Man Of War

It took him but an hour to see over the gun-decks, though he fancied he missed nothing; long years inspecting and being inspected had given him an unfailing eye. But all this was merely preparation: the guns were lashed and the instruments of gunnery fastened up; he would see later what sharp work the gun-crews could make of it.

He descended to the magazine, taking off his shoes, as standing orders required, to have a good look about the inside. The gunner was a big, powerfully made man, who had to stoop at his station. He spoke softly, as if noise as well as sparks were a danger; Peto felt certain of him at once. As he did too of the carpenter, who conducted him along the hull walk – always a place for grazing the forehead and bruising the shoulders – with a running commentary on the state of the timbers, pumps, masts and spars. ‘Not once above ten inches, sir, the well,’ he reported with palpable pride.

Peto nodded appreciatively; maintaining the depth of water below the maximum permitted of fifteen inches (without excessive pumping) was remarkable in a ship of Rupert’s age, and not long re-commissioned. ‘Very good, Mr Storr,’ he said as they came to the cockpit, turning to him directly now and fixing him with a quizzical look: ‘We have met before, I think.’

The carpenter’s face shone as bright as had Midshipman Pelham’s. ‘We ’ave, sir – on Amphion.’

It was eighteen years ago. Peto nodded. ‘Mate to that old dog Pollard, as I recall, Mr Storr?’

‘Ay, sir. And many a good trick ’e taught me,’ replied the carpenter, lapsing into broader Devon. ‘Amphion wor a good ship, sir.’

‘That she was, and in what I have seen so far I believe we may say that Rupert follows her.’

‘She does that, sir. As strong a framing as you’d see.’

Peto clapped his hand on the carpenter’s shoulder – a perhaps familiar gesture, but one he felt entirely at ease with. ‘I’m obliged to you, Mr Storr.’

Next was the midshipmen’s berth, which was not likely to be so obliging. Peto was never inclined to be intrusive, for he remembered well enough the cherished sense of private space (‘privacy’ would be a wholly inapt word) when he himself had been a midshipman, but the berth – little more than an enclosure knocked up by Storr’s mates – bore all too evidently the signs of late breakfasting.

‘Mr Lambe, who is senior here?’ (he knew the answer well enough, but there were ready ears to entertain).

‘Lord Yarborough, sir.’

‘Indeed? Then inform my Lord Yarborough, if you please, that he will have his fellow officers bestir themselves betimes.’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’

‘Mr Craig, have this berth turned out, if you will!’

‘Ay-ay, sir,’ replied the boatswain, with relish.

‘Very well, and now last to the surgeon’s. D’ye suppose he expects us?’

Peto’s eyes were now accustomed to the orlop’s gloom, but even so, he had to blink to believe them as he entered the cockpit. ‘What in the name of God . . .’

The surgeon, a shortish, wiry man of about thirty, wearing a black Melton coat and a stock like a parson’s, stepped forward. ‘Good morning, sir.’

They had shaken hands the day before, but Peto had not been able to take much measure of him. He looked a capable sort – an intelligent face, high forehead, good hands, if perhaps his physique lacked the obvious power for the more strenuous of amputations. ‘Mr Morrissey, what is the meaning of this?’ He knew he ought by rights to be addressing the question to his lieutenant, but the affront was taking place in the surgeon’s own part of ship.

Morrissey looked rather more puzzled by the captain’s displeasure than dismayed. ‘With respect, sir, I understand it to be the custom that a woman repairs to the cockpit when “Quarters” are sounded. That is what they do here.’

‘I know what is the custom, Mr Morrissey, but . . .’ He turned to his lieutenant. ‘Why are these women aboard, Mr Lambe?’

‘They drew lots at Portsmouth, sir, and were to be put off at Gibraltar for the first merchantman to Malta, but their husbands made representations, and since we had become obliged to convey Miss Codrington to Malta I considered that it would be inequitable to put them off.’

Peto huffed. Since when had equity any part in the customs of the service? But he was well aware of the Admiralty’s new leniency towards women (the order now being simply that ‘no ship is to be too much pestered with wives’). Lambe was right: it served no good to compel a sailor’s wife – however loose the term – to leave her husband’s ship while the admiral’s daughter enjoyed the comforts of the admiral’s apartments. No matter that the presence of the one would have no effect on the discipline of the ship, while the other could only tend in the very opposite direction.