now had a real place in the ship, whereas before he had been little more than a nuisance to people already busy to the point of distraction (the temper of the quarter-deck had grown comparatively mild since they had cleared the chops of the Channel, against what it had been at Spithead and St Helen’s), and now he was assigned to a watch, a division—the foretop—and a station, where he was useful, if not of any great importance.
If it had not been for the navigation lessons, given both by Mr Thomas, the schoolmaster, and by the august Mr Blew,the Centurion ’s master or chief navigating officer, which were a sore trial to Peter, and the uncomfortableness of the midshipmen’s berth, he would have been ideally happy. It was not the physical discomfort that Peter minded, for he had been brought up hard, and of the two, his present circumstances were a little less Spartan than those at home, even in the article of food, for Mrs Palafox, though good and kind and an excellent hand at embroidery, had but the remotest notions of cooking, in which she closely resembled the succession of vague women who wandered in and out of the Rectory kitchen. So Peter did not mind the hard tack, the burgoo, the burnt offerings, the biscuits in which the weevils were already making their interesting little burrows, or the junk: but he did mind the feeling of unfriendliness, the knowledge that he was not accepted as one of the group. This was not a bullying, hazing mess, the kind that can make a new midshipman’s life an unspeakable misery: it was not that kind of berth at all; for one thing, there were no very young fellows in it—and for another, the general tone was quite against that kind of thing. But he and FitzGerald had started off on the wrong foot, and Peter felt the results of it keenly.
FitzGerald himself was still unfit for duty. His wound was clean and the bone untouched, but the combination of three days of continual sea-sickness, the wound and the fever produced by the wound, had kept him below until they sank Rame Head behind them on the north-eastern horizon. Since then he had been assigned to the larboard watch—Peter belonged to the starboard—but he had been excused watch-keeping duty. At first, on getting up, he had appeared quite restored, his old self again. He had confided to Peter his intention of calling Ransome out when they next touched land. ‘It is the only way of clearing the matter up,’ he said. ‘I obviously cannot batter him about like a footman in a pothouse brawl; but with a small-sword it is a different thing entirely.’
Peter knew that that was true. He was no mean hand with a sword himself (the Rectory of Ballynasaggart was the bloodiestabode of peace in the West, with Peter and his brothers lunging by day and night), but he had found himself an untaught bumpkin when he tried passes with FitzGerald.
‘Still and all,’ he said, ‘it is the strange way of making an apology to a man, to be running a blade through his vitals.’
‘I have no intention of apologising. I may have had once, but then I was wrong. Do you expect me to stomach a beating?’
Peter had shrugged, saying no more. He knew the trait only too well, the black inveteracy of his countrymen in a quarrel, right or wrong: it was the origin of so many of the feuds at home, some of which had lasted so long that the first cause was lost to all recollection.
But then had come FitzGerald’s interview with the Commodore. This had had more effect on him than his duel, and he came away pale and silent. He never told Peter what had happened, but for days and days he stayed below, saying very little, sometimes poring over the manual of seamanship in a hopeless, bewildered fashion, and sometimes writing letters that he afterwards tore up.
‘We may part company at Madeira, Peter,’ he said once—they had grown very familiar during his illness, when Peter had spent all his watches below at his side. ‘I don’t know: but I am afraid
If it had not been for the navigation lessons, given both by Mr Thomas, the schoolmaster, and by the august Mr Blew,the Centurion ’s master or chief navigating officer, which were a sore trial to Peter, and the uncomfortableness of the midshipmen’s berth, he would have been ideally happy. It was not the physical discomfort that Peter minded, for he had been brought up hard, and of the two, his present circumstances were a little less Spartan than those at home, even in the article of food, for Mrs Palafox, though good and kind and an excellent hand at embroidery, had but the remotest notions of cooking, in which she closely resembled the succession of vague women who wandered in and out of the Rectory kitchen. So Peter did not mind the hard tack, the burgoo, the burnt offerings, the biscuits in which the weevils were already making their interesting little burrows, or the junk: but he did mind the feeling of unfriendliness, the knowledge that he was not accepted as one of the group. This was not a bullying, hazing mess, the kind that can make a new midshipman’s life an unspeakable misery: it was not that kind of berth at all; for one thing, there were no very young fellows in it—and for another, the general tone was quite against that kind of thing. But he and FitzGerald had started off on the wrong foot, and Peter felt the results of it keenly.
FitzGerald himself was still unfit for duty. His wound was clean and the bone untouched, but the combination of three days of continual sea-sickness, the wound and the fever produced by the wound, had kept him below until they sank Rame Head behind them on the north-eastern horizon. Since then he had been assigned to the larboard watch—Peter belonged to the starboard—but he had been excused watch-keeping duty. At first, on getting up, he had appeared quite restored, his old self again. He had confided to Peter his intention of calling Ransome out when they next touched land. ‘It is the only way of clearing the matter up,’ he said. ‘I obviously cannot batter him about like a footman in a pothouse brawl; but with a small-sword it is a different thing entirely.’
Peter knew that that was true. He was no mean hand with a sword himself (the Rectory of Ballynasaggart was the bloodiestabode of peace in the West, with Peter and his brothers lunging by day and night), but he had found himself an untaught bumpkin when he tried passes with FitzGerald.
‘Still and all,’ he said, ‘it is the strange way of making an apology to a man, to be running a blade through his vitals.’
‘I have no intention of apologising. I may have had once, but then I was wrong. Do you expect me to stomach a beating?’
Peter had shrugged, saying no more. He knew the trait only too well, the black inveteracy of his countrymen in a quarrel, right or wrong: it was the origin of so many of the feuds at home, some of which had lasted so long that the first cause was lost to all recollection.
But then had come FitzGerald’s interview with the Commodore. This had had more effect on him than his duel, and he came away pale and silent. He never told Peter what had happened, but for days and days he stayed below, saying very little, sometimes poring over the manual of seamanship in a hopeless, bewildered fashion, and sometimes writing letters that he afterwards tore up.
‘We may part company at Madeira, Peter,’ he said once—they had grown very familiar during his illness, when Peter had spent all his watches below at his side. ‘I don’t know: but I am afraid
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