Man Of War

Rupert ran before the wind for the best part of that league until Peto judged he need approach the flag no closer. The admiral had for some reason changed his mind and called her up sooner, showing his heaviest guns early to Sphacteria (the lookouts there, even the most laggard Turkish sentry, could not fail to see she was a three-decker). What was the cause of Codrington’s second thoughts, he wondered. Had he received intelligence that the Turks would offer resistance, or try to sortie?

No explanation came. For the rest of the morning Rupert lay all but motionless in the water, courses furled and fore-topsail backed to the mast, as perfectly balanced as a windhover spying its prey. Peto was close to fretting for the liveliness of the crew, for the ship had been cleared for action now these four hours, and the men at their stations. With the galley fire doused there was no prospect of a good trencher of beef come midday (it would have to be biscuit and slushy), but he had ordered a generous issue of bacon at breakfast, and half a ration again of rum, so he was not too exercised on that account. Besides, there would be feast enough at the day’s end – ‘when the smoke had cleared’. That was what the crew were promising themselves.

He thought of going about the decks again, but it would have looked strange, perhaps making him appear uneasy. No, he would have to leave it to the lieutenants to keep the crew from torpor. Doubtless some of them would be thinking he had cleared for action too soon; and with four hours’ inactivity, and no enemy ship within sight, they had some cause. But he was ever of the opinion that it was not possible to clear too soon for action: there was a sort of superiority that came with taking the initiative, rather than having the enemy drive the business. What was an early rouse and cold food compared with knowing all was ready when the enemy hove in view?

‘Cutter ahoy, sir!’

Peto sighed with relief.

Lambe, coming up the companion ladder from yet another inspection below, barked the order without missing a step: ‘Mr Corbishley, the gangway if you please!’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’ The midshipman sounded pleased to have something to do at last.

They had not taken the gangway to the hold when they cleared for action, anticipating its imminent need. Midshipman Corbishley and the boatswain’s mates could have it rigged in ten minutes or so, lashing the frame to the ship’s side at the entry port on the middle deck, and then lowering the end to the waterline. Peto would have the women descend quickly and with all modesty to the cutter (rather than have them clamber down the side-ladder). It was something of an irony, as the whole crew knew: modesty had not been a mark of their time on board.

Except for Rebecca Codrington (and her maid). There was not a midshipman – and a good many lieutenants – who had not in some measure lost his heart to her. Indeed, she had somehow endeared herself to those before the mast too, for one of the hands was sent to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder with a present of a brightly coloured parrot in a cage, and a sentiment carved on a wooden tag: ‘Health to our Admiral’s Daughter’.

Peto made a mental note for his log, and with considerable relief:Two bells of the Afternoon Watch, Miss Codrington and ship’s women transferred to cutter Hind.

Rebecca stood in her brown cloak taking the sun, exchanging quiet words with her maid, understanding that the usual pleasantries with the occupants of the quarterdeck were necessarily curtailed in a ship cleared for action. She marvelled at Rupert’s transformation. The captain’s cabin, in which she had enjoyed the most attentive of company, where she had been extended every courtesy, as if she had been a grown woman, which to her own mind she was in all respects but that which she could not yet know (which did not in truth disbar her from that claim, for such knowledge was by no means given to all), was no more: it was now but a fighting station, as the rest of the ship, with rude-looking men gathered about the guns, where before there had been gentler faces, gold lace, and quiet-spoken servants. These men by no means repelled her; quite the opposite, indeed, for she saw in them the very safeguard of the nation, and of the ship and the fine officers she had come to know (and the finest of men that was the captain) – and most particularly of her father’s reputation. How, therefore, could she not admire – love, even – these men who held their life at his disposal? The thought made her blood run fast. And when Peto bid her farewell a final time her face was suffused with a colour he had never before seen in a female.

‘Miss Codrington, you are unwell?’

She smiled at him with the satisfaction of one who knew something her superior did not. ‘I am very well indeed, Captain Peto. Only that I have no desire to leave your ship.’