Man Of War

‘Oh, I think I should be happy on salt beef, Captain Peto, if that is what you would eat.’

Truth was, Peto was never at all happy on the damnable ship’s ration – a binding regime ten days out of port once all the fresh leaf was gone, and which no quantity of apples could quite relieve. But evidently Miss Rebecca Codrington was determined to be a worthy admiral’s daughter, and he must take care not to appear too dismissive of her purpose, however naive it was. He smiled. ‘Your attitude does you credit. Now, may I enquire why you travel to Malta? Shall you stay there long?’

Flowerdew poured the burgundy, which Peto first tasted and approved.

Rebecca sipped hers with confidence. ‘I am to take up residence with my family, Captain Peto. I imagine I shall stay for as long as Mama is there. She has engaged a governess.’

Peto nodded, but rather to say that within a couple of years she would need a guard not a governess. She was a pretty thing. Every midshipman and lieutenant would soon be taking soundings. He had observed how his fellow midshipman had made love to Admiral Tryon’s daughter at Portsmouth, and to Griffin’s at Gibraltar, and they not a deal older. Not he, though; the wild Norfolk coast had taught him many things, but not how to present himself with advantage to a female.

Conversation turned to Malta, its history and people. Peto knew the island well, and Lambe had once spent the best part of a year there when his ship had been laid up in repair. Rebecca was eager to hear everything.

A fruit compote followed the roast. It tasted strongly of rum, but Rebecca appeared to enjoy it, with copious cream. When they were finished, Flowerdew brought a Stilton cheese, but before they could begin there was a knock at the door. Flowerdew answered it.

‘Lieutenant of the watch presents ’is compliments, sir. Unlit sail to southward.’

‘I will go if you wish, sir,’ said Lambe, pushing his chair back.

‘Very good, Mr Lambe.’ Peto had no intention of turning out on so sketchy a report (he had no intention of doing anything in such circumstances that he would not have done aboard Nisus: it was not his way to make any false show of address).

When Lambe was gone, Rebecca asked what was the nature of the report. Peto explained that standing orders required the officer of the watch to send word to the captain if there were unidentified sail to windward, and that it was then the captain’s discretion. The report was of an unlit (or, as likely, ill-lit) ship on the weather gage. A three-decker had nothing to fear, but a darkened ship off the Barbary Coast was worth attention.

Rebecca declined the Stilton (Peto wondered if it were on account of the maggots: two or three had, most insolently, wriggled out). ‘Will your wife come to Malta, Captain Peto?’ she asked, with what sounded like hopefulness.

Peto’s hand almost miscarried the decanter of port. ‘I do not have a wife, Miss Rebecca. That is, I do not have a wife yet . . .’ (he cleared his throat) ‘I mean that I shall have a wife . . . I am to be married.’

Rebecca’s face lit up once more. ‘Oh, Captain Peto, that is very delightful!’

Peto struggled to conceal his own absolute pleasure in the subject. It was delightful; it was the most delightful thing ever to have happened to him (for delight was not the appropriate word to describe taking command of a ship). This child – this young woman indeed – had a way with directness that was altogether disarming. He bowed, obliged.

‘May I enquire who is the lady, Captain Peto?’

‘You may indeed!’ he replied, seizing the decanter again, this time with great firmness, and recharging his glass (Flowerdew then discreetly replaced the stopper and removed the remainder of the port, to Peto’s faint discomfiture). ‘She is the sister of a very dear friend of mine; an officer of light dragoons, however, not a naval officer.’

‘But you both wear a blue coat!’ she said brightly.

Peto smiled, and nodded slowly, acknowledging the aptness of the observation. ‘We do indeed, Miss Rebecca Codrington; we do indeed. You are evidently a keen student of uniform.’ He was surprised by how easily he teased. It was all on account of that letter – that astonishing letter: ‘the world turned upside down’, as went the song he had once sung in the midshipmen’s berth.

‘What is her name?’

‘Elizabeth.’

‘I like “Elizabeth”. Is she “Lizzie”, or “Eliza”? Oh, she is not “Bess” is she? Or “Beth”? I am not so partial to those.’

Peto was wholly taken aback; it was not merely by Rebecca’s decided expression but by his own uncertainty as to the answer. ‘I . . . I have only heard her answer to “Elizabeth”.’

‘Please don’t call her “Beth”, or “Bess”, for I should not like it.’

‘Miss Codrington,’ (he wondered if it were the wine speaking, and felt suddenly negligent) ‘you will allow me to please myself in this regard! She will answer very properly to “Lady Peto”.’