Man Of War

Peto fell back, staggering, then to the deck, his face all astonishment. His right shoulder was cleaved in two, his chest was a sea of blood, his right leg looked as if it were all but torn from the hip.

‘Mr Durcan, two marines, at the double!’ Lambe knelt beside his captain, in utter dismay. He had not known him a full month, and yet . . . ‘Get a hammock to bear the captain below!'

Peto struggled to support himself on his left arm, despite Lambe’s entreaties. He knew from long years’ observation that he had but a minute or so before the pain would bear upon him too greatly, and he had always known what he must do in that minute’s grace. ‘My signal midshipman, Mr Lambe. He must come with me below.’ He would have his orders properly recorded, for there would be periodic bouts of lucidity in the cockpit.

‘Of course, sir.’ He turned to Durcan. ‘Mr Pelham, hurry.’

‘Pelham is dead, sir.’

‘Then Bullivant.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’

Peto’s face was now ashen. ‘Mr Lambe, see that the landing party is properly supported.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’

‘And there is the cutter.’

Lambe nodded. In the din of continual firing it was as certain an acknowledgement as ‘ay-ay’.

Peto’s strength began to fail. ‘Keep close on the flag, Mr Lambe; that way you will not do much wrong.’

‘We shall do our duty, sir. Have no fear of it.’

The marines laid the hammock beside him. Two more, themselves bloody, joined them. ‘Take him up gently, men. Mr Bullivant, stay by the captain’s side. Make careful note of his instructions.’

Peto breathed deeply as they bore him up, as he knew he must (though the pain of doing so increased with each breath). To close his eyes, to give in to the pain, would be to risk not opening them again. He had seen it time and oft. Until he was in the surgeon’s charge he must look to himself. And he would leave the quarterdeck – his quarterdeck, committed in temporary charge only to Lambe – with his eyes open, for he was captain still.

But he could not turn his head in the hammock, and he lay deep. All he could see was masts, and rigging, and sail . . . exactly as they would have been on Nisus . . . first post command . . . as if it had been yesterday . . . simpler days . . . harder days . . . happier days? They were taking him to the orlop: he had never been carried below . . . he must tell Pelham to make a note . . . Elizabeth . . .

His eyes closed.

By diminishing light, down ladders, along decks, under tarpaulins, over wreckage, they brought him to the cockpit, as hot and airless a place as an oven. A handful of purser’s dips lit the wretched scene, dimly. Peto’s eyes opened and closed, but he said nothing. Midshipman Bullivant’s eyes streamed. He did not in the least know his captain, but he knew the service.

The marines bore the hammock as if they bore the bones of a saint, for the captain embodied their own sense of worth. They laid him at the surgeon’s feet, and wiped the sweat from their brows. ‘The captain, sir,’ said the corporal, softly.

Peto opened his eyes. He felt numbness rather than pain. He knew it boded ill, yet he was thankful for it. ‘Mr Morrissey, I—’ He blinked in the sudden light of the mate’s lantern. ‘Miss Codrington! What do you do here, girl? I said you were to—’

‘Easy, sir,’ said the surgeon. ‘Miss Codrington has been working in the cockpit since we began the action, and admirably so.’

Rebecca said nothing, aghast at the sight before her . . . yet determined to continue, admirably.

Peto could not find the breath to protest. A searing pain in his neck required all his powers of self-mastery.

A loblolly boy began cutting away his coat, while Rebecca sponged his brow.

‘Miss Codrington,’ he managed, barely audible: ‘in my pocket, a letter . . . from Miss Hervey; take it . . . keep it safe.’

Rebecca stayed the loblolly boy’s work by the gentlest of glances, then edged her hand inside the torn and bloody coat, not daring to blink lest the tears fall from her eyes. She found the precious relic, the little oilskin package, and took it from the pocket, tenderly, as the nurse takes up the newborn. And, struggling to breathe the words, she gave him her pledge: ‘I will keep it safe, Captain Peto. I will keep it safe.’

XVIII

THE BANNS OF MARRIAGE

London, 8 May 1828

After spending the better part of the day in the War and Colonial Office, elaborating (unnecessarily in his opinion, for Eyre Somervile’s despatches and estimates of expenditure were admirably clear), Hervey went to the Horse Guards. Soon the comfortable thoughts that had accompanied him from Golden Square to Downing Street – the resolution of his unhappy status, and the prospect of returning to the Cape in the company of wife and child – were, if not dashed, then considerably spoiled.

Lord John Howard took him to a small ante-room on the other side of the building rather than see him in his office as before.