Man Of War

Preventive Squadron on the West Africa Station revealed only too well.

‘Let us serve her notice. A signal gun, if you please, Mr Lambe.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’ Lambe put his speaking-trumpet to his lips again. ‘Middle deck, one gun to fire unshotted!’

At such a range there was nothing to choose between guns: no shot, upper-deck eighteen-pounder or middle-deck thirty-two, would reach even half-way to the slaver. It was the noise and smoke, the signal, that counted, and a thirty-two would make the most of each.

A minute and seven seconds ticked by. The aft gun fired.

Peto put his telescope to his eye again to observe for a change of course. In five minutes there was no sign of it.

‘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!” ’