Man Of War mh-9

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then join me at mine, if you will.’ He turned to Rebecca. ‘Miss Codrington?’

  ‘I have not, Captain Peto.’

  ‘Then you may well have your last egg this side of Malta.’

  While he was perfectly capable – indeed, inclined – to interpret liberally (some said flout) the Admiralty’s fighting instructions, in matters of routine Captain Sir Laughton Peto observed to the letter the customs of the service. The practices he had learned in the midshipmen’s berth, the aptness of which he had witnessed time and again, were to him as the rubrics of divine worship were to his father: to be followed without variation, lest a greater error ensue. And so at breakfast this morning he wore his best linen, shirt-points white as chalk, cuffs unchafed. His sea coat was sponged clean, its formerly invisible nap teased back to life with a steaming bowl, comb and a score years of Flowerdew’s know-how, and the gold braid restored by the application of soap and water with ancient tooth brush to a glister that would do justice to a Portuguese high altar.

  Rebecca wanted to say something – ‘How smart is your appearance, Captain Peto’ – but she sensed she ought not to: Lieutenant Lambe’s turnout was no less to be remarked on, and she could hardly favour the one without the other. Instead she made seamanlike conversation (the captain did indeed seem rather distracted in his thoughts), but not once did she enquire of the Hind.

  As Flowerdew poured his captain a third cup of coffee, there was a sharp knock at the steerage door. Lambe made to rise, but Peto shook his head. ‘In good time,’ he said, as Flowerdew shuffled off to answer (now that, evidently, Hind was sighted, and thereby the means of relieving him of the safeguard of the commander-in-chief’s daughter, he was in no hurry to be discharged of it).

  Flowerdew opened the inner door to admit the officer of the watch.

  ‘Yes, Mr Wilsey?’ said Peto, airily, as one who knew what was to follow.

  ‘Signal from the flagship, sir. “Close up to signal distance.” ’

  The admiral’s intention had been to enter the anchorage just after midday. Why order him up now when he had sent him to windward for the night?

  Lambe was already on his feet as Peto rose. ‘Make sail, Mr Lambe . . . And clear for action.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir!’ The glint in his lieutenant’s eye scarcely made the acknowledgement necessary.

  Flowerdew brought hat and sword.

  ‘Miss Codrington, you will accompany me to the quarterdeck until such time as Hind comes alongside,’ said Peto, buckling on his swordbelt. ‘It may well be that at that time I shall be engaged elsewhere, and so I will bid you farewell now, and thank you, most sincerely, for your company.’ He held out a hand.

  Rebecca took it. She knew not to detain him with any speech, though she was dismayed rather by the suddenness of their parting. She began fumbling in her workbag. ‘Wait, a moment, if you will, Captain Peto,’ she begged, anxiously, until she was able to produce what she sought. ‘I should like you to have this.’

  She held out a folded square of dark blue silk.

  Peto took it, colouring a little, and clearing his throat once more. No woman had ever given him anything, except his mother (so many necessaries when first he had gone to sea) – and, of course, Elizabeth, her consent to be his wife. ‘Miss Codrington, I . . .’ He unfolded the square, a sampler, worked in gold-coloured thread. In the middle was an anchor, with ‘HMS Prince Rupert’ stitched below, and in each corner an initial: L, P, E, H.

  ‘It is not quite finished, Captain Peto. I had intended embroidering the date, but—’

  Peto cleared his throat most determinedly. ‘Quite. Just so. It is most handsomely done, Miss Codrington. A very proper memento. I thank you.’ He folded it very carefully, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat.

  As they left the cabin, the marine drummer was already beating to quarters, and the first of the carpenter’s mates had begun knocking the dowels from the bulkheads of the steerage. Peto had seen the work so many times, yet still the business of clearing for action thrilled every nerve-ending in his body. Banging, shouting, cursing, crashing . . . the order midst chaos, reason midst bedlam: it spoke of the umpteen-hundred men working to a single noble purpose, of his reliance on them, and of theirs on him. And he delighted in it.

  He looked down into the waist to see men hauling with a will on the gun tackle, and boys bringing up powder as if coals to a fire. His breast swelled with pride, and his mind cleared itself of every triviality in the knowledge that he was responsible for everything – everything – in the wooden world about him. What comfort there was in that knowledge: his responsibility – his alone.

  ‘No sign of Hind, sir,’ said the officer of the watch.

  Peto cast his eyes to the tops. ‘There is no need to inform me of a negative, Mr Wilsey.’ He said it kindly enough, but there was no use his beating about the bush with a lieutenant wanting promotion.

  Nevertheless, Wilsey’s ‘Ay-ay, sir’ was a half-swallowed affair.

  By now the topgallants were set, and Rupert was picking up speed. In this breeze she ought to run a good nine knots, he reckoned, and he was content enough with that. Had the signal been ‘immediate: close up’ he would have told the master to set the royals too, but he saw no cause to have the ship pitch overmuch as the crew were running out the guns.

  Yet while Lieutenant Wilsey’s negative observation had been both unwelcome and unnecessary, Hind’s whereabouts was beginning to exercise him. And he would have to heave to for the cutter or her long boat to come alongside:more work for the topmen, not without hazard, and less speed for Rupert.

  It was time for him to see how things were below . . . He turned to his signal midshipman. ‘Make to Calpe: “Hasten Hind”.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  ‘Mr Lambe, bear a point more to larboard: bring her up on the flagship to nor’west.’ When the time came he intended running down into the mouth of Navarino Bay unseen from within, masked as he would be by the island of Sphacteria.

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  He glanced at Rebecca. She stood with her hand shielding her eyes, eager for sight of her father’s ship, her cloak billowing. He thought of Elizabeth: how he wished she were here at this moment . . .

  No! What in heaven’s name was he thinking of? He clenched a fist. ‘Mr Durcan! Your company below, if you please!’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir,’ sang the third lieutenant, happy to be given the honour.

  An hour passed, Rupert running hushed, only the sound of wind and waves, the comfortably creaking timber and softly groaning rigging, and the occasional bark from a petty officer, the sotto voce crack among the crew, the measured reporting of the quartermaster, and the stilted conversation of the officers. From orlop to forecastle, Peto, with the third lieutenant, the boatswain and several mates, made his rounds, congratulating, warning, encouraging; but never reproving (that, he knew, he could leave to the boatswain in his wake), for now was the time that men must give their hearts to him. On Nisus some of the older hands would have tried a larking word or two, and he would have bantered, with an amusing put-down of a retort. But Rupert’s captain and crew had been together not nearly long enough. Such a state could only come, in a ship of the Line especially, after a long cruise, a year and more. Or after a sharp (and successful) action. Then the crew would have earned a little licence.

  He spoke briefly to the women, shepherded now into the surgeon’s realm, where already the loblolly boys had enlisted their willing help making tourniquets and pledgets. He spoke softly to them, yet with authority, for he wanted both to reassure them while at the same time dissuading any from adverse comment. He apologized for confining them so, explaining the necessity of having the decks clear of everything that might impair the fighting of the ship – even, as he was quick to explain, though they were some hours from such an event. He assured them that the admiral was sending a ship to take them off (he almost coughed at the deception in describing the Hind thus), and rather to h
is surprise there was no voice in protest at his course. Indeed, as he touched his hat to them and turned, one of them called out ‘Good luck to ’ee, Captain.’ It made him swallow unaccountably hard.

  Back on the quarterdeck, Peto found Lambe berating a midshipman for what he evidently considered was a lubberly getting away of the pinnace, but having dismissed him with a heartening ‘only get your shot away sharper!’, Lambe reported that Rupert was cleared for action.

  Peto had seen the effort for himself, but until the officers of the quarters had sent their word to the quarterdeck there was no knowing the end of it. ‘Very good, Mr Lambe,’ he replied, turning his attention to the sail. There was not a sign of shiver, the wind dead aft, the yards braced square, and the helm five degrees to starboard: the master had her trimmed perfectly (though Peto would not own it tricky sailing).

  Lambe motioned the officers to dismiss to their fighting quarters.

  Peto checked himself; he had been minded to ask Lambe if there was any sign of Hind, but since it was inconceivable that her sighting would not be reported to him at once, his enquiry would only indicate anxiety. He took his telescope instead and searched east for the fleet. Rupert had made little leeway in the night: he reckoned there was an hour and more’s sailing before they closed on the flagship. ‘Very well, Mr Lambe,’ he said at length, lowering his glass: ‘you may beat retreat.’ He saw no purpose in keeping men on their feet who might otherwise catch forty winks between the guns.

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  ‘Sail ahoy, two points off the starboard bow!’ The lookout’s easy-going call, the voice of a seasoned topman, nevertheless animated the upper decks.

  Peto looked at his watch – a quarter after nine – and then at the main mast, seeing the midshipman climbing purposefully to the cap. He fancied he himself might do it as nimbly still after all these years if . . .

  ‘Calpe signalling, sir!’ hailed Pelham.

  ‘And about time, too,’ muttered Peto (he supposed inaudibly to all but the quartermaster not six feet away).

  But the maintop midshipman beat Pelham to the next call. ‘Two frigates direct ahead, sir, English!’

  Nothing surprising in that, reckoned Peto, frigates to windward. Codrington intended entering the bay with the line-of-battle ships leading – his own first, the French and then the Russians – and his frigates, more manoeuvrable, taking station last. Peto calculated another half-hour’s running with this canvas, and then he would take in the courses, heave to and await the admiral’s pleasure. That would be the time for Hind to come alongside. He smiled to himself wryly: Rebecca Codrington would see her father’s ship after all. Likely as not she would see the man himself if she could screw her eye to a glass.

  ‘Calpe signals: “From flag”, sir,’ called Pelham resolutely. With the maintop midshipman now in distinct competition, he was eager to have his captain’s attention. ‘ “Hind making way from Kalamata.” ’

  Peto frowned. What was Codrington trying to tell him? Evidently the admiral had no true idea when the cutter would return.

  He had a sudden and alarming thought. Would Codrington keep Rupert out of action until Hind had taken off his daughter? Good God! It would be a very proper paternal instinct, but . . .

  He forced himself to look aft at the weather. There was no cloud to speak of now. If anything, the wind was lightening. Could he not rig the launch and put the women in it; and a couple of lieutenants, and conduct them clear and safe to . . . where? That was the rub.

  ‘Acknowledge!’ he rasped.

  Twenty more minutes passed, the quarterdeck silent throughout save for the quartermaster and the midshipman marking the speed on the half-hour (eight knots).

  The maintop midshipman’s strengthening voice broke the peace. ‘Sail ahoy, three points on the starboard bow!’

  Peto quickened, keen for confirmation he was making contact with the flag. If it were so, then he flattered himself he had come down on her exactly as intended.

  Five more minutes, and then, ‘Blue at the foremast, sir!’

  Lambe hastened to Peto’s side.

  ‘Helm two points a-larboard, Mr Lambe.’

  ‘Two points a-larboard, ay-ay, sir. D’ye hear that, Mr Veitch?’

  ‘Two points a-larboard, ay-ay, sir,’ intoned the quartermaster, nodding to the mates to begin heaving on the wheel.

  Peto watched the main course slacken momentarily as the stern passed through the wind, until Rupert was sailing large once more, her canvas filled again. Such a turn as that in a lightening breeze with just the topsails full – she answered well in these airs, no doubt of it: he would order the courses reefed as they went into action.

  He took his glass to the starboard shrouds and searched for the distant sail, but it was a full minute before he was sure it was the Asia (by heaven, that maintop midshipman had good eyes!). A quarter of an hour more, a league’s running, at most, and he would heave to within easy sight of the flagship’s signals.

  Rupert ran before the wind for the best part of that league until Peto judged he need approach the flag no closer. The admiral had for some reason changed his mind and called her up sooner, showing his heaviest guns early to Sphacteria (the lookouts there, even the most laggard Turkish sentry, could not fail to see she was a three-decker). What was the cause of Codrington’s second thoughts, he wondered. Had he received intelligence that the Turks would offer resistance, or try to sortie?

  No explanation came. For the rest of the morning Rupert lay all but motionless in the water, courses furled and fore-topsail backed to the mast, as perfectly balanced as a windhover spying its prey. Peto was close to fretting for the liveliness of the crew, for the ship had been cleared for action now these four hours, and the men at their stations. With the galley fire doused there was no prospect of a good trencher of beef come midday (it would have to be biscuit and slushy), but he had ordered a generous issue of bacon at breakfast, and half a ration again of rum, so he was not too exercised on that account. Besides, there would be feast enough at the day’s end – ‘when the smoke had cleared’. That was what the crew were promising themselves.

  He thought of going about the decks again, but it would have looked strange, perhaps making him appear uneasy. No, he would have to leave it to the lieutenants to keep the crew from torpor. Doubtless some of them would be thinking he had cleared for action too soon; and with four hours’ inactivity, and no enemy ship within sight, they had some cause. But he was ever of the opinion that it was not possible to clear too soon for action: there was a sort of superiority that came with taking the initiative, rather than having the enemy drive the business. What was an early rouse and cold food compared with knowing all was ready when the enemy hove in view?

  ‘Cutter ahoy, sir!’

  Peto sighed with relief.

  Lambe, coming up the companion ladder from yet another inspection below, barked the order without missing a step: ‘Mr Corbishley, the gangway if you please!’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir!’ The midshipman sounded pleased to have something to do at last.

  They had not taken the gangway to the hold when they cleared for action, anticipating its imminent need. Midshipman Corbishley and the boatswain’s mates could have it rigged in ten minutes or so, lashing the frame to the ship’s side at the entry port on the middle deck, and then lowering the end to the waterline. Peto would have the women descend quickly and with all modesty to the cutter (rather than have them clamber down the side-ladder). It was something of an irony, as the whole crew knew: modesty had not been a mark of their time on board.

  Except for Rebecca Codrington (and her maid). There was not a midshipman – and a good many lieutenants – who had not in some measure lost his heart to her. Indeed, she had somehow endeared herself to those before the mast too, for one of the hands was sent to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder with a present of a brightly coloured parrot in a cage, and a sentiment carved on a wooden tag: ‘Health to our Admiral’s Daughter’.

  Peto made a
mental note for his log, and with considerable relief:Two bells of the Afternoon Watch, Miss Codrington and ship’s women transferred to cutter Hind.

  Rebecca stood in her brown cloak taking the sun, exchanging quiet words with her maid, understanding that the usual pleasantries with the occupants of the quarterdeck were necessarily curtailed in a ship cleared for action. She marvelled at Rupert’s transformation. The captain’s cabin, in which she had enjoyed the most attentive of company, where she had been extended every courtesy, as if she had been a grown woman, which to her own mind she was in all respects but that which she could not yet know (which did not in truth disbar her from that claim, for such knowledge was by no means given to all), was no more: it was now but a fighting station, as the rest of the ship, with rude-looking men gathered about the guns, where before there had been gentler faces, gold lace, and quiet-spoken servants. These men by no means repelled her; quite the opposite, indeed, for she saw in them the very safeguard of the nation, and of the ship and the fine officers she had come to know (and the finest of men that was the captain) – and most particularly of her father’s reputation. How, therefore, could she not admire – love, even – these men who held their life at his disposal? The thought made her blood run fast. And when Peto bid her farewell a final time her face was suffused with a colour he had never before seen in a female.

  ‘Miss Codrington, you are unwell?’

  She smiled at him with the satisfaction of one who knew something her superior did not. ‘I am very well indeed, Captain Peto. Only that I have no desire to leave your ship.’

  Peto returned the smile, indulgently. ‘Nor would any of us wish your leaving, Miss Codrington, but as you will understand, it will be no place for a female heart, erelong.’

  Rebecca smiled once more. Had not a female once denied she had the heart of a woman, but of a prince of England – and declared it so on the fighting deck of an English ship? But Captain Peto was so admirable a man that she could not fence with him thus – not at least in the hearing of his own officers. ‘You are very good, sir.’