Man Of War

Peto nodded approvingly. Another minute and he would have given the order to lower three boats. ‘We will keep a sharp lookout, Mr Lambe. I would not trust a slaver’s crew until they were in irons. If she is a slaver, that is.’

‘Ay-ay, sir,’ replied the lieutenant, his telescope trained once more on the sloop and her captive brig. ‘Archer’s running out her launch.’

‘I commend Mr Crabbe for it,’ said Peto, raising his own glass. ‘It doesn’t do to give a crew of a striking ship time to reconsider. Yonder frigate’s still a mile to run.’

Indeed, he observed, the frigate was having to beat more to windward to give herself leeway to run alongside the prize.

‘Not worth a deal of money, though,’ he added laconically. ‘A guinea or so a man by the time it’s shared out.’

Had the frigate taken the brig as prize with no other warship in sight the money would have been hers alone, but the presence of even a man-of-war’s tops on the horizon meant that the prize-money must be shared (it was held that an enemy was persuaded to strike by the mere threat of a second ship engaging). And so the slaver would be claimed by sloop, frigate and first-rate; the share would be meagre indeed. If only she were a Spanish bullion, and in the glory days, twenty years before!

‘Frigate’s signalling, sir!’ came the cry from the poop.

Peto fancied his eyes were still strong, but he strained in vain to make out the separate signal-flags.

The frigate turned another point into the wind, her signal halyards now easier to make out (it was expecting too much, perhaps, for Archer to be repeating them, occupied as she was). Peto turned impatiently, to see Midshipman Pelham’s junior leafing through the pages of the signal codebook, while Pelham himself peered through his ’scope, calling out the flags to another, who looked about as old as Rebecca Codrington.

Where was Miss Rebecca Codrington? Peto had not seen her yet this morning.

‘Good God!’ he spluttered, realizing that the dark blue of what he had taken to be one of Pelham’s afterguard assistants was in fact that of a bodice, not a jacket. ‘Mr Lambe!’

‘Sir?’

But he thought better of it. He had given Rebecca Codrington the freedom of the quarterdeck, and the day before, he had instructed Pelham to look after her. He could scarcely cavil now, just because there was a chase and a boarding action a mile off. ‘No matter. What does Mr Pelham do there? Can it be so very long a signal?’

He himself had been a signal midshipman, and he knew perfectly well it could be the very devil taking down a signal in clear, let alone cipher – and that supposing both ships were using the same codebook. The frigate, whoever she was, would not be signalling in cipher, but did she use the same book? She was sailing under Admiralty orders, while they were Mediterranean Fleet. He took another look at her, and now saw the cause of delay – no fewer than four signal halyards. He could not know, of course, whether it were a long message or whether the words were not contained in the codebook, and therefore to be spelled out letter for letter. Be what may, she now appeared to be turning into the wind even more. Was she intending to tack? What was she intent on?

‘I believe she’s going about, sir,’ said Lambe, sharing his captain’s observation. ‘I wonder—’

‘From Trincomalee, sir,’ begged Pelham, touching his hat.

Peto lowered his ’scope. Trincomalee: he knew her – teak-built at Bombay a dozen years ago, a fast sailer (and a savagely long name to have to spell out). ‘Wear away, Mr Pelham!’

‘ “Request you take possession of prize. Have second out of Tangier to pursue.” ’

Peto huffed. He had the authority to refuse, but he had no wish to frustrate a preventive frigate in hot pursuit. Nor did he believe the Admiralty would wish it. But he could not risk putting a prize crew on board to sail her to Gibraltar – not with a hold full of slaves who, once unshackled, might fail to distinguish between captors and liberators. He would have to send aboard two dozen marines at least. And he would get back none of them, nor the crew, this side of a month if he were lucky. No, Archer would have to escort her. It wouldn’t be plain sailing, not against the wind, but with address she could make Gibraltar and be back in five or six days. Except that it meant he would have to rely on another ship coming out of Valetta to take ashore Rebecca Codrington – and the other women. Curse it! And for a paltry fifty guineas prize-money to his own pocket!

‘Very well, Mr Pelham. Make to Trincomalee: “Affirmative. Good hunting!” ’

‘ “Affirmative, good hunting” – ay-ay, sir!’

‘And to Archer: “Convoy her to Gibraltar and return”.’

‘ “Convoy her to Gibraltar and return” – ay-ay, sir!’

‘Crabbe’ll ask for men if he needs to,’ said Peto to his lieutenant as Pelham scuttled back to the poop.

Lambe nodded. Handling a prize-slaver would be tricky. ‘Stand-by to make sail, sir?’

‘As soon as Archer acknowledges and has possession of her.’