Man Of War

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.’

‘And 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?’