Man Of War

with electricity.

Peto closed to the quartermaster’s side. It was time to take the con directly. ‘One point a-larboard, Mr Veitch!’

‘One point a-larboard, ay-ay, sir!’

He put his glass to his eye again: the Turk forts would see the guns run out; might he see some activity by reply?

‘Captain Antrobus!’

The captain of marines crossed the quarterdeck briskly, and saluted.

‘Yonder fort,’ said Peto, pointing to Sphacteria. ‘Should we need to carry it, it may fall to you and a landing party.’

‘There is nothing I should like better, sir.’

‘We might spare, say, fifty men, perhaps sixty.’ The complement of marines was 138, of whom half had fixed fighting stations; the rest deployed as sharpshooters in the tops and upperworks.

‘Thirty of my men, I suggest, sir, and the same from the afterguard.’

Peto nodded. ‘Very well. Make ready.’ He turned to hail Lambe. ‘Lower two boats, in anticipation, and detail thirty of the afterguard to Captain Antrobus.’

Lambe rattled off the executives to the boatswain and the captain of the afterguard.

The guns running out sounded like distant thunder, noise enough to alert the dullest lookout. Which of the forts would be first to fire? Or would it be the Turk flagship?

Fifteen long minutes passed in silence but for the voice of timber and rigging, and the occasional yap of a petty officer. Asia was now within pistol shot of the entrance, but still the forts were unmoved.

‘I can scarcely credit it,’ declared Peto, spying out every detail of Sphacteria with his ’scope. ‘They’re lounging on the walls, smoking!’ He swung round towards New Navarin. It was the same. ‘Nothing, nothing at all! Not a flag flying or the like. Extraordinary!’ He recalled Ava, when they had sailed up the Rangoon River, the wooden fort sullenly silent, until too late, when the Burmans had fired a futile, suicidal shot at his flotilla. Was the Turk just going to allow them to sail into the bay and take possession of the fleet?

A cannon boomed on Sphacteria. Peto swung round.

‘Unshotted, sir,’ said Lambe. ‘I wonder they’re signalling: the whole Turk fleet must be able to see Asia now.’

Peto nodded. ‘How do you judge the current, Mr Veitch?’

‘Little or none, sir.’

He had thought as much. He would have to bring Rupert round a point or two into the wind to heave to; dropping anchor, even with a spring attached, was out of the question under those guns – and he wanted to have his broadsides as square-on as might be. ‘Prepare to heave to.’

Lambe hailed the sailing-master: ‘Prepare to back main-topsail, Mr Shand.’

Veitch brought Rupert into the wind.

Peto judged it the moment. ‘Heave to!’

The topmen did their work fast and sure. Shand barely needed his trumpet.

‘Boat ahoy!’

Peto looked up, cupping a hand to his mouth. ‘More advice if you please, Mr Simpson!’

‘Pinnace, sir, I believe from the Turkish flagship, heading straight for Asia!’

‘Indeed,’ said Peto to himself, though clearly audible to Lambe.

‘The Turks submitting, sir? The only reasonable course.’

‘The only reasonable course, Mr Lambe, as you say. But what Turkish admiral could present himself in Constantinople in consequence? No, I think there’s a deal of joukery yet ahead.’

‘And a deal of powder for the Turk to hoist himself with.’

Peto looked at the horseshoe of men-of-war. There were no three-deckers, but if it came to a fight they would be closer engaged than ever Nelson managed at Trafalgar. ‘Have the fo’c’s’le lookouts keep a sharp eye on those brulots yonder,’ he said, pointing ahead and to starboard. ‘It’ll be like the burning fiery furnace if they’re loosed.’

Lambe sent a midshipman forward with the word.

Peto was now intent on the pinnace. What terms did the Turkish admiral propose? Rupert’s crew – the crew of every one of Codrington’s ships, indeed – would be disappointed if he struck without a fight. But the cost would be high if he did otherwise. Peto did not doubt that every Turkish ship would end at the bottom, but the lack of sea space would mean a good number of allied ships might go down with them. He turned to the forts again: the guns commanded the entrance rather than the bay itself; once the squadrons were in there would be no need of Rupert’s fire. Where might he then place himself to advantage?

A quarter of an hour went by in the same silence. Genoa and then Albion passed him, their captains acknowledging his quarterdeck, but no cheering as at Trafalgar. ‘Recollect, gentlemen,’ Codrington had insisted, ‘that no act of hostility is to be attempted by us on any account.’ Neither were they to provoke a fire, and cheering was bound to inflame a proud Turk.

Asia dropped anchor alongside the Turkish flag.

Lambe, intent for the moment only on the trim of Rupert’s sails, acknowledged the report without looking.

‘And the pinnace makes for the shore,’ added Peto. He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes past two o’clock. Make note of that, Treves,’ he said to his clerk, touching his hat now to Dartmouth, the first of the frigates, passing so close on the starboard beam that he could have exchanged words with his old friend Captain Fellowes without much raising his voice. He rather envied him: a frigate would be a veritable cat among the pigeons in such an affair, able to manoeuvre with far greater facility than Rupert. And, at forty-four guns, by no means incapable of crippling a two-decker with raking fire.

He turned back to the pinnace. What did she do thence to New Navarin? But Asia made no fresh signal: there was no change in Codrington’s design.

Dartmouth bore to starboard as she entered the bay, making for the fireships to the south-east, while the rest of the squadron advanced steadily, line-ahead. The pinnace reached the south shore. Peto observed an officer jump out, throw off his turban and race up the hill to the gate of the fort, where others had assembled. There was a hurried conference, and then a red flag was run up on the walls. A gun fired, again unshotted. But still Peto could detect no activity on Sphacteria: the gunners remained entirely at ease (and in spite of the flag and the signal gun, New Navarin looked no more lively). Was it a ruse? Did the Turks want them to enter the bay?

‘Boat ahoy!’

This time Peto would wait for Midshipman Simpson to gather his advice, since evidently his eye was to be trusted.

In a couple of minutes he had it: ‘Barge from the Turkish flag to the Egyptian flag, sir!’

Ten minutes passed as silently as before.

‘Boat ahoy!’

Peto imagined it too would now be making for New Navarin. ‘Deuced queer business, this, Mr Lambe. You might suppose we’d taken them by surprise.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

He contemplated going forward for a better look, but checked the instinct. His place was on the quarterdeck. And besides, it mattered little what he saw: he could take no action until they were fired on.

‘Barge making for fireships, sir!’

This was it! He put his telescope under his arm, clasped his hands behind his back and concentrated hard on giving no appearance of agitation.

The captain of marines came up. ‘Sir, might I get the landing party into the boats, ready? It will be tricky otherwise once firing begins.’

Peto shook his head. ‘I can’t help it, Captain Antrobus. This is politics. The Turks will deem it a hostile act. I fear it must be “Tirez les premiers”.’