Man Of War

prows of ships placed close together. He began wondering how, if Codrington had to shoot his way into the bay, he could best bring Rupert’s superiority in gunnery to bear.

By nightfall, Rupert was hove to five leagues to the west and north of the entrance to Navarino Bay. She had beat back to windward during the last two hours of daylight so that if she made leeway during the night her hull would be below the horizon to observers on Sphacteria. There was no sign of Firefly.

‘The weather’s set fair for tomorrow, by the look of it, Mr Lambe,’ said Peto, as the first watch came on.

‘The glass is high and steady, sir. I believe we might get the women away in the cutter.’

Peto shook his head. ‘I cannot put the women in the cutter, Mr Lambe. I wouldn’t trust the Greeks, even if I trusted the Turks. There’d be little to choose between a Greek pirate and a mussulman faced with such a catch.’

The appearance of Rebecca Codrington at the companion ladder cut short the discussion.

Lambe touched his hat to her, and Peto a moment later. ‘Good evening, Miss Codrington,’ they said as one.

Rebecca was smiling, with not the faintest trace of anxiety. ‘The Firefly must have very important business, Captain Peto. Mr Pelham has told me my father’s intentions for tomorrow. I imagine not a ship can be spared, no matter how small.’ She sounded delighted.

Peto nodded awkwardly. He had two objections to her otherwise charming company. First, he had no desire to be deflected from any course of action, should battle be joined, by considerations for the safety of the commander-in-chief ’s daughter. Secondly, a ship of the Line in action was so infernal a place as to be unfit for any but the strongest of stomachs (which in truth were not to be found in every man, let alone a female). ‘There will be something in the morning, Miss Rebecca, have no fear.’

‘Oh, I have no fear, Captain Peto. You need not trouble on my account.’

He had made that mistake before, of using an everyday phrase that might be interpreted literally, and which then was – to disarming effect. He cleared his throat. ‘Just so, just so.’ He turned to the lieutenant, making a great effort to keep a commanding countenance. ‘Well, Mr Lambe, I believe I shall repair to my log. We dine in one half of one hour.’ He turned back to Rebecca, almost reluctantly. ‘You will join us, I hope, Miss Codrington?’

‘Oh, Captain Peto, I should be most honoured.’ Her delight was evident. ‘You are to toast the memory of Lord Nelson: I do not suppose there is another of my sex who has observed it on the eve of battle!’

Peto groaned inwardly.

It was the finest of new mornings, even by the standards of the heavenly Ionian. Peto had come on deck shortly after the middle watch stood down, searching for signal lights or some other sign in the moonless early hours before the sun served its first notice of intent – the faintest marbling of the otherwise black wall of the eastern sky. He could see the stern lantern of Calpe, sloop, a league and a half east- south-east, standing ready to relay the flagship’s signals. He wondered if he might yet transfer the women to her, for there could be no imperative need of her in Navarino Bay . . . But, Peto’s seniority notwithstanding, Calpe’s master would never heed him in this. Not without the flagship’s express authority.

Hands had come on deck cheerily, despite being turned from their hammocks early, bantering and capering as if pay were to be had, and shore leave, the prospect of action (for most of them, the first time) a powerful animator to fellowship. They stood lively at their stations, guns or shrouds. Here and there a man mock-flinched at a belay pin which a boatswain’s mate pretend-threatened, exchanging the crack with the officers, mouthing ribald encouragement to the marines.

Peto marked it all with satisfaction. It took months as a rule to drill a crew well enough for the fight, and yet in less than one, Rupert’s was handy enough. Perhaps if they had met a Frenchman in the glory days, before Trafalgar, or even before Lissa, they would have been hard-pressed to overmatch her in broadsiding, but these were not the glory days – thank God – and the Turk was no Frenchman when it came to admiralty. This was the future: willing volunteers who did their duty . . . willingly.

The sun, full clear of the horizon now, was already warm on his face, even on a day when in Norfolk (in the house he would soon truly be able to call home) there would be a fire burning in the grate. Happiest of thoughts! – Miss Elizabeth Hervey before that fire, Lady Peto. For Elizabeth he would be glad to give up all flag ambition, to live peacefully and companionably on half pay in that incomparable county. There too, in due course, he might steal away before first light, as he had as a boy, to behold the sea, what the day brought of wind and wave and sail, never the same sea picture, daily the new in the familiar guise of the old. But those breaks of day (dare he imagine it?) would not be, as before, in his own company alone – nor even in that of Elizabeth – but in the company of one who shared their name, who would grow to maturity in the love of a good mother and the encouragement of a proud father, so that he too in due season might know the wonderful prospect of life that came with a midshipman’s collar-patch. And, in his turn, that glorious thing which was a post command.

Rebecca came on deck. Peto, standing below the poop on the weather side, braced involuntarily: the crew were at their fighting stations, ready in an instant to clear for action; it was not seemly for a female to be on the quarterdeck. Nor on a gun-deck – as now he saw Rupert’s women, coming up for their allowance of air. He had given no orders to the contrary, however, and Lambe had evidently not seen fit to cancel their privileges. It was the very devil! Where was that sloop?

Peto acknowledged Rebecca’s curtsy – no more now than a pause and a bow, in deference to his asking that she did not bend the knee, yet acquitting herself in what she felt most strongly was her obligation as a female, and a subordinate.

He could not quite bring himself to smile, but his intention was warm enough. He so much admired this . . . girl, with her pleasing self-possession, intelligence, pluck – and her pride in her father. He thought it the greatest pity that father and daughter could not have met, though he perfectly understood the very proper instincts of a commander-in-chief. Indeed, he trusted that his own would have been no less dutiful; except that – he would freely admit it – since his betrothal to Elizabeth, his judgement in certain matters was not as it had once been. Perhaps he gave way to sentiment, but could he have denied himself the pleasure of an encounter with his own daughter, especially before action? He could not but reflect on how his old friend – soon to be his brother-in-law – was so happily obligated to his daughter.

He raised his telescope again and swept the sunny eastern horizon, and to north and south, stern to bow, in another vain search for the sloop that would take Rupert’s women off. He called for his signal midshipman.

Pelham fairly flew down the ladder.

‘Make to Calpe, “For Asia. Where is Firefly?” ’ He said it briskly, trying to conceal his chagrin at having to signal the flagship on a domestic matter when action loomed.

Midshipman Pelham now had the squadron’s additional codebook, with each ship allotted a number, so that the signal was a matter of but half a dozen flags and a couple of minutes’ work in the hoisting. Nevertheless it was a full quarter of an hour before any reply came, and then it was ‘Not understood’.

Peto fumed. ‘In God’s name, man, what did you make to the flag?’

But Pelham did not flinch. ‘ “For Asia. Where is Firefly?”, sir.’

Peto glowered. ‘I grant you may have a perfect memory, Mr Pelham, but what flags did you hoist?’

Lambe was already bounding up the poop deck ladder to prove the reserve codebook for himself. Before Pelham was even half-way to verifying the signal, the lieutenant had Peto’s answer. ‘Signal is accurate, sir.’

Peto cursed again. ‘What in God’s name is Asia’s flag-lieutenant thinking, then?’ Or was it – surely not? – Calpe seeking clarification rather than simply repeating? It was her duty, after all, if she could not see the flags clearly enough. But they flew well in this breeze . . . ‘Repeat, and make: “For Asia, urgent, lady still aboard.” ’

It was possible, of course, that the flag-lieutenant did not know what the Firefly’s special duty was, and therefore had not appreciated the urgency of the enquiry. But unless he believed the signal to be corrupted it was his business to put it to the admiral at once.