Man Of War

He was not, however, in the least anxious. Such weather was but an exigency of the service: His Majesty’s ships had been storm-tossed all about the globe for two centuries, and he himself had encountered typhoons that made a man think he was in the nether regions rather than the Indies. His only disquiet was in the delay the weather imposed, and the difficulty of transferring the women ashore.

At first he had tried to lie to in the storm, with just enough canvas set to keep her head seven points from the wind so that they could enter the Malta Channel, where he hoped the storm would have blown itself out and he could hail a tender from Valetta. But even with the helm well over, she made too much leeway; and with insufficient sea room Peto decided instead to take in canvas, and on reefed topsails to run before the gale to leeward of the island.

During those three days of the storm, Peto saw next to nothing of Rebecca, whom he had confined to her quarters. He saw even less of the sailors’ women. When, the first night, he made his rounds with the carpenter, he had found their condition pitiable, and did not wish it upon his mind too much. He had never sailed with women before, in any weather, and their plight made him strangely uneasy. He wondered what the rest of the crew made of their distress. God forbid that any woman should be injured! And if ever it came to a fight . . .

When, however, on the fourth morning, the storm abated, Rebecca came onto the quarterdeck with every appearance of one who had actually enjoyed the experience. Her face showed no pallor, her hair shone, and her eyes sparkled. She blithely received the greetings of the midshipmen, who vied to have her attention, and sweetly returned hands’ smiles alike, they knuckling their foreheads as if she were another officer. And not only, Peto supposed, because she was their admiral’s daughter: such an appearance, after a storm of those proportions, spoke of a natural superiority that commanded, if not the obedience that was due to the youngest midshipman, a very good deal of respect nevertheless.

Rebecca glanced about with a certain surprise: nothing appeared to have been carried away in the blow. She looked skywards to see what the weather might bring next: here and there was wispy cloud, but otherwise the sun had the heavens to itself, the wind gentle in the canvas, the waves once more friendly. It was difficult to imagine how the sea could have been whipped up so malevolently.

‘Whereabouts are we now, Captain Peto?’ she asked when she saw he was no longer preoccupied with making sail.

‘Another day and we should have been blown right through the Gulf of Surt.’ He looked and sounded displeased.

Rebecca did not know where was the Gulf of Surt, but concluded that it was not convenient to their destination. ‘Shall we have to turn round?’

Peto looked at her in some bewilderment, and not merely for her unnautical turn of phrase. ‘Miss Codrington, with these airs it would take the better part of a week to beat back to Malta. Even as things go, we shall be altering sail every hour to tack north to the Ionian, where we suppose your father to be.’

‘So you will not be able to have that lovely water you spoke of?’

He sighed. He had given up his cherished notion of taking on water from the Arethusa spring three days ago. ‘No, the Portsmouth casks will have to see us through. But it is no matter.’ What in fact mattered to him now was close hauling clear of the shores of Cyrenaica, otherwise he would waste even more time gaining sea room by beating due west. That, and finding a ship Malta-bound (or one that he might press to sail there). He was surprised that Rebecca herself showed no dismay at the turn of events. ‘You need have no anxiety, though, Miss Codrington. There will be sloops aplenty running back and forth from your father’s squadron. We are sure to intercept one in a day or so.’ (He hoped he sounded convincing.) ‘I trust, incidentally, you were not too shaken about by the storm?’

Rebecca brightened. ‘Not in the least, Captain Peto. It was most exciting. I read three books and maintained my journal throughout.’

Peto rather wished he had made the enquiry a shade less presumptuously, recalling his own seasickness at her age. Later, indeed, he would learn from the marines that she had tended her maid throughout, who had been desperately seasick and in her cot since first Rupert began taking in canvas.

‘Capital, capital.’ He sounded almost mystified.

She smiled. ‘The food was a little unvarying.’

‘Ah, yes. I hope it was explained: there could be no galley fires in such heavy seas.’

‘It was perfectly explained, Captain Peto, thank you. But you would not think me so ungracious as to complain even if I had not known?’

Peto was quite startled. ‘No . . . no; of course I would not.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Rebecca, I hope you will dine with me this evening. The food will be hot, I assure you.’

‘Thank you, Captain Peto. You are ever kind.’