Man Of War mh-9

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Archer coming about, sir!’ called the officer of the watch.

  Peto glanced over his shoulder. The sloop had indeed wore round quickly. ‘Good man,’ he said to himself (her captain was commissioned from below deck, but he was sharp enough). ‘Make to Archer, “stand-by to intercept”.’

  There was no need of elaboration, for at that angle Archer would have a better view of the chase than did Rupert, and there was enough sea space for her to intercept without having to sail too close-hauled.

  With a three-decker now all but motionless ahead of her, a frigate chasing astern, and Archer about to cut her off to leeward (the wind abeam so that she could not turn away more than a point) the slaver’s only option was to strike her colours – such as were her colours (Peto was damned if he could see any).

  But in five minutes more she still had not altered course. Peto was mystified. Did she gamble that Rupert would not open fire, knowing her cargo? A three-decker could certainly not give chase. He considered the propriety of his options: the Royal Navy was enjoined to suppress the slave trade, not to liberate slaves, although the latter was the usual consequence of the former; he would be perfectly justified in sinking the slaver with all hands. That offended his humane instincts, however, and although it was just, it was hardly consonant with that impulse which had animated parliament in moving the legislation in the first place.

  ‘Make to Archer, “expedite”, Mr Pelham.’

  ‘ “Expedite”, ay-ay, sir.’

  Peto thought it would now come to a fight, but could his sloop catch up the slaver and board her? Even if she could, she would have to sweep her deck first. He hoped she had the weight of carronades and small arms for the job.

  The minutes passed, twenty of them before the slaver was within range of Archer’s long twelve-pounders – had Archer turned broadside to her quarry, that is (but, still making to catch her, Archer’s captain had to be content with warnings from the bowchaser). Still the slaver kept her course. Peto reckoned she would pass at least half a dozen cables’ length astern. He thought of sending two boats’ worth of marines to try to intercept her, supported by the sternchasers. He glanced at the boats in the waist and wondered if two would do it, or if he could spare a third, which might too be stove in. He had not many minutes more before he must decide . . . ‘Curse her!’

  The sudden discharge of one of Archer’s twelve-pounders made him turn – just in time to see the slaver’s bowsprit carried clean away. The sloop had risked the chase for a shot by turning away from the wind, but with what effect!

  ‘Great gods! Capital shooting! Capital!’ exclaimed Peto. ‘Mark you, Mr Lambe!’ (Likely as not it had been a warning shot across the bows, fortuitously off its line, but that was no matter.)

  ‘She strikes, sir!’ came the cry from the maintop, Midshipman Duguid observing the pennant running down.

  Peto nodded approvingly. Another minute and he would have given the order to lower three boats. ‘We will keep a sharp lookout, Mr Lambe. I would not trust a slaver’s crew until they were in irons. If she is a slaver, that is.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir,’ replied the lieutenant, his telescope trained once more on the sloop and her captive brig. ‘Archer’s running out her launch.’

  ‘I commend Mr Crabbe for it,’ said Peto, raising his own glass. ‘It doesn’t do to give a crew of a striking ship time to reconsider. Yonder frigate’s still a mile to run.’

  Indeed, he observed, the frigate was having to beat more to windward to give herself leeway to run alongside the prize.

  ‘Not worth a deal of money, though,’ he added laconically. ‘A guinea or so a man by the time it’s shared out.’

  Had the frigate taken the brig as prize with no other warship in sight the money would have been hers alone, but the presence of even a man-of-war’s tops on the horizon meant that the prize-money must be shared (it was held that an enemy was persuaded to strike by the mere threat of a second ship engaging). And so the slaver would be claimed by sloop, frigate and first-rate; the share would be meagre indeed. If only she were a Spanish bullion, and in the glory days, twenty years before!

  ‘Frigate’s signalling, sir!’ came the cry from the poop.

  Peto fancied his eyes were still strong, but he strained in vain to make out the separate signal-flags.

  The frigate turned another point into the wind, her signal halyards now easier to make out (it was expecting too much, perhaps, for Archer to be repeating them, occupied as she was). Peto turned impatiently, to see Midshipman Pelham’s junior leafing through the pages of the signal codebook, while Pelham himself peered through his ’scope, calling out the flags to another, who looked about as old as Rebecca Codrington.

  Where was Miss Rebecca Codrington? Peto had not seen her yet this morning.

  ‘Good God!’ he spluttered, realizing that the dark blue of what he had taken to be one of Pelham’s afterguard assistants was in fact that of a bodice, not a jacket. ‘Mr Lambe!’

  ‘Sir?’

  But he thought better of it. He had given Rebecca Codrington the freedom of the quarterdeck, and the day before, he had instructed Pelham to look after her. He could scarcely cavil now, just because there was a chase and a boarding action a mile off. ‘No matter. What does Mr Pelham do there? Can it be so very long a signal?’

  He himself had been a signal midshipman, and he knew perfectly well it could be the very devil taking down a signal in clear, let alone cipher – and that supposing both ships were using the same codebook. The frigate, whoever she was, would not be signalling in cipher, but did she use the same book? She was sailing under Admiralty orders, while they were Mediterranean Fleet. He took another look at her, and now saw the cause of delay – no fewer than four signal halyards. He could not know, of course, whether it were a long message or whether the words were not contained in the codebook, and therefore to be spelled out letter for letter. Be what may, she now appeared to be turning into the wind even more. Was she intending to tack? What was she intent on?

  ‘I believe she’s going about, sir,’ said Lambe, sharing his captain’s observation. ‘I wonder—’

  ‘From Trincomalee, sir,’ begged Pelham, touching his hat.

  Peto lowered his ’scope. Trincomalee: he knew her – teak-built at Bombay a dozen years ago, a fast sailer (and a savagely long name to have to spell out). ‘Wear away, Mr Pelham!’

  ‘ “Request you take possession of prize. Have second out of Tangier to pursue.” ’

  Peto huffed. He had the authority to refuse, but he had no wish to frustrate a preventive frigate in hot pursuit. Nor did he believe the Admiralty would wish it. But he could not risk putting a prize crew on board to sail her to Gibraltar – not with a hold full of slaves who, once unshackled, might fail to distinguish between captors and liberators. He would have to send aboard two dozen marines at least. And he would get back none of them, nor the crew, this side of a month if he were lucky. No, Archer would have to escort her. It wouldn’t be plain sailing, not against the wind, but with address she could make Gibraltar and be back in five or six days. Except that it meant he would have to rely on another ship coming out of Valetta to take ashore Rebecca Codrington – and the other women. Curse it! And for a paltry fifty guineas prize-money to his own pocket!

  ‘Very well, Mr Pelham. Make to Trincomalee: “Affirmative. Good hunting!” ’

  ‘ “Affirmative, good hunting” – ay-ay, sir!’

  ‘And to Archer: “Convoy her to Gibraltar and return”.’

  ‘ “Convoy her to Gibraltar and return” – ay-ay, sir!’

  ‘Crabbe’ll ask for men if he needs to,’ said Peto to his lieutenant as Pelham scuttled back to the poop.

  Lambe nodded. Handling a prize-slaver would be tricky. ‘Stand-by to make sail, sir?’

  ‘As soon as Archer acknowledges and has possession of her.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  ‘I shall walk the lower decks meanwhile.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’ Lambe called to the w
aist for the master-at-arms and boatswain to accompany.

  There were two places laid at table in the captain’s steerage. Peto had asked that a dozen officers join him at dinner, and in the circumstances he thought the presence of Miss Codrington not, in truth, apt. Or, seen another way, he wished his officers to behave without the inhibition that the presence of a lady, a girl – and the commander-in-chief’s daughter at that – would inevitably occasion. And so he had asked Rebecca Codrington to take a late breakfast with him, which, with the diversion of the chase, was now luncheon.

  ‘Rice b’n’t so good as it were an hour ago,’ said Flowerdew as he placed a bowl of salt on the table, his voice close enough to Norfolk as to make Peto feel comfortably at home.

  ‘I’m confident that it will be most appetizing,’ he replied, opening a locker under the stern lights and appearing to search.

  ‘But the ’addock’s well,’ called Flowerdew, not inclined to question what it was that Peto searched for (if his captain wanted his help he would certainly ask for it).

  ‘How many of Marsala did we bring?’

  ‘Two cases, sir.’

  ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘There wasn’t room, sir. It’s still in the ’old. Do you want some?’ He sounded doubtful. He had never known Peto to drink Marsala except of an evening, and alone with a book.

  ‘I thought to send a bottle to Miss Codrington and her maid. She said last night she had never tasted it.’

  ‘That’s uncommon thoughtful, sir,’ said Flowerdew, though sounding more doubtful still. ‘I’ll fetch up a case.’

  ‘I’d be obliged.’

  ‘I’ll go an’ fetch Miss Codrington, an’ all.’

  ‘If you would.’

  Peto sat down in his Madeira chair and placed his hands together as if in prayer, his customary method of recollecting his thoughts. He was, indeed, fretting somewhat at the missed opportunity. He had written to Elizabeth at some length the night before, his intention being that Rebecca Codrington take the letter ashore when he put her off for Malta, whence it could travel with the next ship for England. If he had been able to pass the letter to Archer instead it might have been with her in Wiltshire in under a month. But now he would have to wait for a barque or something out of Valetta. It need not be any great delay, he knew, but it was a delay nonetheless. He could have sent the letter across to Archer, of course. Had there been official papers to send, too, he would not have hesitated to do so – or even a decent bag of mail from the ship’s company; but two days out from Gibraltar there was next to nothing.

  He warmed at the thought of communication with his betrothed, however, be it ever so distant. The night before (it was the strangest thing), he had even found himself lying awake in his cot wondering how long it might be before there was not just Elizabeth Hervey to think of. At first he had dismissed the idea, but then he had asked himself why he should not think thus; Elizabeth was certainly not beyond the age of bearing a child – bearing children. And (it was stranger still) he had found himself imagining what it would be to have a daughter like Rebecca Codrington; or a son like Mr Midshipman Pelham . . .

  ‘Si-ir.’

  Flowerdew’s yap woke him. He sprang up. ‘Miss Codrington, good morning! I was only . . . Forgive me, I was turning over matters in connection with Archer.’

  ‘Please do not apologize on my account, Captain,’ said Rebecca, with a note of surprise. ‘I cannot imagine how you have the time to render me any consideration at all.’

  Strangely enough, there were moments when in her manner of speaking Rebecca Codrington reminded him more of Elizabeth Hervey than of a child (he really must not think of her as a child: undoubtedly the midshipmen did not . . . but that was another matter). ‘Miss Codrington, it is no imposition at all. A glass of . . .’

  ‘Water, please.’

  He turned to Flowerdew. ‘A glass of our best water, Flowerdew.’

  Flowerdew looked at him oddly (water was either potable or it wasn’t). ‘Mi-iss.’

  ‘Well, well, Miss Rebecca, I trust you had a diverting morning. I saw that you were engaged in the affairs of the poop deck.’

  ‘Oh yes, a most diverting morning, Captain Peto. I never saw such a thing. I think it most noble what was done. Those poor men in that slave ship.’

  Women, too – but Peto was not going to be so indelicate as to correct her. Better not to imagine the situation in those holds. He had, though, thought of sending over his surgeon and mates to render what aid they could, but he was under orders to join Rebecca’s father’s squadron with all despatch. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, being not long out of Tangier, there would not be too great a mortality.

  ‘The only difficulty that presents itself now, Miss Rebecca, is that Archer will not be rejoined when we pass Malta, so we must trust to a lighter or some such to convey you ashore.’ He realized he might be alarming her. ‘But be assured, you will not be permitted to hazard yourself for a moment.’

  ‘Oh, I do not mind that in the least, Captain Peto. I am quite prepared to share the hazards of the service – just as the sailors’ wives below.’

  Peto looked surprised at the mention of the women; he had quite forgot them. And . . . ‘How do you know of the . . . wives?’

  ‘Mi-iss.’ Flowerdew proffered Rebecca her glass of water. ‘Can I serve the kej’ree now, sir?’

  His cook had acquired the dish when they had been on the East Indies Station, and it was now a firm favourite. ‘By all means.’

  ‘I saw them when they came on deck yesterday,’ said Rebecca, following Flowerdew to the table, perfectly at ease.

  Peto had been content to let the women take the air during the afternoon watch. ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘I found them very pleasant, very civil,’ she continued, spooning kedgeree to her plate. ‘They seem to endure a good deal on account of their husbands, I think. Do not you, Captain Peto?’

  Peto almost turned red. He did not doubt that the women had been on their best behaviour, but even so . . . ‘Ye-es. Just so. However, I think it best, Miss Rebecca, if you do not converse with them. It . . . it is . . . unsettling.’

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I am very sorry, Captain Peto, if I have offended. I would not wish for one moment to unsettle anything. I am aware that it is somewhat irregular in any case for there to be any females on board a ship of war.’

  Peto nodded as in turn he helped himself to kedgeree. ‘Irregular, yes, but not unknown. It is a pleasure to have you on board,’ (he would change the subject) ‘but after a few days at sea you will be glad of Malta. The harbour at Valetta is one of the finest sights I ever beheld.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Yes, my father said the same in his letter to me. And I have seen paintings of it too. But I assure you, Captain Peto, I shall by no means tire of being at sea – not in your ship. It is a revelation to me, so that I quite see now what it is that has animated my father these many years.’

  Peto smiled. Any praise of the service brought him satisfaction, and praise of a ship of his the most intense pride. But more than that, this girl, this . . . young woman (he must make up his mind) had such self-possession as to amaze him. He had next to no experience of those of her age and sex, and when he summoned to mind those volunteers and midshipmen of the same age he had known (even, he had to admit, himself) he found the comparison unfortunate. ‘That is very gratifying, Miss Rebecca, though I must point out that we have unusually calm seas, a fair wind and some days in hand. It may not be so agreeable when we reach Greek waters.’

  Rebecca sprinkled salt about her plate. ‘I should so very much like to accompany you, Captain Peto. I should so like to see my father at sea, in his true element. And my brother, Henry: he is midshipman aboard my father’s flagship.’

  Peto smiled again, indulgently. ‘I think it a charming idea, Miss Rebecca. Only the threat of powder and shot rather makes it less so.’

  Rebecca looked a shade affronted. ‘I should not mind that, Captain Peto!�
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  He sighed, inwardly. These girls – these women indeed: they had no conception of how shot transformed a deck from the most agreeable place on earth to a representation of hell. In seconds. But he could not blame her for it, nor even chide her. Besides, the matter was hardly of moment, a mere hypothetic. He would change the subject again, this time more subtly. ‘You understand, of course, that in part our engagement in the Eastern Mediterranean is not unconnected with the suppression of slavery.’

  ‘How so, Captain Peto?’

  ‘The Turks have been abducting the citizens of the Peloponnese and taking them to Egypt.’

  ‘I did not know that. It is perfectly dreadful.’

  ‘Quite. I do not understand the Turk: I have met so many fine fellows, and yet they seem capable of unspeakable barbarity. Thus are all men, perhaps, but I never saw such wanton cruelty as is with the Ottomans customary.’ (He rather forgot himself in the unaccustomed situation of having an interlocutor at his table who was not in the service.) ‘I confess I was uncertain of this venture – compelling them to leave Greece – though delighted nevertheless to have command of Prince Rupert. But if it comes to a fight I shall shed no tears for them.’ He now realized he had spoken in rather too sanguinary terms for a daughter whose father, and brother, would be in the thick of the fighting if it came. And, for that matter, he had spoken rather too freely about his own thoughts – as if Miss Rebecca Codrington, indeed, had been Miss Elizabeth Hervey. He cleared his throat.

  ‘More kej’ree, miss?’ asked Flowerdew, offering the bowl.

  ‘How do you like it, Miss Rebecca? Speak plainly,’ added Peto.

  ‘I like it very much, Captain Peto. Thank you, Mr Flowerdew, I will have some more,’ replied Rebecca sweetly. She helped herself to two good-size spoons full. Then her countenance turned earnest again. ‘Do you truly believe it will come to a fight with the Turks, Captain Peto?’

  Peto was annoyed with himself. He had dug a hole, so to speak, and now he was going to fall into it. But he could scarcely dissemble. ‘I do,’ he answered gravely, nodding. ‘I do. But it does not follow that the fight need be . . .’ (he checked himself) ‘very bloody. Your father’s squadron is vastly stronger, and the Caliph knows full well that the Royal Navy’s habit is of unrivalled success.’