Free Hervey 09 - Man Of War by Allan Mallinson

salt on his lips, the air was the briny pure of the ocean, as different from that on land as country air from town.
    He breathed it deep but hid his contentment. For the moment he must observe how Rupert answered, how she ran. Her master knew best her sailing qualities, and he would watch without words (if that were possible, strange as it felt) as Mr Shand conned her beyond the Punta de Europa and into the Mediterranean true. Then, with sea space enough for Rupert to make headway in any wind, he could retire to his cabin to read more of her papers while the boatswain piped hands to supper: a half-hour’s solitude perhaps, until at five o’clock, an hour or so before dark, Lambe would call the crew to their stations, the guns would be cast loose, the pumps rigged, the lifebuoys placed in position, and the quarterdeck officers – the lieutenants and midshipmen – would make their inspection and report to him, and thence to the captain, that the ship was in good order for the night. After that – and not before – he, Peto, could retire, bathe, change his linen and . . . (he sighed) entertain Miss Rebecca Codrington.
    The very devil of it! His first evening he would as a rule have had his lieutenant and two or three of the others, the master perhaps, and the chaplain (being a son of the parsonage, despite some distinctly unreligious views, he did favour a chaplain when there was one, which was not often on a frigate, and certainly never in his experience one of any profound learning – ‘the Reverend Mr Lack-Latin’). Why in heaven’s name was Codrington’s daughter going to Malta? He sighed again, and shrugged: fool of a question; why should she not be going to Malta? That was what daughters did, he supposed – go to see their fathers. He shook his head; it was extraordinary how little he knew of what young ladies did. Except that Miss Rebecca Codrington was but a child. He shook his head again. No, that would not do. She was by his own reckoning thirteen or fourteen: no longer, as the rascals of the midshipmen’s berth would have it, ‘jail-bait’. But as far as he was concerned Miss Rebecca Codrington was a minor – whatever the law said – and he would not have her subjected to any familiarity. Then came further doubts: he supposed she ate the same food as a grown-up woman . . .
    With the wind now abeam and freshening by the minute (he pulled his hat on a fraction tighter), they were beginning to make leeway. There was more than enough sea space to tack clear of the point, however, or even to wear it, especially with the sea running so calm. Peto was beginning to wonder when the master would take in sail, or brace them round, but Mr Shand merely turned Rupert another point into the wind. Still he would not interfere: the ship was in no danger. Shand was just risking having to call all hands on deck to shorten sail quickly.
    In five more minutes Peto saw for certain that Rupert ’s line of movement through the water would take her well clear of the point, and with the wind veering if anything she would probably only increase the clearing distance. Nisus would not have answered like that, he knew; she would be making more leeway, and running perhaps two knots faster. He had told the old hands that a three-decker could handle as well as a frigate, and he knew it – as long as the captain gave his orders five knots faster. He would, anyway, have to learn Rupert ’s handling keenly, and he was glad of Shand’s no doubt unintended demonstration of how she ran in light airs.
    Half an hour later, Shand ordered the helm to starboard, and sail braced square. Rupert ’s bow began turning away from the wind and the fast-falling sun, and the smiles on the faces of trimmers and topmen alike said it all. The screaming of the gulls fell away to the growing noise of timber and rope, the assurance that the ship was straining – working .
    ‘Carry on, Mr Lambe,’ said Peto, satisfied, quitting his chosen place