Man Of War

‘Exactly as you predicted it would,’ said Fairbrother, serenely lighting up a cheroot. ‘There was a weak picket on the bridge, which we drove in easily enough. They seemed astonished that we came from that direction, as if the possibility did not exist. Then they brought up a reserve – not much of one – but the umpire judged our shooting to be effective. Once we’d got the barrels to the bridge it was all over. The umpire agreed we had the capability to destroy the bridge if it looked as if we would lose it, and then just as suddenly they – the Guards – were intent on getting to the boats.’

Hervey nodded. ‘Capital; capital!’ He turned to the RSM. ‘Mr Rennie, the green rocket, if you please.’

‘Sir!’

Hervey now observed they had elevated company: the deputy quartermaster-general of the London District was approaching, the same who had had charge of the action at Waltham Abbey. He saluted. ‘Colonel Denroche, good morning!’

Colonel Denroche returned the salute, and to Hervey’s surprise, smiled. ‘Major Hervey! A most thoroughgoing success. I compliment the regiment.’

‘I thank you, sir. I shall convey your sentiment to the colonel at once.’

‘I would do so myself. Where is he?’

A rocket streaked noisily into the sky and burst a hundred feet above the bridge, a pretty shower of green. It gave Hervey a few moments to compose a truthful but unhelpful reply. ‘I cannot say for certain, Colonel: the rocket is the signal for Second Squadron to withdraw.’

‘We-ell . . . I will see him presently, no doubt. He is due considerable accolade.’ He turned to leave. ‘The name of the officer who took the bridge?’

‘Cornet Blanche, Colonel.’

‘Very well. I bid you good day, sir!’

They all held the salute as Colonel Denroche put his horse into a canter in the direction of the boats. Hervey dropped his hand, and looked about. ‘Well, gentlemen, I believe we may stand down and take some breakfast.’

As the order passed down the ranks, there was cheering.

Hervey was not for once minded to suppress it. Indeed, he felt like joining in.

Myles Vanneck had by now come up, looking every bit as pleased with things as the rest of his squadron. ‘My God, Hervey, but that was a go!’ he declared, getting down from the saddle to check his charger’s feet.

‘Touch and go, rather, don’t you think?’

‘A capital ruse, though.’

‘And some excellent work by your squadron, I may say.’

‘I will convey that sentiment to them. But tell me, Hervey: I don’t understand why you ordered Worsley on no account to capture the boats. It would have been a most complete victory.’

‘But it was not necessary, and it would have humiliated Colonel St Aubyn.’

Vanneck looked doubtful. ‘Would not that have served?’

‘My dear Myles, who has lately become colonel of the Grenadiers?’

Vanneck’s face spoke of his realization. ‘The Duke of Wellington.’

‘Quite.’

XI

THE RED ENSIGN

The second morning at sea, 30 September 1827

Peto wiped the condensation from the eyepiece of his telescope, and took another look. ‘Slow sport, a stern chase. I wonder who she is?’

Six miles or so on the starboard beam, towards the southern horizon, was what looked like a brig sailing a good two points free of the wind, and beyond, but evidently within gun range, a second, indeterminate sail chasing her.

There was another puff of smoke from the second sail’s bowchaser. Several seconds later came the muffled report. Peto did not see the fall of shot, so he had no idea whether it had struck the brig or fallen short.

‘Another merchantman running from pirates?’ suggested Lambe, likewise searching with his glass.

Indeed, every midshipman on or off watch was now on the quarterdeck with his telescope, the sound of a distant gun sweet music to a young man who had only ever heard it at practice.

‘And the pirate has not seen us? It’s possible.’ None but the coolest would risk his work with a man-of-war to weather. But Peto was not convinced. ‘I rather think the chasing sail may prove the friend. See, the brig’s holding her course when it would be easier for her to bear away. It will bring her well astern of us. So perhaps she seeks to evade us too?’

Midshipman Duguid, a wiry, red-haired boy from Moray, had climbed the main mast at the first shot. He now hailed the quarterdeck with unconcealed delight. ‘Frigate chasing, sir, with a red ensign!’

Peto lowered his telescope with the satisfaction of a man who had just proved his wits. But a frigate in the Mediterranean would fly a blue ensign, the commander-in-chief’s colour; red meant that she sailed under Admiralty orders. That surely meant she was cutting out slavers. ‘Heave to, Mr Lambe!’

‘Ay-ay, sir!’ Lambe cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Heave to, Mr Shand!’

The master raised his speaking-trumpet: ‘All hands, shorten sail!’ There followed half a dozen more precise instructions to the captains of the tops.