gust of wind. He glanced at the decoration above the port, handsomely carved dolphins gilded as freshly as the ship’s name had been whitened. The lieutenant had evidently been active since they had put in to port three days before. Peto marked it with some satisfaction. He did not know the lieutenant, Lambe, except that he had a good reputation. A bit of sea-greening on the stern counter and dulling of the carving gilt he could have endured (who knew what repairs the Biscay weather had occasioned?), but Lambe had chosen to smarten these presents. If they were not meant merely to distract, it augured well.
And now the piping aboard, the shaking hands with officers and warrant officers – he had done the same before, several times; but never on a first-rate. To be sure, he had hardly set foot on a three-decker since he was a young lieutenant. He had decided not to address the crew, as he had when taking command of Nisus, for whereas his frigate’s complement had been but two hundred (and he could know every man by name and character), Rupert’s was in excess of eight – far too many to assemble decently for the sort of thing he would wish to say. Command of a first-rate was perforce a rather more distant business. Strictly speaking, command even of Nisus was properly exercised through his executive officer, the lieutenant, and to some degree by the master, but in a ship of two hundred souls the captain’s face was daily – at times hourly – known to all. His own quarters were on the upper deck: he had to climb the companion to the quarterdeck, and in doing so he might routinely see half the crew. As captain of Rupert he would merely step from his cabin under the poop: descending to any of the gun-decks was an ‘occasion’. His world was changing even if he were not. He could no longer be the frigate- thruster. But his nature was by no means aloof, and he now must find some happy middle channel between his own inclination and the customs of the service. He did not expect it to take long, or even to try him; but meanwhile – as any prudent captain – he would take up the command firmly yet judiciously. He passed the assemblage of officers with but a nod here and there.
In an hour or so His Majesty’s governor of Gibraltar would pay a call on him, and then, if the westerly continued to freshen, Rupert would make sail for Syracuse to take on the pure water of the Arethusa spring, just as Nelson had before the Nile. Peto knew that a long blockade of the Peloponnese – if blockade were what Codrington intended – would be thirsty work. He knew it from long experience, though not perhaps as much in the eastern as the western Mediterranean, and also from recourse to that most faithful of teachers, history. For he had with him – and had been reading most assiduously since leaving England – Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War. And in that latest edition of Dean Smith’s translation he was reminded of the necessaries of such a course, for the Athenians at Pylos, blockading the Spartans on the island of Sphacteria, had been reduced to scraping away the shingle on the beach to get relief for their thirst. He could at least make sure his men had the sweetest water (and there was none sweeter or more plentiful than from the spring of that patron-goddess). Thence, from Syracuse, he would set a course for Codrington’s squadron in the Ionian. For the time being, however, he would withdraw to his quarters, hear the reports, read the signals, sign the returns.
Flowerdew, his steward of a dozen years and more, was waiting. The sentry presented arms – more sharply, thought Peto, than even the well-drilled marines on Nisus. The red coat, the black lacquered hat, the white breeches and pipeclay – Peto suddenly felt himself a little shabby by comparison in his sea coat. But that, he reminded himself, was how it should be: a marine sentry was by his very turnout a powerful aid to discipline, whereas a captain’s attire must be weather-seasoned. He might put on his best coat for His Majesty’s envoy (his dunnage Flowerdew had brought aboard earlier in the day); there again he might not.
He took his first, portentous steps aft of the sentry, followed by his executive officer and Flowerdew. At once he saw how much bigger were his quarters – appreciably bigger than any he had occupied before. He saw the little oils on the bulkheads which he had had on Nisus, and the furniture, over and above what their lordships provided, which he had bought from the previous captain (who had been only too happy to strike a bargain and thus save himself the expense of shipping home). He could be confident, too, that his cherished silver, china and glass would be safely stowed.
‘Coffee, sir?’
‘Thank you, yes, Flowerdew.’
‘With your leave, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.
Peto took off his hat and placed it on the dining table (Cuban mahogany reflecting the sun through the stern lights like a mirror). ‘By all means, Mr Lambe. A half-hour’s recollection, and then, if you please, you may give me the ship’s states.’
‘Shall I assemble the old hands too, sir?’
It was the custom of the service for a new captain to ‘read himself in’ – to read his commission before the caretakers and old seamen aboard the ship.
‘By all means.’
The executive officer replaced his hat, touched the point and withdrew. ‘Ay-ay, sir.’
When Flowerdew came with coffee he found his captain sitting in his favourite leather chair. Peto had had it made many years before in Madeira, with pouches fixed on each arm: the left side for his clerk to place papers for attention, and the other for Peto himself to place them after his attention. But rather than attending to his clerk’s papers, Peto was staring out of the stern gallery, and with a look of considerable contentment. Flowerdew could not be surprised at this: if his captain mayn’t have a moment or two’s satisfaction in his new command then what did it profit a man to be in the King’s service?
‘Coffee, sir.’
Peto nodded, and raised his hand in thanks.
Flowerdew had no wish to intrude on the moment; there would be time enough to get back into the old routine. He placed the cup and saucer in Peto’s hand, and left the cabin quietly.
Peto reached inside his coat and took out Elizabeth’s letter. He had placed it within the leather binding of an old copy of Steel’s Mastmaking, Sailmaking and Rigging from which he had removed the pages, and wrapped it in an oilskin. Even thus preserved, the letter bore the signs of much consultation.
Horningsham
28th March 1827My dear Captain Peto,Let me at once say that I accept your offer of marriage with the very greatest delight. I perfectly understand that you were not able to travel to Wiltshire, and I am only content that you did not delay until you were able to do so. For my part, I should have wished at once to accept, but you will understand that I felt a certain obligation to my brother, though I could never have doubted his approval.I am so very happy too at your news of command, though I shall confess also that my happiness is tempered considerably by the thought that H.M.S. Prince Rupert is taking you so very distant. But that is the way of things, and you may be assured that I shall never be a jealous wife where your ship is concerned!I am so very proud, too, that your command is to be in the Mediterranean, not only for its healthiness and beauty but because I believe it a very noble thing that we should assist the Greeks in their endeavours to shake off the Ottoman yoke. You will, of course, be now daily in my prayers – I think I may say constantly – and they will be for your safe and speedy return.My father will make the usual arrangements for the notice of our betrothal, which I must trust shall be to your liking.I hasten to close this, though I would write so very much more were there the time, for the express boy is come even now, and trust that you shall receive it before you sail.Your ever affectionate
Elizabeth Hervey
Peto read it a second time, and then a third. It was the first letter in a female hand that he had ever received. He had no certainty of the tone or convention, but he considered it the warmest expression of esteem. How different it felt – strangely different – taking to sea with a wife awaiting his return (for he already imagined her in the Norfolk drawing room, wed): his world was no longer wholly wooden, sea-girt and male.
He folded the letter, replaced it between the bindings, wrapped it in the oilskin and put it back into his pocket. As he did so he thought again of Elizabeth’s sisterly duty – so admirable a thing – and then the object of that duty, and wondered how was his friend in southern waters. Perhaps – his own new command notwithstanding – he might even envy Hervey a little, for would not his friend have more prospect of the smell of black powder than
