Man Of War

The boats should by rights have been lowered – and with them the hen coops – but Peto had not wanted to risk breaking the tow and having to wear to recover them. All else he had ordered clear as for action. No, not quite all. In a line-of-battle ship they did not invariably cast the goats and the other livestock over the side, for the manger was a strong barricade and little likely to be destroyed. And in Peto’s experience an animal when it was dismembered made much less noise than did a seaman.

He looked up at the full course: he would not shorten sail for the practice, as he would in action (he wanted Rupert to maintain her fair sailing rate). A dove walked along the main yard, and, all about, wheeled hopeful gulls, for once silent. He smiled grimly: they would scream and scatter in a few minutes more.

A great spout of water arched across the lee side of the quarterdeck, sending Rebecca and her maid scurrying to the weather rail. Peto suppressed a smile. The pump evidently worked – strong and powerful. If it came to it, if flame reached sail, the hose could play on the courses well. Then he cursed himself. Miss Codrington was a deuced distraction, for he found his thoughts wandering as a consequence to Elizabeth, imagining what impression his ship’s industry would make on her. Good God, that it should come to this – at his age and seniority! He glowered at Rebecca, though at once thought meanly of himself for doing so.

‘You, sir! Yes, you!’

A startled midshipman by the lee companion ladder realized his captain meant him. He hurried to his side. ‘Sir?’

‘What is your name?’

‘Burgess, sir.’

‘And what do you do there?’ Peto knew well enough what he did.

‘Relay your orders below, sir.’

‘Very well. Have Mr Pelham come here at once.’

It took but seconds to accomplish.

‘Mr Pelham, I am surprised you are not at your station.’

It was a moot point. As signal midshipman, Pelham’s place was by the captain until such time as he had a signal to hoist, but the previous captain had preferred the elevation of the poop to the more limited observation, but closer control, near the wheel. Pelham would certainly not argue the point, of course, but his captain had asked him a question . . .

Lambe decided to see if Pelham had the composure to answer on his own account, though he could easily have answered for him (he was already sensing that he knew his new captain’s way).

‘I was making ready to signal Archer that we were about to fire, sir.’

Peto was content. He was doubly content, for his signal midshipman was clearly not one to be cowed in the excitement of action. And his lieutenant, indeed, plainly had the capacity to think beyond the commotion on deck by ordering the signal.

‘Very well. Signal Archer and then escort Miss Codrington to the poop and explain to her what we are about.’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’

Peto could not tell what Pelham made of the order (neither was he in the least concerned). For all he knew, it might be as delightful to him to have the ear of the admiral’s daughter as manifestly it had been to receive his captain’s invitation to dinner. He could only think how mortified he himself would have been as a sixteen-year-old midshipman obliged to entertain a female aboard a man-of-war at such a moment. He smiled to himself almost mischievously.

The lieutenant of the middle-deck starboard battery reported ready, followed a few moments later by both of the upper deck’s. In another two minutes all the batteries were accounted ready, and the carronades. Lambe held each officer on the quarterdeck until the last had come, and then formally reported to Peto that the ship was ready for action.

Peto, looking black, snapped closed his hunter with some force. ‘Gentlemen, I have never before been aboard a ship of any rate that took so long to clear for action! I perfectly understand that Prince Rupert was re-commissioned but a month ago, but in that month I should have expected more of you.’

Lambe felt the rebuke keenly, for the discipline and working of the crew was essentially his business, no matter what the inclination of the captain or how foul the weather.

‘You let down Mr Lambe, you let down your men, you let down yourselves.’

It was carefully calculated: the guilt was proven, the lieutenant’s dignity was maintained – perhaps even enhanced – duty invoked, and the captain’s assumption of confidence in his officers rehearsed.

The little assemblage of officers looked whipped.

There was another card yet to play, however, and Peto did not flinch from the clean sweep. ‘And, gentlemen – how it grieves me to say it – you let down your King! It will not do, I say.’ He waited until the silence was all but intolerable. ‘I trust I shall not have occasion to say so again.’

‘Ay-ay, sir,’ came the unison response as Peto searched for eyes that preferred the deck to his.

‘Gentlemen, only let me have your best. It will be good enough, I am sure of it . . . Very well, to your duties!’