Man Of War

‘The first of August, Mr Codrington – a bay, the enemy at anchor . . .’

‘Oh, indeed, sir: Aboukir, the Nile.’

‘Quite, Mr Codrington, the Nile.’

Rebecca looked to her brother for edification.

‘Go on, Mr Codrington. Explain.’

‘The French fleet lay in line at anchor in Aboukir Bay, the mouth of the Nile, and Lord Nelson took his ships into the bay and sailed between the French and the shore, which the French had supposed was not possible, believing it to be too shallow, because of which they had not their guns run out on that side, nor even the gun-ports open. It was a famous victory.’ He looked at Peto for approval of his summary.

‘Admirable, Mr Codrington.’ He turned to Rebecca again. ‘But unlike Aboukir Bay, at the bay of Navarin – your father, I note, prefers the style to “Navarino” – there will be no imperative to destroy any one of the Sultan’s ships, only to compel them to leave. No admiral confronted by so great a show of force as your father may dispose, with the French and Russian squadrons, could do other than comply at once, for resistance would be as futile as it would be ruinous.’ He did not add, however, that the pride of the Turkish admiral was not to be underestimated. He looked at Flowerdew. ‘The cake?’

Flowerdew advanced with his tray.

Peto saw that his steward had not been able to remove quite all of the mould, which seemed always to defy his best efforts, but Midshipman Codrington was too experienced a seaman to notice, and his sister too polite. Peto himself took a hearty mouthful (he had not eaten since breakfast).

‘Do I have to leave on the Firefly tomorrow, Captain Peto?’ asked Rebecca, sounding suddenly rather younger than before. ‘I should so like to see our fleet sail into the bay, and the Turkish ships sailing away.’

Peto had taken rather too hearty a mouthful: the request induced a sudden, and somewhat messy, fit of coughing. ‘Miss Rebecca, greatly though I – we all – have prized your company these past weeks, I have to tell you that nothing would induce me to prolong that pleasure into a place of active operations. The Firefly, though I do not know her, will convey you with considerable speed to Malta.’ He spoke decidedly but kindly. ‘Is that not so, Mr Codrington?’ he added, turning to her brother for assurance, as if his was an opinion of equal rank.

Midshipman Codrington cleared his throat in turn. ‘Yes, sir; yes indeed.’ He turned to his sister. ‘The Firefly is a ship-sloop. She is a very good sailer, and Mr Hanson is a very able and gentlemanlike master.’

Peto now smiled, and with some wryness. ‘Your quarters, I’m afraid, will be a little more cramped than you have been used to of late. And you shall have to put up with the babbling of the . . . wives, that I am also obliged to put off.’

Rebecca brightened. ‘Oh, I have no concern for my comfort, Captain Peto. And I shall be only too glad to make closer acquaintance with the sailors’ wives.’

Peto now felt himself turning a little red under what he supposed might be the scrutiny of a brother who knew perfectly well the status of the women below deck, and who must therefore have some instinct to shelter a sister from such coarseness. ‘Yes . . . quite . . . Now, when you go aboard Firefly, Miss Rebecca, I would have you take letters for me, if you will.’

‘Yes, of course, Captain Peto. For Miss Hervey, I imagine?’

Peto felt his face now thoroughly reddening. The enquiry was entirely innocent, for all that it might have been precocious. He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Letters to the Admiralty . . . And yes, to . . . Miss Hervey.’

XVI

CLEAR FOR ACTION

Late afternoon the following day, 19 October 1827,

off Navarino Bay

Captain Sir Laughton Peto, second-senior post-captain of the British squadron in the Ionian, clambered up the ladder to Rupert’s entry port for the second time in twenty-four hours. The pipes trilled, the marine sentry presented arms, and the boatswain barked ‘off hats’ as the master of their wooden world, at once weary and yet animated, came inboard, touching his hat to the quarterdeck and nodding his acknowledgement to the first lieutenant’s salute.

‘Assemble all sea and warrant officers in the admiral’s steerage in one half of one hour, Mr Lambe, if you please.’

Lambe walked with him as Peto made for the companion ladder. ‘Miss Codrington shall have to wait in your cabin, then, sir. There has been no sign of Firefly.’

Peto broke his step momentarily. ‘Damnation!’

‘I’ve sent word to the flagship.’

Peto huffed.

‘Perhaps we shall have to put the ladies in the boats, sir, instead of the hen coops.’

It was a gallant attempt at humour in the circumstances. Peto turned, to see his lieutenant’s ironic half smile. ‘I would that I were not made to choose, Mr Lambe.’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’

At a quarter to six, Peto entered the admiral’s apartments. ‘Good evening, sir,’ chorused the assembled officers. He returned the courtesy heartily and with a smile. His signal midshipman unrolled a chart on the dining table and weighted down its corners with pieces of lead.

‘Gentlemen,’ began Rupert’s captain, with just the merest expression of drollery, ‘a good many of you – perhaps the majority – saw action in the late, “never-ending” war. Well, I tell you, we are about to undertake a smokeless action in what our fellow-countrymen touchingly believe is never-ending peace.’

There was a buzz among the officers – a puzzled applause, as well as lively. How might an action be smokeless? Between two ships, with surprise on one side, perhaps; but between fleets?

‘Gentlemen, your disbelief does you credit. The pertinent word, however, is “undertake”. I am myself convinced that an action such as this is bound to precipitate a fight; and I believe that that too is the admiral’s opinion, at heart. I wish you therefore to hear the design for tomorrow’s endeavour with that possibility – nay, let us not mince our words, probability – firmly in mind. For only thus shall you perceive the part which Rupert plays in it. Otherwise we might appear to be mere spectators at a fleet review.’

Faces spoke of enthusiasm.

He pointed to the chart. ‘Now, see the set of the coast, and the bay of Navarino . . .’

For a full five minutes Peto spoke the language of the sea, so that a midshipman of the most elementary schooling might consider himself able to assume the position of sailing-master – or even pilot. ‘You will thus appreciate, gentlemen, why with such prevailing winds the admiral concludes it would be nigh impossible to maintain a blockade through the coming season.’

Heads nodded. It was long years since the Royal Navy had practised blockade, especially winter blockade – storm-tossed ships, ever watchful. Nor, indeed, would blockade prevent a Turkish army from marauding in the Morea itself.

‘The admiral has therefore concluded, in concert with the French and Russian commanders-in-chief, that the combined squadrons shall enter the bay of Navarino tomorrow – la meche a la main, so to speak – and dispose themselves in such a way as to make clear to the Turkish admiral that he must at once comply