Man Of War

They moved to the fine old table in the steerage, Peto at the head, Rebecca on his right. It was not his custom to say grace privately, or at such a gathering as this, and so he tucked his napkin into the open-front of his coat and picked up knife and fork. He was about to comment upon the fine appearance of the lobster, by way of opening, but Rebecca spoke first.

‘Mama says that now Lord Goderich is prime minister there will be no war. Mama says that it was only Mr Canning who wished for war. What is your opinion, Captain Peto?’

Flowerdew poured more hock, giving his captain a glance, eyebrows raised.

‘My opinion, Miss Rebecca? In truth I should not be in the least surprised to find that your father has had communication from Constantinople instructing him to withdraw from the Ionian. I believe it is true that Mr Canning was the principal architect of the treaty by which we now intervene in the Greek war, and that by all accounts Goderich is a mild sort of fellow, but the treaty obliges us to act, and it is certain that France – and most certainly the Tsar – will not rest until the Ottoman Porte is humbled in this. I must say that Canning’s dying in all this is deuced inconvenient.’ He looked at Lambe in a manner that invited comment.

‘I would say, sir, that the Tsar will not be content until the Turk is well and truly humbled, and he can sail his ships through the Bosporus when he will.’

‘You are surely in the right there, Mr Lambe.’

‘This treaty, Captain Peto: have you seen it?’

Peto smiled, a shade indulgently (it was endearing that she should think him elevated enough to be given sight of the Treaty of London), but also wryly, for although in large part the treaty was secret, The Times had published the salient clauses within a week of its signing. ‘I have not read the treaty in its entirety, Miss Rebecca. There was – you may know – a protocol’ (he paused; she nodded her familiarity with the word) ‘made last year between the Tsar and the King, and this provided for us to take steps to persuade the Turks to leave Greek waters – which is why the Mediterranean fleet was despatched to the Peloponnese, and your father made commander-in-chief.’

Rebecca nodded again, without the slightest sign of girlish pride in a father’s position, rather with an intensity for understanding what she might.

‘It was only in July, when the French joined the alliance, that a formal treaty was signed.’ Peto took a sip of his wine, rather feeling the need of it suddenly. ‘And that treaty, I understand, was based largely upon the earlier protocol, but with a secret clause, which was that if the Porte would not accept mediation within one month, the three allies would send consuls to Greece – which, of course, is but a short step from recognizing the country – and that if the Porte, or for that matter the Greeks, refused an armistice,’ (he looked at her again for assurance that she understood, and she again nodded) ‘then the allies would interpose between them in order to prevent hostilities.’

Flowerdew coughed, and Peto began wolfing his lobster.

Lambe came to the relief. ‘I think you will see, Miss Rebecca, what a responsibility your father bears. He has a fine fleet, and the Turks know they cannot prevail against the Royal Navy. And when Rupert joins him it will be manifest to them that there is no other way than an armistice, for she is certainly the biggest ship in the Mediterranean.’

Rebecca’s face lit up. ‘I would so very much like to be there when my father’s ships make the Turks turn away!’

‘Ah,’ said Lambe, without perhaps thinking. ‘What if they should not turn away; what if they were to fight from a feeling of indignation?’

Peto, his mouth unfortunately full, was unable to protest, and so the conversation was not diverted from the alarming prospect of bloodshed.

‘If my father were to come on board this ship, Mr Lambe, I should want to stand beside him, especially if it came to a fight!’

Peto, managing to swallow a prodigious mouthful with the aid of half the contents of his wine glass, cleared his throat pointedly. ‘Miss Rebecca, your spirit is admirable, as I would have imagined it to be in the daughter of Sir Edward Codrington, but I would counsel against too bellicose a stance. I do not believe His Majesty intends that we go to war with the Turk!’ Except that he, Peto, was of the opinion that placing themselves between Greek and Turk could lead to one thing only, for the Turks were too proud a people, and the Greeks too devious (rather try steering a middle course between Scylla and Charybdis than these two!).

When the remains of the lobsters were cleared, and the finger bowls, Flowerdew brought a rack of lamb.

‘You may be lucky, Miss Rebecca; you may yet eat fresh meat the while to Valetta,’ tried Peto, intending to lighten the table talk (he had bought two near-full-grown lambs at Gibraltar, though scraggy specimens by English measure). ‘Otherwise it will be the salting barrels.’