Man Of War

Peto had seen the effort for himself, but until the officers of the quarters had sent their word to the quarterdeck there was no knowing the end of it. ‘Very good, Mr Lambe,’ he replied, turning his attention to the sail. There was not a sign of shiver, the wind dead aft, the yards braced square, and the helm five degrees to starboard: the master had her trimmed perfectly (though Peto would not own it tricky sailing).

Lambe motioned the officers to dismiss to their fighting quarters.

Peto checked himself; he had been minded to ask Lambe if there was any sign of Hind, but since it was inconceivable that her sighting would not be reported to him at once, his enquiry would only indicate anxiety. He took his telescope instead and searched east for the fleet. Rupert had made little leeway in the night: he reckoned there was an hour and more’s sailing before they closed on the flagship. ‘Very well, Mr Lambe,’ he said at length, lowering his glass: ‘you may beat retreat.’ He saw no purpose in keeping men on their feet who might otherwise catch forty winks between the guns.

‘Ay-ay, sir.’

‘Sail ahoy, two points off the starboard bow!’ The lookout’s easy-going call, the voice of a seasoned topman, nevertheless animated the upper decks.

Peto looked at his watch – a quarter after nine – and then at the main mast, seeing the midshipman climbing purposefully to the cap. He fancied he himself might do it as nimbly still after all these years if . . .

‘Calpe signalling, sir!’ hailed Pelham.

‘And about time, too,’ muttered Peto (he supposed inaudibly to all but the quartermaster not six feet away).

But the maintop midshipman beat Pelham to the next call. ‘Two frigates direct ahead, sir, English!’

Nothing surprising in that, reckoned Peto, frigates to windward. Codrington intended entering the bay with the line-of-battle ships leading – his own first, the French and then the Russians – and his frigates, more manoeuvrable, taking station last. Peto calculated another half-hour’s running with this canvas, and then he would take in the courses, heave to and await the admiral’s pleasure. That would be the time for Hind to come alongside. He smiled to himself wryly: Rebecca Codrington would see her father’s ship after all. Likely as not she would see the man himself if she could screw her eye to a glass.

‘Calpe signals: “From flag”, sir,’ called Pelham resolutely. With the maintop midshipman now in distinct competition, he was eager to have his captain’s attention. ‘ “Hind making way from Kalamata.” ’

Peto frowned. What was Codrington trying to tell him? Evidently the admiral had no true idea when the cutter would return.

He had a sudden and alarming thought. Would Codrington keep Rupert out of action until Hind had taken off his daughter? Good God! It would be a very proper paternal instinct, but . . .

He forced himself to look aft at the weather. There was no cloud to speak of now. If anything, the wind was lightening. Could he not rig the launch and put the women in it; and a couple of lieutenants, and conduct them clear and safe to . . . where? That was the rub.

‘Acknowledge!’ he rasped.

Twenty more minutes passed, the quarterdeck silent throughout save for the quartermaster and the midshipman marking the speed on the half-hour (eight knots).

The maintop midshipman’s strengthening voice broke the peace. ‘Sail ahoy, three points on the starboard bow!’

Peto quickened, keen for confirmation he was making contact with the flag. If it were so, then he flattered himself he had come down on her exactly as intended.

Five more minutes, and then, ‘Blue at the foremast, sir!’

Lambe hastened to Peto’s side.

‘Helm two points a-larboard, Mr Lambe.’

‘Two points a-larboard, ay-ay, sir. D’ye hear that, Mr Veitch?’

‘Two points a-larboard, ay-ay, sir,’ intoned the quartermaster, nodding to the mates to begin heaving on the wheel.

Peto watched the main course slacken momentarily as the stern passed through the wind, until Rupert was sailing large once more, her canvas filled again. Such a turn as that in a lightening breeze with just the topsails full – she answered well in these airs, no doubt of it: he would order the courses reefed as they went into action.

He took his glass to the starboard shrouds and searched for the distant sail, but it was a full minute before he was sure it was the Asia (by heaven, that maintop midshipman had good eyes!). A quarter of an hour more, a league’s running, at most, and he would heave to within easy sight of the flagship’s signals.