I find a pattern of analysis fits this first book in the series: that of yes and no, or the supremacy of the "but". For instance, Jack’s character is inconsistent; but, that perceived inconsistency may actually be a part of his character, making him consistently inconsistent. And that pattern of analysis fits the way I think about this novel pretty well: first thinking something isn’t done well, then thinking that at least it’s used well, then coming to a paradoxical conclusion. This pattern is a bad sign. Then again, I appreciate these conflicts driving the book forward. So this pattern is both good and bad? Maybe it’s often initially off putting, then forgive-able.
The most apparent aspect of this pattern is the language. The language of the whole attempts an early nineteenth century diction. There are a couple of cringe worthy moments, but then O’Brian winks an eye and takes the reader through Mowett’s lengthy description of the rigging with obvious humor. Mowett’s description shows how O’Brian uses nautical terminology much like a science fiction author uses technobabble: he gives a detailed and esoteric description of the actions the crew does, but then summarizes the relevant result for the reader. So maybe his use of archaic language is not terrible? Or maybe I’m just used to it by the end of the book?
A counter-example would be William Shakespeare, who writes Julius Caesar using the language of his day—making the play legible to his audience to try outselling the bear-baiting pit next door—instead of using an archaic language. But Shakespeare gives flavor through the subject and scenery instead. For instance, the line, “Friends, Romans, Countrymen,” sets the scene effectively in the time period. It’s a somewhat illuminating comparison to me, but it still leaves me confused: the comparison points out simply that two authors took two different tactics to communicate the time period of their works. But is one better than the other? I tend to think it may be more a case-by-case basis, and less a hard and fast rule, but there’s obviously a balance to be struck here, depending on the work in question. In general, I like period language for the dialogue, and the author’s contemporary language for the narrative; but again, that’s not a hard and fast rule. By the end of the book, O’Brian’s work is really starting to sound good.
But at the beginning, his use of language rides a fine line between annoyance and setting the scene. For instance, the line of dialogue, “Thankee, thankee, Captain. I am far better, I am glad to say, now I am out of the clutches of that bloody-minded sawbones.” Sure, when Latin was more widely studied by children, literate people used more complex sentences and more phrases in sentences—I can buy that this premise makes some sense. But this man is drunk. Does he come off drunk? Or did the language get in the way of O’Brian communicating the nature of the character, in favor of communicating his conception of the scene in general? Is this just “talk like a pirate day”, the book? Or, on seeing a group of sailors in the first chapter: “but they all of them had long swinging pigtails”. Looks like the editor forgot to take out either “they” or “all of them”.
The most interesting part of the character arc of Jack—that transition between one of the men and one of them—is glossed over with a later comment that he was never really one of the men because he was only busted down to their level, and even then for only a few months. This missed opportunity rankles. But the counter for this would be that when he loses James Dillon, it affects him more than perhaps it would have if Jack was still a normal sailor. However, without seeing Jack more often before his command, it’s impossible for the reader to judge how much of a change is occurring. But, because there is always a but with this book, the author has to start his story somewhere, and that sense of peeking into these men’s lives in media res is well done for sure. I am left with a sense that we’re watching a snapshot of a part of the continuum of these mens’ lives.
The biggest annoyance was Stephen, who is attracted to a cruise or two for the philosophical benefits, the travel, and the naturalism. He has enough leisure time that he stares through a pipe into the sea most of the day, but is too caught up in the JA JD clustercuss to really engage in the amount of philosophical contemplation that was forecast. That said, as always with this book, there’s another way to look at it: there is quite a bit of insight into reality and people here, and I did come away contemplating the condensed nature of ship-crews, service politics, and war in general. But why is Stephen down on his luck? Because he’s hiding from his nationalistic Irish past? That makes some sense, but I’m not sure.
The tertiary annoyance for me is that the story wanders: it sort of episodes its way to a sort of conclusion that clearly billboards a series to come. Balls still in the air at the end include:
- Jack’s relations with the Hartes,
- the Navy’s official response to the successful actions of Jack,
- the hints of threatening peace, (Spoiler Alert, it happened in 1802 and lasted about half a second) which I find interesting as Jack has been at sea since 12, and in that mindset since 9, making him a younger Achilles, who was at war from 15-25;
- the backstory of Jack’s role in the Battle of the Nile,
- Jack as a shipless captain,
- Jack overcoming the death of Dillon,
- Jack recognizing the uselessness of Dillon’s replacement and dealing with that situation,
- Jack’s secret, buxom source of Spanish shipping details,
- et cetera.
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If the book was better, I wouldn’t be quibbling quite as much, but it’s not the best book I’ve read, so these quibbles are stuck in my mind as possible reasons for why I wasn’t infatuated with this work. However, I’m intrigued enough to read another book in this series, though this one wasn’t great.
