Man Of War

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”.’

Antrobus looked disappointed, put out, even, as he saluted and took his leave. Peto wished he had been a little less peremptory with him. He had the highest regard for the marines’ offensive spirit.

But then, the entire ship’s complement was possessed of nothing but desire for a battle. The quarterdeck, lately a place for sunny recreation, swarmed with gun-crew; jollies, bristling for some sharpshooting, lined the gangways; and hands danced impatiently about the forecastle carronades. Here was death in twenty different calibres, and every man eager for its issue.

A pigeon walked along the strings of the sauve-tête above the waist. Peto recalled he had not seen netting on a three-decker since Trafalgar . . .

Another quarter of an hour, and then: ‘Dartmouth lowering a boat, sir!’

Was there ever occasion when the quarterdeck listened so intently on a midshipman? Peto shook his head:politics.

Five more minutes: ‘Pinnace sir, from Dartmouth, pulling for the fireship.’

Peto saluted Admiral de Rigny’s flag in the frigate Sirène. As he turned to speak to his signal midshipman, a shot rang out from towards Dartmouth – a musket, perhaps a pistol, but a crack like fork lightning in the silent auditorium of the bay. And then a whole fusillade.