The Froggies might like that, and run with it – they being big on irony and cynicism. (I am fond of our neighbours across the Channel – well, mostly.)
Although the crew loved him, they knew that Stephen was hopelessly non-nautical. He still tried to impress people that he was an old sea-dog, and would employ naval lingo on occasion (sometimes correctly, sometimes incorrectly). He’d then smugly repeat and re-emphasize the phrase, feeling pleased with himself.
I’ve always liked the bit where they have on board the Scottish learned scholar and expert on the Middle East, for the purposes of his conducting diplomacy in those parts of the world. Stephen falls prey to a mischievous impulse, and starts spouting fake nautical gobbledegook to this chap, about tricing up the larboard bonkwratches or some such nonsense. The Scot – a highly serious and rather self-important guy, pretty devoid of a sense of humour – perceives that he’s being “wound up”, and takes offence; it’s a long time before he manages to forgive Stephen.
That was Professor Graham (the unnatural philosopher) and the “by and large” fiasco I believe. Stephen had heard the phrase “by and large” often. This of course refers to a ship that sails well both large (sailing in the same general direction of the wind), and by the wind (sailing into the wind). But poor Stephen, who after 15 years and 20 books never could understand the weather gage, told Professor Graham that they were currently sailing both “by and large”, which is a physical impossibility.
At dinner that night, Professor Graham told the gathered officers that they were sailing “by and large”. Utterly shocked that such a learned gentleman could be wrong about something so utterly basic, as simple as right and wrong, they told him someone must have been practicing on him, leading to his disdain for Stephen. But Stephen was purely innocent - it was his own incompetence that led him astray.
Well, you also have to suspend disbelief to accept the great number and variety of exciting battles Aubrey gets into or witnesses, the great number and variety of his wounds without permanent damage (except a bad eye that kind of comes and goes), the great number and variety of fabulous treasures he wins and the variety of way he subsequently loses them, and so forth.
So you pretty much have to accept the ‘impossibly too many good stories/situations’ (especially crammed into the actual historical time period) to really enjoy the story.
Mind you, some RN officers of the time had pretty colourful careers. Thomas Cochrane: Thomas Cochrane, 10th Earl of Dundonald - Wikipedia
From the author’s note in The Far Side of the World:
“Even in the early nineteenth century the year contained only twelve months, and it is possible that in the near future the author (if his readers will bear with him) may be led to make use of hypothetical years, rather like those hypothetical moons used in the calculation of Easter: an 1812a as it were or even an 1812b.”
Son of a gun!
I thought that Stephen hated his guts, and was messing with him.
I don’t think so. My recollection is that Stephen was just showing off a little, and felt badly later when Graham was embarrassed and angry.
I welcome other opinions. Perhaps I am mistaken. 
(carnivorousplant wrote: “I thought that Stephen hated his guts, and was messing with him.”)
I’m well over 95% sure of what I’m about to write; but it comes in the novel “The Ionian Mission”, which I don’t possess, so can’t give direct “textev”. I’m pretty well certain that the “by and large” business cited by muldoonthief, is “another occasion in another book”.
The Maturin / Graham contretemps in “The Ionian Mission” is, I believe, in-between re the cites above from carnivorousplant, and Eleanor of Aquitaine. IIRC, Stephen doesn’t actually hate Graham; but though he (Stephen) is a kindly soul and a good Catholic Christian, he finds Graham an annoyingly pompous, self-important, humourless twit, and succumbs to a childish impulse to “wind him up” a little. He thus brings into conversation with Graham, his supposedly profound nautical knowledge, including a phoney description of some complicated manoeuvre involving larboard something-or-others, which last even Maturin knows don’t exist – he’s just made the term up.
When the deception inevitably comes out: as Eleanor of Aquitaine says, Graham is offended, and Stephen feels, properly, very ashamed. Finally, the business blows over, and the two men are able to be on at least outwardly friendly terms; but till then, relations between them are frosty for some months.
Point taken – and Eleanor of Aquitaine’s about “1812a and 1812b”. It’s maybe a rather foolish peeve of mine, which I should get over: but in a basically serious novel series (which I would think “Aubrey and Maturin”, however fun-filled, counts as) – this sort of contrived “piling-up and piling-in of events and venues”, does grate on me just a little bit. There are other historical-novel series about which I feel the same way.
A similar thing is done in Fraser’s “Flashman” books (he couldn’t really have played a prominent part in that number of episodes of 19th-century history, all over the globe). However, “Flashman” is satire, in which an “oblique” take on real life somehow isn’t a problem. Anyway, this stuff is my issue to deal with; if I had more sense, I probably wouldn’t let it bother me.
The episode that really tested my suspension of disbelief was when Aubrey was traveling the countryside disguised as a bear :dubious:
^ Wasn’t it more that he couldn’t be recognised (while dressed in a bear skin)?
I’d reckon so. Gestapo / KGB/ Stasi etc., would have been almost certain to investigate as to just who was impersonating the beast; but tyranny and repression were likely a bit less thorough and clued-in, two centuries ago.
I LOVE the O’Brian books, having read the complete series four times. Reading this thread is seriously threatening to make me start a fifth reading. Nonetheless, the bear skin disguise to escape French patrols always struck me as a little hard to accept. Maybe I’ve been missing a nuance, but I’ve always read that storyline with the idea that Aubrey was genuinely passing himself off as a real bear.
Tame. or dancing, bears were apparently a somewhat known thing in Europe, even into the 21st century. But how Jack could successfully fool crowds of onlookers, including some officers and soldiers who were looking for an escaped Englishman (him) stretches the point a little.
Rather idly playing devil’s advocate: in such situations, sometimes the most crazy / preposterous / seemingly insanely rash ploy wins, by virtue of its sheer craziness. An example which I love (and have cited before on TSD): the World War 2 escape attempt from a POW camp in Germany, by a British Royal Navy officer who escaped and, wearing his Royal Navy uniform, tried to get through, and out of, Germany.
On the basis that World War 2 Germany was full of “all sorts and conditions of” foreigners, from the nations which Germany occupied, and from Germany’s allies-by-choice; our hero decided to pose as an officer in the Bulgarian Navy, one Lieutenant Ivan Bagerov (wordplay – “I bugger off”), and to travel through Germany in his British Royal Navy uniform – thought-process, very few people in Germany would have the faintest idea what a Bulgarian sailor was supposed to look like; and, “obviously” no Brit would travel around Germany wearing his British naval uniform – the idea would be inconceivable. “Ivan Bagerov” 's escape attempt ultimately failed – he was rumbled at last – but he stayed at liberty for a good many days, and got as far as the coast.
I have to agree that the bear suit story line tested my patience, too. I kind of just pretend that never happened, it was such a break from the tone of the books.