Man Of War

‘ “Affirmative, good hunting” – ay-ay, sir!’

‘And to Archer: “Convoy her to Gibraltar and return”.’

‘ “Convoy her to Gibraltar and return” – ay-ay, sir!’

‘Crabbe’ll ask for men if he needs to,’ said Peto to his lieutenant as Pelham scuttled back to the poop.

Lambe nodded. Handling a prize-slaver would be tricky. ‘Stand-by to make sail, sir?’

‘As soon as Archer acknowledges and has possession of her.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’

‘I shall walk the lower decks meanwhile.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’ Lambe called to the waist for the master-at-arms and boatswain to accompany.

There were two places laid at table in the captain’s steerage. Peto had asked that a dozen officers join him at dinner, and in the circumstances he thought the presence of Miss Codrington not, in truth, apt. Or, seen another way, he wished his officers to behave without the inhibition that the presence of a lady, a girl – and the commander-in-chief’s daughter at that – would inevitably occasion. And so he had asked Rebecca Codrington to take a late breakfast with him, which, with the diversion of the chase, was now luncheon.

‘Rice b’n’t so good as it were an hour ago,’ said Flowerdew as he placed a bowl of salt on the table, his voice close enough to Norfolk as to make Peto feel comfortably at home.

‘I’m confident that it will be most appetizing,’ he replied, opening a locker under the stern lights and appearing to search.

‘But the ’addock’s well,’ called Flowerdew, not inclined to question what it was that Peto searched for (if his captain wanted his help he would certainly ask for it).

‘How many of Marsala did we bring?’

‘Two cases, sir.’

‘I don’t see it.’

‘There wasn’t room, sir. It’s still in the ’old. Do you want some?’ He sounded doubtful. He had never known Peto to drink Marsala except of an evening, and alone with a book.

‘I thought to send a bottle to Miss Codrington and her maid. She said last night she had never tasted it.’

‘That’s uncommon thoughtful, sir,’ said Flowerdew, though sounding more doubtful still. ‘I’ll fetch up a case.’

‘I’d be obliged.’

‘I’ll go an’ fetch Miss Codrington, an’ all.’

‘If you would.’

Peto sat down in his Madeira chair and placed his hands together as if in prayer, his customary method of recollecting his thoughts. He was, indeed, fretting somewhat at the missed opportunity. He had written to Elizabeth at some length the night before, his intention being that Rebecca Codrington take the letter ashore when he put her off for Malta, whence it could travel with the next ship for England. If he had been able to pass the letter to Archer instead it might have been with her in Wiltshire in under a month. But now he would have to wait for a barque or something out of Valetta. It need not be any great delay, he knew, but it was a delay nonetheless. He could have sent the letter across to Archer, of course. Had there been official papers to send, too, he would not have hesitated to do so – or even a decent bag of mail from the ship’s company; but two days out from Gibraltar there was next to nothing.

He warmed at the thought of communication with his betrothed, however, be it ever so distant. The night before (it was the strangest thing), he had even found himself lying awake in his cot wondering how long it might be before there was not just Elizabeth Hervey to think of. At first he had dismissed the idea, but then he had asked himself why he should not think thus; Elizabeth was certainly not beyond the age of bearing a child – bearing children. And (it was stranger still) he had found himself imagining what it would be to have a daughter like Rebecca Codrington; or a son like Mr Midshipman Pelham . . .

‘Si-ir.’

Flowerdew’s yap woke him. He sprang up. ‘Miss Codrington, good morning! I was only . . . Forgive me, I was turning over matters in connection with Archer.’

‘Please do not apologize on my account, Captain,’ said Rebecca, with a note of surprise. ‘I cannot imagine how you have the time to render me any consideration at all.’

Strangely enough, there were moments when in her manner of speaking Rebecca Codrington reminded him more of Elizabeth Hervey than of a child (he really must not think of her as a child: undoubtedly the midshipmen did not . . . but that was another matter). ‘Miss Codrington, it is no imposition at all. A glass of . . .’

‘Water, please.’

He turned to Flowerdew. ‘A glass of our best water, Flowerdew.’

Flowerdew looked at him oddly (water was either potable or it wasn’t). ‘Mi-iss.’

‘Well, well, Miss Rebecca, I trust you had a diverting morning. I saw that you were engaged in the affairs of the poop deck.’

‘Oh yes, a most diverting morning, Captain Peto. I never saw such a thing. I think it most noble what was done. Those poor men in that slave ship.’

Women, too – but Peto was not going to be so indelicate as to correct her. Better not to imagine the situation in those holds. He had, though, thought of sending over his surgeon and mates to render what aid they could, but he was under orders to join Rebecca’s father’s squadron with all despatch. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, being not long out of Tangier, there would not be too great a mortality.

‘The only difficulty that presents itself now, Miss Rebecca, is that Archer will not be rejoined when we pass Malta, so we must trust to a lighter or some such to convey you ashore.’ He realized he might be alarming her. ‘But be assured, you will not be permitted to hazard yourself for a moment.’

‘Oh, I do not mind that in the least, Captain Peto. I am quite prepared to share the hazards of the service – just as the sailors’ wives below.’

Peto looked surprised at the mention of the women; he had quite forgot them. And . . . ‘How do you know of the . . . wives?’

‘Mi-iss.’ Flowerdew proffered Rebecca her glass of water. ‘Can I serve the kej’ree now, sir?’

His cook had acquired the dish when they had been on the East Indies Station, and it was now a firm favourite. ‘By all means.’

‘I saw them when they came on deck yesterday,’ said Rebecca, following Flowerdew to the table, perfectly at ease.

Peto had been content to let the women take the air during the afternoon watch. ‘Ah, yes.’

‘I found them very pleasant, very civil,’ she continued, spooning kedgeree to her plate. ‘They seem to endure a good deal on account of their husbands, I think. Do not you, Captain Peto?’

Peto almost turned red. He did not doubt that the women had been on their best behaviour, but even so . . . ‘Ye-es. Just so. However, I think it best, Miss Rebecca, if you do not converse with them. It . . . it is . . . unsettling.’

Rebecca’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I am very sorry, Captain Peto, if I have offended. I would not wish for one moment to unsettle anything. I am aware that it is somewhat irregular in any case for there to be any females on board a ship of war.’

Peto nodded as in turn he helped himself to kedgeree. ‘Irregular, yes, but not unknown. It is a pleasure to have you on board,’ (he would change the subject) ‘but after a few days at sea you will be glad of Malta. The harbour at Valetta is one of the finest sights I ever beheld.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘Yes, my father said the same in his letter to me. And I have seen paintings of it too. But I assure you, Captain Peto, I shall by no means tire of being at sea – not in your ship. It is a revelation to me, so that I quite see now what it is that has animated my father these many years.’

Peto smiled. Any praise of the service brought him satisfaction, and praise of a ship of his the most intense pride. But more than that, this girl, this . . . young woman (he must make up his mind) had such self-possession as to amaze him. He had next to no experience of those of her age and sex, and when he summoned to mind those volunteers and midshipmen of the same age he had known (even, he had to admit,