Man Of War

The unfortunate midshipman did as he was bid. ‘Sir, I see it now.’

Peto turned and stalked away. There was little to be served by telling the man (if man were truly the right word; boy seemed more apt) that he ought to have discovered the error for himself before they left Gibraltar, so that he might have had it rectified – or have found a new one. Neither did Peto want abject humiliation for him in front of two of the crew. All the same, his signal midshipman . . . What did it portend, that below the surface of what he saw with approval – indeed, at his first look below that surface – there was inadequacy?

He had thoroughly vexed himself as he came up to the wheel. ‘Mr Lambe, Mr Pelham’s telescope has a pronounced parallax error. How in the name of heaven does he suppose he will read a signal at any distance?’

The lieutenant was not quite so dismayed. ‘I am certain he would not suppose it, sir. He fell heavily as we beat to. I suspect that is when the damage was done.’

Peto looked at him, uncomprehending: the deck was motionless.

‘He lost his footing coming down from the main mast. He had gone aloft to see if there were any last signals ashore.’

Peto scowled. It could happen to anybody, though more was the pity young Pelham hadn’t thought to discover the injury to his telescope . . .

Lambe would not absolve himself, however. ‘I should have insisted he went to the surgeon. But he’s plucky, and wouldn’t surrender the poop to Gardiner. I will have him and the telescope replaced.’

By now the lieutenants were coming on the quarter-deck to report that all was in good order. Peto took a few paces to the rear to let Lambe work things his way. At length, with the last report made, Lambe was able to turn to him and report that the ship was ready to change to the night routine.

‘Very good, Mr Lambe. Secure guns and pipe down hammocks.’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’

Peto cast his eye about one more time. ‘And I would see Mr Pelham back in his place as soon as may be.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’

‘And you will join me at dinner?’

‘With great pleasure, sir.’

Peto nodded, his look softening to something approaching a smile, and turned for his cabin.

An hour later, in fresh linen and his second-best coat, Peto stood looking out of the stern windows, the brilliant red twilight a picture he thought the finest of artists would never be able to capture faithfully, for it was more than mere colour. It would not be long before the moon was up – a good moon, he expected – and they ought to be able to keep a fair rate of sailing throughout the silent hours (the wake was whitening – no doubt of it).

He ducked into the starboard quarter gallery to observe the set of the sails for a last time before dinner. Hands were already taking in the topgallants; he could want no more of his lieutenant and the master. But then, with but a handful of three-deckers in commission, why should it be other? There was many an able officer who would no more go to sea, for all his capability.

Things had certainly changed, he mused. Except the ships themselves. Rupert was built a little stronger, perhaps, but in essence – in detail indeed – she was just as Victory. And at Trafalgar Victory had been forty years old. In his time in the East, and lately beached in Norfolk, he had given these matters much thought. He had seen steam manoeuvring to advantage at Rangoon – and, indeed, he had come to Gibraltar by steam packet (though sail had, in truth, conveyed him for much of that journey) – and although he could not imagine how a paddle wheel might move a ship of the Line, he thought it not improbable that some keen-witted engineer would find a way. And if somehow the army’s Shrapnel shell might be adapted, or even one that might explode and rupture a ship’s side, would that not spell the end of the wooden walls? The Navy Board would have to clad its ships in iron, like the knights of old. And had not the knights then become immobile?

He sighed. Would it come in his time? It was strange: in one breath he longed for the innovation, for the capability was there and others might seize it (the Americans for sure would be thinking of it: they held the old ways in little regard. And the French, of course. None but a fool doubted they were the better shipbuilders; it had been as well they were not the better sailors!). And was not any advantage to be taken to defeat the King’s enemies? Yet in another breath he wished for not one jot of change, for it was the old world that had served so well, and he had mastered it.

If ever he got his flag and it ended up being soot-specked at the mizzen . . . Well, it would at least be a flag. He had always reckoned that had he been born twenty years earlier he would have made Vice; but now he would be content to retire a rear admiral, and doubtless he would fly his flag ashore rather than at the mizzen mast of a line-of-battle ship.

A confident knock at the cabin door brought him back to the present.