Man Of War

The starboard watch hauled up the main-topsail by the clewlines rather than sending more men aloft to furl. In a minute or so, with no wind in the (backed) sail to counter the fore and mizzen, Rupert began to make headway.

‘Bring her up into the wind a point, Mr Veitch.’ It would mean putting half of each broadside off its line, Peto knew, but that should be of no matter now that each gun captain had the range.

The landing party was nearing the shore. He had a mind to recall them, for his guns would have the better of the fort soon enough if the Turks continued to fire so ill, one true hit in all of ten minutes.

Midshipman Simpson called again, even more hoarsely: ‘Two more fireships ablaze, sir!’

Peto made for the poop deck once more: with Rupert turning into the wind he ought to be able to see nearly as well as from the tops.

He felt the roundshot tear the air just above his head, saw it graze the flag lockers and carry away the stern lantern before plunging into the sea, aft. He raised an eyebrow: as well he had not taken the ladder a moment earlier. But it was the way of a fight at sea, and he did not dwell on near misses. ‘Stand up, Mr Hart,’ he said briskly to one of the midshipmen, flat on his back and with an expression of astonishment.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I—’

‘Nothing from the flag, Mr Pelham?’

‘No, sir,’ replied the signal midshipman, surveying the wreckage of his flag locker in dismay.

Peto took up his telescope to observe for himself. There was so much smoke it was a while before he could find the flagship. ‘Codrington has hot work of it, I see.’Asia was engaged at close quarters with one, perhaps two, of the Turkish Line. Peto shook his head: that decided it (their lordships did not send a three-decker to the Mediterranean to pound at shore batteries on the edge of a general action).

He slid back down the ladder without a word (he had no time for signals now), before thinking better of leaving Pelham with nothing but carpentry. He turned and hailed him in a voice that would carry above the gunfire yet conveyed indifference to it. ‘Mr Pelham. I may have need of you on the quarterdeck!’

He was surprised by how agreeable he found the young man’s ‘ay-ay, sir!’.

‘Make straight for the flagship, Mr Durcan!’ The third lieutenant had resumed the watch as soon as the captain had turned for the ladder.

‘Straight for her, sir!’

The last of Admiral de Rigny’s frigates was nearing. Peto took Lambe’s speaking-trumpet to the starboard side. ‘Ahoy, monsieur!’ It ought to have felt strange: the only time he had ever hailed a Frenchman was to invite him to strike his colours.

The reply came at once, and heartily. ‘Je suis l ’Armide, capitaine! C’est une vraie battaille, n’est-ce pas? ’

‘Oui, capitaine, c’est ça.’ Peto was confident of his French, though he knew his accent to be that of an Englishman: ‘I have put ashore a party of marines to take the fort. They will have need of support but I must join the action. Will you take my place here?’ He prayed the Frenchman would not choose la gloire rather than the course of military reason.

He need have had no concern. ‘Oui, capitaine, bien sûr . . .’

The detail was dealt with briskly, so that Peto could thank his (to his mind still) unlikely allié with true gratitude, and assurance, before turning back to the helm.

A ball crashed into the main mast just above the netting, and ricocheted into the waist. He closed his ears to the screaming of the wounded, as he had too often before.

‘More sail, Mr Lambe!’

Another ball from Sphacteria crashed into Rupert’s hull – impenetrable save by one path. It struck the edge of a gunport aft on the middle deck just as its huge thirty-two-pounder fired, carrying away the retarder tackle, sending splinters the width of the ship. The gun itself reared up and over, killing outright a midshipman and two hands, and rendering eleven more for the orlop.

An arching, heated shot from New Navarin plunged to the quarterdeck, taking off the head of a corporal of marines, which followed the hissy ball into the sea. Several men threw up as two older hands heaved what remained of the NCO over the side.

Another ball from Sphacteria carried away the main-topmast cap, which flew half-way to Armide. A man fell headlong from the yard into the sauve-tête. Blood trickled to the quarterdeck like water from a faulty tap as hands tried to get the lifeless body to the side, and thence to its watery grave.

Meanwhile the afterguard and marines were straining every muscle to extend the mainsail (all they wanted to do was get back to the contest of broadsides), while the topmen calmly overhauled the clewlines along the yard – those not trying to cut loose the now useless topgallant.