Man Of War

His steward, standing by, looked sheepish as Peto turned to him, and then back to Rebecca.

But both were spared any remark by Midshipman Pelham’s hailing from the poop. ‘Calpe signalling, sir!’

Peto put his glass to his eye. He could not read a signal without the codebook, but he might judge the length of it well enough.

It was mercifully, and encouragingly, brief. Pelham had it out in no time. ‘ “From flag, Hind to take off lady”.’

‘Hind?’

Pelham was already rifling through his Admiralty progress book and the Navy List. ‘Ex-Revenue-cutter, sir.’

‘Cutter?’ rasped Peto. There was scarcely decent room in a cutter for one woman, let alone . . . There again, he had said nothing of Rupert’s total complement of that sex. He cursed himself.

‘Yes, sir, cutter,’ Pelham confirmed, mistaking the captain’s exasperation. ‘Mr Robb, sir.’

Peto huffed. He considered it were no consolation had its captain been called Nelson. But, if a cutter was all the admiral could spare . . . ‘Very well, Mr Lambe: have the officer of the watch report as soon as Hind hoves in sight. Have you breakfasted?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then join me at mine, if you will.’ He turned to Rebecca. ‘Miss Codrington?’

‘I have not, Captain Peto.’

‘Then you may well have your last egg this side of Malta.’

While he was perfectly capable – indeed, inclined – to interpret liberally (some said flout) the Admiralty’s fighting instructions, in matters of routine Captain Sir Laughton Peto observed to the letter the customs of the service. The practices he had learned in the midshipmen’s berth, the aptness of which he had witnessed time and again, were to him as the rubrics of divine worship were to his father: to be followed without variation, lest a greater error ensue. And so at breakfast this morning he wore his best linen, shirt-points white as chalk, cuffs unchafed. His sea coat was sponged clean, its formerly invisible nap teased back to life with a steaming bowl, comb and a score years of Flowerdew’s know-how, and the gold braid restored by the application of soap and water with ancient tooth brush to a glister that would do justice to a Portuguese high altar.

Rebecca wanted to say something – ‘How smart is your appearance, Captain Peto’ – but she sensed she ought not to: Lieutenant Lambe’s turnout was no less to be remarked on, and she could hardly favour the one without the other. Instead she made seamanlike conversation (the captain did indeed seem rather distracted in his thoughts), but not once did she enquire of the Hind.

As Flowerdew poured his captain a third cup of coffee, there was a sharp knock at the steerage door. Lambe made to rise, but Peto shook his head. ‘In good time,’ he said, as Flowerdew shuffled off to answer (now that, evidently, Hind was sighted, and thereby the means of relieving him of the safeguard of the commander-in-chief’s daughter, he was in no hurry to be discharged of it).

Flowerdew opened the inner door to admit the officer of the watch.

‘Yes, Mr Wilsey?’ said Peto, airily, as one who knew what was to follow.

‘Signal from the flagship, sir. “Close up to signal distance.” ’

The admiral’s intention had been to enter the anchorage just after midday. Why order him up now when he had sent him to windward for the night?

Lambe was already on his feet as Peto rose. ‘Make sail, Mr Lambe . . . And clear for action.’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’ The glint in his lieutenant’s eye scarcely made the acknowledgement necessary.

Flowerdew brought hat and sword.

‘Miss Codrington, you will accompany me to the quarterdeck until such time as Hind comes alongside,’ said Peto, buckling on his swordbelt. ‘It may well be that at that time I shall be engaged elsewhere, and so I will bid you farewell now, and thank you, most sincerely, for your company.’ He held out a hand.

Rebecca took it. She knew not to detain him with any speech, though she was dismayed rather by the suddenness of their parting. She began fumbling in her workbag. ‘Wait, a moment, if you will, Captain Peto,’ she begged, anxiously, until she was able to produce what she sought. ‘I should like you to have this.’

She held out a folded square of dark blue silk.

Peto took it, colouring a little, and clearing his throat once more. No woman had ever given him anything, except his mother (so many necessaries when first he had gone to sea) – and, of course, Elizabeth, her consent to be his wife. ‘Miss Codrington, I . . .’ He unfolded the square, a sampler, worked in gold-coloured thread. In the middle was an anchor, with ‘HMS Prince Rupert’ stitched below, and in each corner an initial: L, P, E, H.

‘It is not quite finished, Captain Peto. I had intended embroidering the date, but—’

Peto cleared his throat most determinedly. ‘Quite. Just so. It is most handsomely done, Miss Codrington. A very proper memento. I thank you.’ He folded it very carefully, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat.