Finding POB

I found POB in a rather curious way. I was in a Latin American prison, accused of running guns to the freedom fighters. One evening, the prison commandant came to my cell. "Your appeal has been denied" he said, "Tomorrow you die. Be brave." He asked if there was anything I wanted - tobacco, rum, a priest. All I wanted, I told him, was a good book to while away the dark hours of my final night. He nodded, and soon returned with a dog-eared paperback - it was an old Fontana edition of "Desolation Island". "You will like it", the commandant said. "It is a little like Hornblower, and a little like Jane Austen." The cell door slammed shut, and I was left with my book to my solitude.

How I devoured that book! My own danger was nothing compared to the tribulations of the Horrible old Leopard! I scarcely noticed the passing of the night and the coming of the rosy-hued dawn - my last dawn. Suddenly, the door was flung open - "It is time", the commandant said. "Put down the book. Come." Sadly, I laid down the book. My hands were bound behind me, and I was led to the bullet-riddled wall in the courtyard of the prison. "Cigarette? Blindfold?" I shook my head. "Any last requests"? I considered for a moment. "Well, I'm at this very interesting part of the book where the Leopard's being chased by a Dutch ship of the line - I'd love to finish it!" The commandant nodded vigorously. "Ah, the Waakzamheid! An excellent passage - possibly one of O'Brian's best! Very well, amigo - finish the chapter - but tomorrow you die!"

(One may only be shot at dawn in those parts - work rules of the firing squad union, or summat like that.)

Back in my cell, I returned to "Desolation Island" eagerly. When dawn broke the following day, I had finished it. Back in the courtyard, the firing squad waited impatiently as the commandant again offered the blindfold and cigarette. I shook my head, and once again, he asked for my last request. "Well... I see that "Desolation Island" is part of a series - could I read another?" Sighing, the commandant agreed as the firing squad groaned in disappointment. I was flung back into my cell with a copy of "The Reverse of the Medal". As the door closed, the commandant looked at me sadly. "Amigo, I wish you'd take the cigarette and blindfold, instead..." he said wistfully.

My life soon assumed a regular pattern. I would read away in my cell, pausing only to eat my daily bowl of beans and rice. From time to time, I would be led to the courtyard. Usually the firing squad didn't even show up, though the commandant assured me he'd be happy to shoot me himself. I would make my request, and then I'd be led back to my cell; back to the world of Jack and Stephen, Killick and Bonden, Sophie and Diana, the Sloth and the Vampire Bat. But the fatal day finally arrived - I finished the canon! I was led to the wall, as the firing squad grinned and waved in eager anticipation.

"Well, my friend" The commandant smiled, "The books are done - now we must say Adios! What is your final - and I emphasize FINAL - request?"

I drew myself up straighter, and met his eye. "Commandant", I said to him, "You have been kind to me. I admire your literary taste. I have enjoyed my time as your prisoner, and will trouble you with only one more well little small request." The firing squad began to whine. "The novels of Patrick O'Brian are superb, each one considered on their own. But you know, I've come to consider that, taken together, they form along integral story. By your leave, I should like to read them again, this time - in order!"

As I was led back to my cell, I realized that I had never before heard a commandant and firing squad weep. Alas, I was only halfway through my second reading when a coup d'etat deposed the government, and my friends the freedom fighters released me from prison. I would have returned the O'Brians to my friend the commandant, but he was shot on the morning I was released. The new commandant had offered him a book in his final hours, but it was only a "Ramage" novel. "Shoot me", he said, and walked to the courtyard, his head held high.

Allan Janus
7th February 1998