There is a knock at the door of the cabin, and the sentry announces "The master of the Yankee whaler, sir!"
Pullings looks up from his work and says wearily "Send him in." At first he cannot believe that West is incapable of performing the necessary formalities himself, taking possession of the ship and checking the master's papers, but then he remembers that West has not had as much experience; perhaps he has never dealt with a prize before.
He is different from West and Davidge, Pullings realizes. This is his sort of cruising: half a world away from admirals and chances of glory. He is at ease in shirtsleeves in a way that is more than physical comfort; a dress uniform is not the same. They are gentlemen, and would rather chase French national ships than American merchantmen: there is more honor in it.
The whaler's master is a young man, almost too young to have been long at sea, Pullings thinks, and to be captain of a ship. He realizes that he himself is scarcely older; that they were probably the same age when they went to sea, one a midshipman and the other a layman; and that the skipper of a whaling ship is the master, not the captain, so perhaps that makes a difference.
In all his previous experience, the business of the capture was done aboard the prize, and the amount of courtesy used was the defeated commander’s decision. He is unsure now of what to do: he is the victor, and should be at an advantage, but all he can do is gesture to a chair and say "Do sit down", awkwardly.
The master hands a sheaf of papers across, and before Pullings can ask answers "Jeroboam, two years out of Nantucket. Samuel Mayhew, master." He leaves his hand out after Pullings has accepted the papers, and Pullings takes it with barely a pause.
"You’ve a full hold?"
"Nearly. We were to sail for home in a week."
"I shall send you into Valparaiso with a prize-crew. They'll deal with you there." It will not be a prize-crew, of course: the Surprise cannot spare men enough to be called a prize-crew. Three or four will have to do.
And they do, and do, and do, again and again, until Callao, where the Surprise leaves off cruising the coast and turns westward. They escort their last two prizes into port, take on provisions, and spend their last night ashore before crossing the Pacific.
There are always visitors to a ship in port, in capacities more or less official. One, this time, is a very tall black Popish clergyman with an Irish accent, looking for Captain Aubrey or Doctor Maturin. This is mildly strange, but Pullings is naturally obliged to tell him that neither the Captain nor the Doctor is on board.
He is at the Governor's that evening, in the dress uniform of a commander: the officer's equivalent of a night on the town. For a while he shuttles back and forth between groups of captains and groups of lieutenants, then finds a gentleman farmer and is surprised by how well they get on. He sees, standing next to the Bishop, the priest from earlier, who gives him a letter for Captain Aubrey and a name he forgets. (Spiritual power is all very well, he thinks, but he would rather remain a naval officer: for one thing, it does not entail the wearing of a purple robe.)
They weigh anchor the next morning and leave on the last of the land breeze, for the Orient. This is the sort of sailing Pullings loves, as Captain Aubrey does, logging two hundred miles in a day with the sun overhead and a fair wind over a calm sea. It defies navigation: the Surprise is at the center of a disk of ocean, and everything else revolves.
