrections as well and thank all of the well-informed amateurs and experts who kindly wrote to suggest additions and modifications and to pose questions. With the help of the learned professors John B. Hattendorf and J. Worth Estes, these suggestions and queries have been addressed whenever possible.
Of course, there is much more relevant, fascinating information that simply would not fit into this one book, nor half a dozen like it. But it is my hope that A Sea of Words will continue to inspire readers to read and reread O’Brian, to explore the many great fiction and non-fiction books written about the period, and to set off on their own adventures of discovery, traversing the landscapes and seeing in person the important places and artifacts of this great age of history, one that Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels so brilliantly bring to life for us.
—Dean King