Man Of War

capability was there and others might seize it (the Americans for sure would be thinking of it: they held the old ways in little regard. And the French, of course. None but a fool doubted they were the better shipbuilders; it had been as well they were not the better sailors!). And was not any advantage to be taken to defeat the King’s enemies? Yet in another breath he wished for not one jot of change, for it was the old world that had served so well, and he had mastered it.

If ever he got his flag and it ended up being soot-specked at the mizzen . . . Well, it would at least be a flag. He had always reckoned that had he been born twenty years earlier he would have made Vice; but now he would be content to retire a rear admiral, and doubtless he would fly his flag ashore rather than at the mizzen mast of a line-of-battle ship.

A confident knock at the cabin door brought him back to the present.

‘Come in!’ he roared (though with the ship under weigh it would have sounded fainter to whoever knocked).

The door opened and Admiral Codrington’s youngest daughter stepped inside, escorted by Lambe.

Her appearance gave Peto some surprise. She had put her hair up. She wore a white, long-sleeved muslin dress, embroidered and satin-trimmed, with a gathered bodice and pointed lapels. About her neck were coral and pearls. She looked nearer sixteen than thirteen.

Peto shifted awkwardly. ‘Miss . . . Rebecca: good evening.’

She curtsied. ‘Good evening, Captain Peto. This is a very pleasant apartment.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Indeed, yes, though in the service we call it a cabin. Only the admiral’s is called apartment. Your father will install himself there as soon as we . . . that is, Prince Rupert, joins his squadron.’ He thought for a moment: did he dismay her by such a notion? ‘You are aware, are you not, Miss Codrington, that your father is at sea with the fleet?’

‘Oh yes, Captain Peto; I know he is to fight the Turk.’

He had certainly not expected her to be so particularly informed . . . or so matter of fact. He cleared his throat rather noisily. ‘Well, that is not quite as they would have it in London, though it may come to it, which is why we make haste now for the Peloponnese.’ He smiled. ‘Not that I mean, of course, that you go to the Peloponnese, Miss Codrington. The sloop accompanying us will take you into Malta as we pass the island.’

Rebecca frowned. ‘I wish I could go to Greece. I have read Thucydides, you know.’

Peto saw Lambe’s eyes widening. He hoped his own were not doing so. ‘Indeed, indeed. Do you read the Hobbes or the Smith?’

Rebecca looked mildly put out. ‘No, Captain Peto, I read from the Greek. I have been taught it since I was ten.’

Flowerdew, who had been standing in the corkscrew fashion that he invariably adopted when there were guests of whom he did not wholly approve – or, as in this case, simply could not fathom – stepped forward to his captain’s rescue. ‘Wine, sir?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Peto, grateful yet again for his steward’s sense of occasion and timing. ‘Will you take a little . . . wine, Miss Co—, Miss Rebecca?’

‘Thank you, Captain Peto, I shall.’

‘Hock?’ He enquired as if she might not know the word, let alone its suitability.

‘Hock would be very agreeable,’ she replied, with a bright smile.

Peto looked at his lieutenant, who wore an expression of suppressed mirth. ‘Mr Lambe?’

‘Thank you, Captain:most agreeable.’

Flowerdew already had the bottle uncorked and in a cooler – and two more, and three of burgundy (his hands were a shade rheumaticky these days, and he liked to have plenty of time with corks).

‘How long shall it take us to reach Malta, Captain Peto?’ asked Rebecca, taking her glass and smiling at Flowerdew, who merely frowned, if rather sweetly.

‘If this wind freshens a little more, as I expect it to do, a week, six days perhaps.’

Rebecca looked pleased at the prospect. ‘But you will not confine me to my cabin for that time, Captain Peto?’

‘By no means. You may have the freedom of the quarterdeck, your maid too, of course. But I would that you did not leave your quarters unless accompanied . . . by a steward, or the like.’

Rebecca nodded. ‘Where is the quarterdeck to be found?’ she asked, sipping at her hock.

Peto, though startled somewhat by the lack of knowledge, was nevertheless pleased that conversation was not inhibited by the disparity of age. ‘It is the deck you walked hither. It is reserved for the officers.’

‘But may I see the guns? I saw a very little of them when I came on board.’

Peto hesitated. ‘If there is opportunity.’ There would be opportunity enough to hear them; that was certain. ‘Tomorrow we shall exercise the guns. If the weather is fine you may observe from the quarterdeck, but you will have to fill your ears with lint. I’ll have the surgeon give you some.’

‘Thank you, Captain Peto!’

It was extraordinary. He could not determine whether she was a child who periodically sounded like an adult, or vice versa; but she was engaging company for sure. ‘What say you, Lambe?’ he tried, thinking to con the subject away from gunnery.

His lieutenant was uncertain what he was asked: the matter was evidently decided. And then he realized that his captain was in need of a tow. ‘I say, sir, that I believe we shall have a fair day for it’ (the weather was always a safe subject). ‘A red sky at evening muster, and high cloud.’

‘Just so,’ agreed Peto.

Flowerdew took a step forward. ‘Cook says not to be long about the wine, sir, else the lobster’ll go leatherlike.’

Peto thanked him, and took note. His cook had been with him these dozen years and more, and he was not inclined to try his devotion too much – especially not on his first night at sea in twelve months.

They moved to the fine old table in the steerage, Peto at the head, Rebecca on his right. It was not his custom to say grace privately, or at such a gathering as this, and so he tucked his napkin into the open-front of his coat and picked up knife and fork. He was about to comment upon the fine appearance of the lobster, by way of opening, but Rebecca spoke first.

‘Mama says that now Lord Goderich is prime minister there will be no war. Mama says that it was only Mr Canning who wished for war. What is your opinion, Captain Peto?’

Flowerdew poured more hock, giving his captain a glance, eyebrows raised.

‘My opinion, Miss Rebecca? In truth I should not be in the least surprised to find that your father has had communication from Constantinople instructing him to withdraw from the Ionian. I believe it is true that Mr Canning was the principal architect of the treaty by which we now intervene in the Greek war, and that by all accounts Goderich is a mild sort of fellow, but the treaty obliges us to act, and it is certain that France – and most certainly the Tsar – will not rest until the Ottoman Porte is humbled in this. I must say that Canning’s dying in all this is deuced inconvenient.’ He looked at Lambe in a manner that invited comment.

‘I would say, sir, that the Tsar will not be content until the Turk is well and truly humbled, and he can sail his ships through the Bosporus when he will.’

‘You are surely in the right there, Mr Lambe.’

‘This treaty, Captain Peto: have you seen it?’

Peto smiled, a shade indulgently (it was endearing that she should think him elevated enough to be given sight of the Treaty of London), but also wryly, for although in large part the treaty was secret, The Times had published the salient clauses within a week of its signing. ‘I have not read the treaty in its entirety, Miss Rebecca. There was – you may know – a protocol’ (he paused; she nodded her familiarity with the word) ‘made last year between the Tsar and the King, and this provided for us to take steps to persuade the Turks to leave Greek waters – which is why the Mediterranean fleet was despatched to the Peloponnese, and your father made commander-in-chief.’

Rebecca nodded again, without the slightest sign of girlish pride in a father’s position, rather with an intensity for understanding what she might.

‘It was only in July, when the French joined the alliance, that a formal treaty was signed.’ Peto took a sip of