Man Of War

Peto’s tone, though not meant to be peremptory, nevertheless stayed his lieutenant in the inevitable protest. Indeed, Peto had decided that although he would have to exercise command rather more formally through his executive officer and his sailing-master than had hitherto been his practice, there could be no part of the ship he would consider himself denied – except, of course, the wardroom. He would be prudent, naturally, in choosing his time of visiting certain quarters: the midshipmen’s berth was nothing like the bear garden of his day, but of an evening it were better steered clear of so as to avoid taking unintended offence. Likewise the gun-decks when dinner was served up: the rum ration was half of what it had been in the French war (a quarter of a pint only, mixed with water), but it was still enough to loosen a man’s tongue, and it did not do to give unnecessary occasion for a flogging. No, prudential judgement were his watchwords. It was the first time in more than a decade that one of His Majesty’s first-rates was being sent to sea in the expectation – in the possibility, at least – of a general action: the hand was heavy on his shoulders.

And yet it troubled Peto not in the least. The bad old days – the glorious days, so the nation had it (and as well let them believe it!) – were gone; the press gang was no more, the drafts from the assizes there were none; nor even were there the county ballots. Now the crews were volunteers, for whatever reason a man joined – for the bounty, for the abundance of grog and plenty of prize-money, which the placards in the sea ports still promised, and against all the advice of those of earlier generations who had been deceived. Some still joined as boys, having no other family, and remained in the service all their lives: ‘once a sailor, always a sailor’. And some, though without his, Peto’s, schooling or means, joined because they were agitated by the same instinct as his. The true man-of-war’s man, so the saying went, was begotten in the galley and born under a gun, his every hair rope-yarn, every tooth a marlinspike, every finger a fishhook, and his blood right good Stockhollum tar. These volunteers did not need the lash and the starter. In truth, the starter had been proscribed by the Admiralty for the best part of twenty years (well, to drive them to work, at any rate: Peto had known it to be admirable summary justice in the hands of a good boatswain). And here he had a full crew, not many landsmen at all said the watch bill – all come from half a dozen guardships at Portsmouth. They would be handy enough with sail, he could rely on it; though how handy was their gunnery he would not know until they exercised tomorrow.

The Royal Marines sentry presented arms as the captain emerged from his cabin.

Peto touched the point of his bicorn, and turned to look him in the eye. ‘What is your name, sir?’

‘Frost, sir.’

‘And where is your home?’

The marine looked puzzled. ‘Corporal Figgis’s mess, sir. I’m berthed aft on the orlop, sir, I am.’

‘Where were you born, man; where is your family?’

The marine, his face now the colour of his jacket, took an even tighter grip of his musket. ‘Fak’nam, sir.’

Peto nodded, with studied satisfaction. Fakenham was a good distance inland; it was a wonder the 9th Foot had not ’listed him, though the army was not so recruit-hungry these days. ‘I myself am a Norfolk-man. I shall count most especially on you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Peto turned away, imagining that the man might be a degree more inspired by such an exchange, but supposing in truth that the discipline of the marines made equal machines of them all.

‘Off hats!’ barked the boatswain.

Some two dozen veteran seamen were gathered aft on the upper deck, all in their best. Peto decided to address them from the foot of the companion ladder rather than from the quarterdeck – much less of a business, and much the more intimate, almost as if he had been aboard Nisus.

He descended the ladder very sure-footed, took the folded paper from his pocket, and read with due gravity but not too solemnly: ‘Admiralty orders to Captain Sir Laughton Peto. You are to proceed at once to take command of His Majesty’s Ship Prince Rupert, whereso-ever she be found, and thence to join the fleet under the command of Sir Edward Codrington, Vice Admiral of the Blue.’

This much they knew already, to be sure – the entire crew indeed, for the previous captain’s orders had been the same – but it was indeed the custom, and it did no harm to make the connection in men’s minds between the Admiralty in its exalted remoteness and their ship and her commanding officer; and it gave the older hands a certain standing when they went back to their messes to report to their shipmates what the new captain was like.

‘Have any of you men served with me before?’ Peto’s voice was that of a seasoned officer hailing against the wind.

He did not expect any to answer ‘Ay’; nor did any.