Hervey 09 - Man Of War

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘Then join me too in a glass of Marsala,’ was the easy response. ‘Sit you down. You are come most carefully upon your hour.’

  Peto sat as the steward poured. ‘We are come later than I had wished, Sir Edward, for we were obliged to run down into Surt before a storm as violent as any I saw here. I thought I should be blown to Alexandria.’

  Codrington raised a hand to say that it was the way of things. ‘No matter. You are here now. Tomorrow I shall have my captains come aboard and I shall tell you my design.’

  ‘Ay-ay, Sir Edward. But if I may, there is a pressing matter. Your daughter, Miss Rebecca, is aboard my ship. She and her maid joined at Gibraltar, but since I was obliged to run south of Malta I was not able to transfer her to shore, and neither have I encountered any vessel since to which I could entrust her.’

  The admiral looked as if he had not heard quite right. ‘The deucedest thing!’

  ‘She occupies your apartment, of course, Sir Edward. I wondered when you might have a sloop or other to take her to Malta. And when you yourself wish to transfer your flag.’ Peto omitted to mention the other women on board: that was a detail best not troubled over now. He would simply put them aboard whatever it was the admiral detached for the duty, and no one but her master need be the wiser.

  The admiral still looked distant. ‘The deucedest thing indeed, for her youngest brother is midshipman with me. He stands watch as we speak. I shall send him back with you, and then, if you will, in an hour or so you may send him back in turn.’

  ‘Sir Edward.’

  ‘And Firefly will be returned tomorrow – she’s taking instructions to General Church the other side of the Morea – and then she can take Rebecca to Malta along with my despatches.’

  Peto nodded. ‘And your flag, Sir Edward?’

  The admiral shook his head. ‘I intend no change – not at this late hour. You’ll see my method when I have the rest of the captains aboard tomorrow.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir,’ replied Peto, trying not to sound too dismayed. ‘Shall you come aboard Rupert to see Miss Rebecca before then?’

  The admiral shook his head again, and with something of a look which said that he was surprised. Not many months ago Peto himself would have scorned it, but now he was discomfited by the notion that Sir Edward Codrington could reject the opportunity of seeing a daughter – especially a daughter with such evident intelligence, and pride in her father. ‘She will be vastly disappointed, Sir Edward.’

  The admiral’s mouth fell open. ‘I do not doubt it, Sir Laughton. But I fear I cannot oblige her. We are about to undertake a most delicate manoeuvre at Navarin. One, indeed, which is likely to have no other outcome but a fierce exchange of shot. I cannot go calling on a daughter!’

  Peto felt himself thoroughly chastened, but by no means abashed. ‘I could send her to you in my launch, Sir Edward. Midshipman Codrington might escort her.’

  The admiral now looked faintly indignant. ‘My dear Captain Peto, I cannot disrupt a ship of war at such a time. And I have Admiral de Rigny to attend to.’

  Peto saw perfectly well that having to deal with a French admiral was vexation enough without the distraction of petticoats. He concluded that he could not press his commander-in-chief further on the matter. Rebecca would, after all, be seeing her brother. ‘Then I must beg pardon, Sir Edward.’

  ‘There is no cause to do so, I assure you, Sir Laughton. My daughter is well, I trust?’

  Peto smiled a shade wryly. ‘She is very well indeed, Sir Edward. I believe she was almost glad to be blown south of Malta, for she expresses a great desire to see your squadron.’

  The admiral nodded. ‘She has spirit, but I am afraid I am unable to oblige her in that too, for I must have Rupert stand out well to the west. I do not wish the Turks see her before it is opportune. I shall explain my purpose tomorrow when the other captains are assembled.’

  Peto noted for the first time a certain heaviness in the admiral’s manner of expression. It could not have been anxiety for the outcome of any exchange of fire (there could be no doubt of the superiority of the Royal Navy’s gunnery, nor indeed that of the French and the Russians, compared with the Turks and Egyptians), and he was therefore inclined to ascribe it to the uncertainty of the undertaking as a whole. From what he had learned before he sailed, Codrington’s instructions were damnably equivocal.

  ‘By your leave, then, Sir Edward, I will call on my old friend your flag captain and then rejoin my ship.’

  They had no conversation in the launch. Peto wrapped his boatcloak round himself against the freshening westerly as hands pulled for the Rupert. He had much to think on. He was already turning over in his mind what more could be done to put Rupert into best trim for Codrington’s ‘fierce exchange of shot’.

  His old friend Captain Edward Curzon, from his closeness to the flag, had been able to tell him a good deal of what had occupied the admiral these past months. The instructions which came from London out of the embassy at Constantinople held that the Ottoman Porte would give up its claim to Greece simply because His Britannic Majesty, and the King of France, and the Tsar of All the Russias required it. Yet His Majesty’s ministers would give no unequivocal expression of what should be the course if peaceful persuasion failed. His de facto deputy, de Rigny, Codrington found less than straightforward (could he ever trust the French? – there were even French advisors with the Turkish fleet); and Count Heiden – commanding the Russian squadron – was thoroughly spoiling for a fight, for the Tsar’s own wish was to see the Turkish navy crippled.

  Peto shook his head, and turned instead to observe the other midshipman in the launch. Henry Codrington was a fine-looking youth, not yet twenty, but not long for lieutenant, he supposed. What pride must the admiral have in such a son – and such a daughter indeed. He thought again of Elizabeth, and wondered . . .

  The launch ran silent indeed through the heavy swell, not a word from hands or officer, conscious that the captain thought deeply on some matter.

  In ten more minutes the boatswain’s pipes twittered, and then it was the return scramble to the entry port.

  ‘Convey Mr Codrington to the flag apartment, Mr Sandys,’ said Peto to the lieutenant who greeted him at the top.

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  ‘And have my launch ready to convey him back to the Asia in one hour, if you please.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  Peto turned. ‘Mr Codrington, be so good as to tea with me in half of one hour, along with your sister.’

  ‘Honoured, sir.’

  But Peto did not hear, for he was already taking the companion ladder two steps at a time.

  ‘Mr Lambe!’ he rasped as he came on to the quarterdeck.

  The first lieutenant came up from the waist directly, and with satisfaction in his expression.

  ‘Evidently you have something agreeable to report, Mr Lambe. Wear away, sir!’

  ‘I have had the upper battery tackle greased again, sir. It gives us five seconds at least.’

  Peto nodded approvingly.

  ‘Very well, Mr Lambe: dry gun drills immediately after breakfast, and then divine worship.’

  Lambe looked nonplussed. ‘Church, sir? But tomorrow is Friday.’

  ‘I am perfectly aware what shall be the day, Mr Lambe, but we have not held divine worship since leaving Gibraltar.’ Their lordships were by no means as insistent on Sunday worship as they had been during the late war, and Peto himself had not much affection for parsons afloat, despite his filial loyalty to the profession, but they were all a mite closer to meeting their Creator, now, and on the sabbath next there might be preparations . . . or obsequies. ‘A man ought to be able to listen to Scripture and say a few prayers once in a while; and wind and weather have so far conspired to prevent him.’

  Lambe understood right enough. ‘Ay-ay, sir,’ he said, resolutely.

  ‘Have the master-at-arms slaughter the beef. The goats he may spare.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’

  ‘A
nd join me, if you will, for dinner, with such others as you judge favourable. It will be the last occasion for Miss Codrington to dine with us. Firefly will take her off tomorrow – along with the rest of the women. Though her master doesn’t yet know it,’ he added drily.

  Lambe touched his hat before returning to the waist to see the batteries secure. Peto cast an eye aloft. He had left Rupert hove to with just the fore-topsail to the mast, but with a freshening westerly, Lambe had partially struck the fore and brought her a point into the wind. In a couple of hours or so, when the launch was come back from conveying young Codrington to the Asia, he would have the new watch make sail so that he could take station to windward, as the admiral wished. He went to his cabin.

  ‘Tea, if you please, Flowerdew; in half an hour, for Miss Codrington and her brother.’

  ‘Oh, tea is it,’ muttered his steward, fancying that life on a line-of-battle ship was becoming a drawing room affair.

  ‘Mr Codrington is midshipman on the Asia.’

  ‘Oh, is ’e indeed. A right fam’ly going it is.’

  ‘But the admiral will keep his flag in Asia for the time being.’

  Flowerdew said nothing, though he was pleased, since an admiral’s retinue was bound to be vexing. He began taking out a silver service from one of the lockers under the stern lights.

  ‘And the simnel cake – I think we will have that too.’

  ‘Oh, cake is it. Quite the tea party.’

  Peto was unabashed. He would delight unashamedly in the company of sibling affection. He would observe in it, indeed, something of his own future.

  * * *

  Peto heard the knock. He looked at his watch: the timing was exact enough to serve for dead reckoning. He nodded approvingly as Flowerdew opened the steerage door to admit Midshipman Henry and Miss Rebecca Codrington. The brother, hat under his left arm, bowed; Rebecca curtsied. Peto returned their salutes and bid them sit, feeling suddenly awkward, which displeased him, for he was a post-captain and plenty old enough to be Miss Codrington’s father.

  Flowerdew came to his aid: did Miss Codrington take milk with her tea (the answer he surely knew, for he had served it to her on several occasions)?

  She smiled – which Flowerdew had the greatest difficulty in not reflecting – and said that she would.

  ‘My brother tells me that his ship is not so large as this, Captain Peto.’

  Rebecca’s brother coloured, rather. He himself would never have initiated conversation with a post-captain, and especially not with any comparison of ships, no matter how favourable to the hearer.

  Peto saw. ‘But the Asia is perfectly matched for any fight, Miss Rebecca. You may have no fears on that account.’

  ‘Oh, I had no fears, Captain Peto. It is just that I had thought my father would come aboard your ship, as you suggested he would.’

  ‘He will know his flag captain well by now. Curzon’s an excellent fellow. I have known him long.’

  ‘My brother says it is because my father intends entering the place where the Turkish fleet is anchored and compelling them to leave, and he does not wish the Rupert to enter.’

  ‘Is that so, indeed?’ Peto turned to Henry Codrington with the sort of enquiring look that would have made the stoutest midshipman wish he were at the maintop in a howling gale.

  ‘I . . . That is what I have heard, sir.’

  Peto had heard it too. He had deduced as much when the admiral told him he wished for Rupert to stand well to the west until the time was right. But he would not let Mr Codrington off the hook so easily. ‘Indeed, sir? And what else might you have heard?’

  Rebecca did not quite see the game. She looked at her brother enthusiastically. ‘Tell Captain Peto about Lord Nelson, Henry!’

  Peto turned again to the young Codrington with an air of bemusement, perfectly studied. ‘Lord Nelson, Mr Codrington?’

  Midshipman Codrington turned a deeper red. He swallowed hard. ‘Sir, I have heard that my fa—the admiral intends entering the bay at Navarin on the eve of Lord Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Peto suppressed the urge to speculate aloud what effect such a celebratory manoeuvre would have on Admiral de Rigny and his French squadron. ‘It is only a pity that August is past.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The first of August, Mr Codrington – a bay, the enemy at anchor . . .’

  ‘Oh, indeed, sir: Aboukir, the Nile.’

  ‘Quite, Mr Codrington, the Nile.’

  Rebecca looked to her brother for edification.

  ‘Go on, Mr Codrington. Explain.’

  ‘The French fleet lay in line at anchor in Aboukir Bay, the mouth of the Nile, and Lord Nelson took his ships into the bay and sailed between the French and the shore, which the French had supposed was not possible, believing it to be too shallow, because of which they had not their guns run out on that side, nor even the gun-ports open. It was a famous victory.’ He looked at Peto for approval of his summary.

  ‘Admirable, Mr Codrington.’ He turned to Rebecca again. ‘But unlike Aboukir Bay, at the bay of Navarin – your father, I note, prefers the style to “Navarino” – there will be no imperative to destroy any one of the Sultan’s ships, only to compel them to leave. No admiral confronted by so great a show of force as your father may dispose, with the French and Russian squadrons, could do other than comply at once, for resistance would be as futile as it would be ruinous.’ He did not add, however, that the pride of the Turkish admiral was not to be underestimated. He looked at Flowerdew. ‘The cake?’

  Flowerdew advanced with his tray.

  Peto saw that his steward had not been able to remove quite all of the mould, which seemed always to defy his best efforts, but Midshipman Codrington was too experienced a seaman to notice, and his sister too polite. Peto himself took a hearty mouthful (he had not eaten since breakfast).

  ‘Do I have to leave on the Firefly tomorrow, Captain Peto?’ asked Rebecca, sounding suddenly rather younger than before. ‘I should so like to see our fleet sail into the bay, and the Turkish ships sailing away.’

  Peto had taken rather too hearty a mouthful: the request induced a sudden, and somewhat messy, fit of coughing. ‘Miss Rebecca, greatly though I – we all – have prized your company these past weeks, I have to tell you that nothing would induce me to prolong that pleasure into a place of active operations. The Firefly, though I do not know her, will convey you with considerable speed to Malta.’ He spoke decidedly but kindly. ‘Is that not so, Mr Codrington?’ he added, turning to her brother for assurance, as if his was an opinion of equal rank.

  Midshipman Codrington cleared his throat in turn. ‘Yes, sir; yes indeed.’ He turned to his sister. ‘The Firefly is a ship-sloop. She is a very good sailer, and Mr Hanson is a very able and gentlemanlike master.’

  Peto now smiled, and with some wryness. ‘Your quarters, I’m afraid, will be a little more cramped than you have been used to of late. And you shall have to put up with the babbling of the . . . wives, that I am also obliged to put off.’

  Rebecca brightened. ‘Oh, I have no concern for my comfort, Captain Peto. And I shall be only too glad to make closer acquaintance with the sailors’ wives.’

  Peto now felt himself turning a little red under what he supposed might be the scrutiny of a brother who knew perfectly well the status of the women below deck, and who must therefore have some instinct to shelter a sister from such coarseness. ‘Yes . . . quite . . . Now, when you go aboard Firefly, Miss Rebecca, I would have you take letters for me, if you will.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Captain Peto. For Miss Hervey, I imagine?’

  Peto felt his face now thoroughly reddening. The enquiry was entirely innocent, for all that it might have been precocious. He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Letters to the Admiralty . . . And yes, to . . . Miss Hervey.’

  XVI

  CLEAR FOR ACTION

  Late afternoon the following day, 19 October 1827,

  off Navarino Bay

  Ca
ptain Sir Laughton Peto, second-senior post-captain of the British squadron in the Ionian, clambered up the ladder to Rupert’s entry port for the second time in twenty-four hours. The pipes trilled, the marine sentry presented arms, and the boatswain barked ‘off hats’ as the master of their wooden world, at once weary and yet animated, came inboard, touching his hat to the quarterdeck and nodding his acknowledgement to the first lieutenant’s salute.

  ‘Assemble all sea and warrant officers in the admiral’s steerage in one half of one hour, Mr Lambe, if you please.’

  Lambe walked with him as Peto made for the companion ladder. ‘Miss Codrington shall have to wait in your cabin, then, sir. There has been no sign of Firefly.’

  Peto broke his step momentarily. ‘Damnation!’

  ‘I’ve sent word to the flagship.’

  Peto huffed.

  ‘Perhaps we shall have to put the ladies in the boats, sir, instead of the hen coops.’

  It was a gallant attempt at humour in the circumstances. Peto turned, to see his lieutenant’s ironic half smile. ‘I would that I were not made to choose, Mr Lambe.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir!’

  At a quarter to six, Peto entered the admiral’s apartments. ‘Good evening, sir,’ chorused the assembled officers. He returned the courtesy heartily and with a smile. His signal midshipman unrolled a chart on the dining table and weighted down its corners with pieces of lead.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ began Rupert’s captain, with just the merest expression of drollery, ‘a good many of you – perhaps the majority – saw action in the late, “never-ending” war. Well, I tell you, we are about to undertake a smokeless action in what our fellow-countrymen touchingly believe is never-ending peace.’