Man Of War

‘Then I shall tell you that I have been a frigate man for long years, and will have Rupert answer as if she were a frigate too. It can be done, for you are all professional seamen – not men taken from their homes, or assize men – and therefore you can cut about the tops a deal better than many a crew I had when we fought Bonaparte.’

He paused for dramatic effect. There was a murmur of what sounded like approval.

‘Pipe down,’ snapped the boatswain.

Peto judged it the time: he had begun by reading them the Admiralty’s authority; he had told them of his service and flattered them by reminding them of their own status and capacity; now he would tell them what the enemy demanded. ‘I do not require this for my own amusement, mark you. I shall not send you running aloft to make sport, or hold you at gun drill for the accolade of fastest in the fleet. No, I shall do these things whenever it is necessary because our adversary the Turkish devil, being sober and vigilant, will otherwise cause His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Prince Rupert, and those who sail in her, untoward damage. Sailors, we have the habit of victory to preserve!’

Peto waited for the approving buzz, then set his jaw, turned confidently and stepped off aft.

The knot of men parted to let him through. ‘Three cheers for Captain Sir Laughton Peto! Hip-hip!’

‘Hurragh!’

‘Hip-hip!’

‘Hurragh!’

‘Hip-hip!’

‘Hurragh!’

It had gone well, he told himself as he made for the admiral’s quarters. These things were not always done well: it was not always possible to judge the words aptly if the crew’s humour was not known.

A few eavesdroppers knuckled their foreheads sharply as he passed, and the sentry presented arms.

He rapped smartly at the door on the larboard side (both doors opened on the steerage, which served as dining room and office, but to starboard was the state room, where the cot would be, and he counted it indelicate to present himself thus). As a rule after knocking he would have entered, but the admiral’s daughter was not the admiral.

The lady’s maid answered.

Peto at once took charge. ‘I am the captain, come to pay respects to Miss Codrington.’

The maid (Peto thought she looked more like a governess, for she was closer his age and wore spectacles) curtsied. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Peto stepped into the steerage and glanced about with an inspecting eye. A cover lay on the table, and the chairs were likewise shrouded. The bulkheads were fresh painted – eau de nil – and the deck sailcloth gleamed in its black and white chequer; all evidence of Lambe’s percipience and industry. He waited for the maid to lead him to the admiral’s day apartment.

‘The captain, Miss Rebecca.’

Peto entered, stooping slightly to remove his hat. It was the first time he had been in such quarters in more years than he cared to remember, and he did not wish to collide with a beam. But if a beam were occasionally intrusive, the admiral’s apartments were otherwise of some dimension, near twice the size of his own cabin, which was itself commodious by any nautical standard. At a writing table facing the stern lights was the daughter of the man who would soon take possession. She rose and turned, and curtsied.

‘Good afternoon, Captain.’

Peto could scarce believe what he saw, nor at first could he quite reply. The admiral’s daughter was but thirteen or fourteen. He cleared his throat. ‘You are very welcome on board, Miss Codrington,’ he said uneasily, making a brisk bow.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ she replied, smiling. ‘But I cannot answer to “Miss Codrington” for I have two elder sisters unwed. My name is Rebecca.’

Peto cleared his throat again. He was unused to such self-possession in the ablest midshipman, let alone a slip of a girl. ‘Well then, Miss Rebecca, my name is Peto, and I should be honoured if you would join my lieutenant and me at dinner.’

‘Thank you, Captain Peto; it is I who should be honoured.’

Peto cast his inspecting eye about the apartment as best he could, a shade awkwardly, for it was the first time he had visited female quarters, however temporary they were. He cleared his throat once more. ‘Very well; very well. I bid you good day then, Miss Co—, Miss Rebecca.’ And he turned and took his leave, gathering up his authority again as he did so.

He took the rungs of the companion ladder purposefully, but scowling. The occupants of the quarterdeck saluted. Those merely taking their ease moved at once to the lee side, while the officer of the watch – a midshipman, since Rupert lay at anchor – presented himself.

‘Elphinstone, sir. Signal from the port admiral: the governor’s compliments; he will not now come aboard.’

Peto studied the youth in whose charge was his ship. Seventeen, eighteen years? Grandson, grandnephew perhaps? Lord Keith had died but five years ago . . . ‘Thank you, Mr Elphinstone,’ he said thoughtfully.

Lieutenant Lambe had returned on deck.

‘The governor is not coming aboard, it seems,’ said Peto, returning his salute.

‘Your pleasure, then, sir?’