‘You will perceive, however, that the right wing is rather less powerful than the left. This we may suppose is because the Turks imagine that since the right wing faces the entrance of the bay, the main weight of any attack, taking advantage of the wind, will be directed to the left wing.’
They all nodded.
‘Now, gentlemen, Sir Edward Codrington’s design . . .’
Peto spoke for a quarter of an hour. He told them that the French admiral would place his squadron abreast of the Egyptian ships to the south-east. These, he said, were the ones on which the French advisors were still embarked. Codrington’s own squadron would anchor abreast of the Turkish ships to the west, and the Russian squadron next in succession, the Ottoman 74s each being matched by an allied two-decker. The allies were to moor – supposing there was no hostility committed against them – with spring anchors, just as had the Turks. ‘No gun is to be fired from the combined fleet without a signal being made for that purpose,’ he added gravely, taking his finger from the chart at last, as if he had come to the end of his orders. ‘Unless, that is, shot be fired by a Turk . . . in which case the ships so firing are to be destroyed immediately.’
There was a deal more acclamation, until it dawned on each of the officers that Peto had said nothing of Rupert’s place in the enterprise. The quizzical looks returned.
‘And so, gentlemen, to our own part. Once the combined fleet has entered the bay, we shall take station at the entrance in such a manner as to suggest that a further squadron of first-rates is disposed ready for action: there’ll be sloops showing their tops on the horizon. The Turkish admiral shall therefore be obliged to put from his mind any thoughts of resistance which his mere numerical superiority might tempt.’
The stratagem met with approval.
Peto stepped back from the table. ‘I trust thereby that the design is entirely clear, gentlemen?’
Heads nodded.
‘Very well. Now, it is possible that these Turks will attempt to quit the bay under cover of darkness, without obligation to leave Greek waters. Lookouts are therefore to be doubled. All hands shall be piped to stations at first light. If there is no signal from the flagship within one hour, I shall have them piped down again, to breakfast. After breakfast we shall clear for action.’
The words ‘clear for action’ struck home, with relish and apprehension in equal measure on the assembled faces.
‘And an extra tot of rum for each man to toast the Immortal Memory!’
‘Ay-ay, sir!’ they chorused, with a will; there was nothing like an increase in grog to signal fighting intent.
‘Carry on, Mr Lambe.’
The lieutenant replaced his hat and touched the point as the captain took his leave accompanied by the signal midshipman.
Back in his cabin, Peto sat in the Madeira chair, and began rubbing his chin. ‘What say you, Mr Pelham?’
‘Sir?’
‘What say you the Turks might do to confound this manoeuvre?’
‘Sir, I . . .’
‘Come, Mr Pelham. You are entitled to your own thoughts on the business, and I would know how you think.’
The midshipman stood rigid.
‘Easy, man!’
‘Well, sir, it seems to me that in a place of such little sea room, a fireship could do horrible destruction. Is there not a danger the Turk might make a pretence of parleying all day, making ready their fireships the while; then they could set loose a deal of confusion when night came?’
Peto nodded. ‘Your thinking does you credit, Mr Pelham. They are precisely my thoughts. The admiral gave no indication of how long he would allow the Turks to quit the bay. He will be aware of the destruction that might follow if the fireships are loosed. But, as you intimate, if the Turks appear to want to parley, it will be devilish hard to call them out.’
‘Sir.’
Peto rose, and turned to look out of the stern lights. ‘My compliments to Mr Lambe, and have him inform me the instant there is sight of the Firefly.’
‘Ay-ay, sir.’
‘As soon as she comes alongside I wish you to escort Miss Codrington aboard.’
‘Ay-ay, sir.’
Peto cleared his throat. ‘That is all, Mr Pelham. You may dismiss.’
When he was gone, Peto poured himself a glass of Marsala, and took his copy of Thucydides from the rack. He leafed through it to Book Four, to the events at Pylus – Navarino as now was. The Athenians had been tempted to bring to battle the Lacedaemonians – the Spartans – by landing and erecting defensive works. The historian of the war described the bay in some detail; Peto did not suppose it had changed much in its essentials in the intervening centuries.
Demosthenes, before the coming up of the Peloponnesian fleet, had timely despatched two vessels to Eurymedon, and the Athenians on board that fleet now lying at Zacynthus, pressing them to return as the place was in danger of being lost; which vessels made the best of their way, in pursuance of the earnest commands of Demosthenes. But Lacedaemonians were now preparing to attack the fortress both by land and sea: presuming it would be easily destroyed, as the work had been raised with so much precipitation, and was defended by so small a number of hands. But, as they also expected the return of the Athenian ships from Zacynthus, they designed, in case they took not the place before, to bar up the mouths of the harbour, so as to render the entrance impracticable to the Athenians, for an isle that is called Sphacteria, lying before and at a small distance, locks it up and renders the mouths of the harbour narrow; that near the fortress of the Athenians and Pylus a passage for two ships only abreast, and that between the other points of land for eight or nine. The whole of it, as desert, was overgrown with wood, and quite untrod, and the compass of it at most is about fifteen stadia. They were therefore intent on shutting up these entrances with ships moored close together, and their heads towards the sea. And to prevent the molestation apprehended, should the enemy take possession of this island, they threw into it a body of their heavy-armed, and posted another body on the opposite shore: for by these dispositions the Athenians would be incommoded from the island, and excluded from landing on the main-land: and, as on the opposite coast of Pylus without the harbour there is no road where ships can lie, they would be deprived of a station from whence to succour the besieged: and thus, without the hazard of a naval engagement, it was probable they should get possession of the place, as the quantity of provisions in it could be but small, since the seizure had been executed with slender preparation . . .
Peto closed the book, thoughtful. The Turks might have occupied the place with slender preparation, and their quantity of provisions might be small, but they had fireships and forts to block up the entrance, not merely the prows of ships placed close together. He began wondering how, if Codrington had to shoot his way into the bay, he could best bring Rupert’s superiority in gunnery to bear.
By nightfall, Rupert was hove to five leagues to the west and north of the entrance to Navarino Bay. She had beat back to windward during the last two hours of daylight so that if she made leeway during the night her hull would be below the horizon to observers on Sphacteria. There was no sign of Firefly.
‘The weather’s set fair for tomorrow, by the look of it, Mr Lambe,’ said Peto, as the first watch came on.
‘The glass is high and steady, sir. I believe we might get the women away in the cutter.’
Peto shook his head. ‘I cannot put the women in the cutter, Mr Lambe. I wouldn’t trust the Greeks, even if I trusted the Turks. There’d be little to choose between a Greek pirate and a mussulman faced with such a catch.’
The appearance of Rebecca Codrington at the companion ladder cut short the discussion.
Lambe touched his hat to her, and Peto a moment later. ‘Good evening, Miss Codrington,’ they said as one.
Rebecca was smiling, with not the faintest trace of anxiety. ‘The Firefly must have very important business, Captain Peto. Mr Pelham has told me my father’s intentions for tomorrow. I imagi
ne not a ship can be spared, no matter how small.’ She sounded delighted.
Peto nodded awkwardly. He had two objections to her otherwise charming company. First, he had no desire to be deflected from any course of action, should battle be joined, by considerations for the safety of the commander-in-chief ’s daughter. Secondly, a ship of the Line in action was so infernal a place as to be unfit for any but the strongest of stomachs (which in truth were not to be found in every man, let alone a female). ‘There will be something in the morning, Miss Rebecca, have no fear.’
‘Oh, I have no fear, Captain Peto. You need not trouble on my account.’
He had made that mistake before, of using an everyday phrase that might be interpreted literally, and which then was – to disarming effect. He cleared his throat. ‘Just so, just so.’ He turned to the lieutenant, making a great effort to keep a commanding countenance. ‘Well, Mr Lambe, I believe I shall repair to my log. We dine in one half of one hour.’ He turned back to Rebecca, almost reluctantly. ‘You will join us, I hope, Miss Codrington?’
‘Oh, Captain Peto, I should be most honoured.’ Her delight was evident. ‘You are to toast the memory of Lord Nelson: I do not suppose there is another of my sex who has observed it on the eve of battle!’
Peto groaned inwardly.
It was the finest of new mornings, even by the standards of the heavenly Ionian. Peto had come on deck shortly after the middle watch stood down, searching for signal lights or some other sign in the moonless early hours before the sun served its first notice of intent – the faintest marbling of the otherwise black wall of the eastern sky. He could see the stern lantern of Calpe, sloop, a league and a half east-south-east, standing ready to relay the flagship’s signals. He wondered if he might yet transfer the women to her, for there could be no imperative need of her in Navarino Bay . . . But, Peto’s seniority notwithstanding, Calpe’s master would never heed him in this. Not without the flagship’s express authority.
Hands had come on deck cheerily, despite being turned from their hammocks early, bantering and capering as if pay were to be had, and shore leave, the prospect of action (for most of them, the first time) a powerful animator to fellowship. They stood lively at their stations, guns or shrouds. Here and there a man mock-flinched at a belay pin which a boatswain’s mate pretend-threatened, exchanging the crack with the officers, mouthing ribald encouragement to the marines.
Peto marked it all with satisfaction. It took months as a rule to drill a crew well enough for the fight, and yet in less than one, Rupert’s was handy enough. Perhaps if they had met a Frenchman in the glory days, before Trafalgar, or even before Lissa, they would have been hard-pressed to overmatch her in broadsiding, but these were not the glory days – thank God – and the Turk was no Frenchman when it came to admiralty. This was the future: willing volunteers who did their duty . . . willingly.
The sun, full clear of the horizon now, was already warm on his face, even on a day when in Norfolk (in the house he would soon truly be able to call home) there would be a fire burning in the grate. Happiest of thoughts! – Miss Elizabeth Hervey before that fire, Lady Peto. For Elizabeth he would be glad to give up all flag ambition, to live peacefully and companionably on half pay in that incomparable county. There too, in due course, he might steal away before first light, as he had as a boy, to behold the sea, what the day brought of wind and wave and sail, never the same sea picture, daily the new in the familiar guise of the old. But those breaks of day (dare he imagine it?) would not be, as before, in his own company alone – nor even in that of Elizabeth – but in the company of one who shared their name, who would grow to maturity in the love of a good mother and the encouragement of a proud father, so that he too in due season might know the wonderful prospect of life that came with a midshipman’s collar-patch. And, in his turn, that glorious thing which was a post command.
Rebecca came on deck. Peto, standing below the poop on the weather side, braced involuntarily: the crew were at their fighting stations, ready in an instant to clear for action; it was not seemly for a female to be on the quarterdeck. Nor on a gun-deck – as now he saw Rupert’s women, coming up for their allowance of air. He had given no orders to the contrary, however, and Lambe had evidently not seen fit to cancel their privileges. It was the very devil! Where was that sloop?
Peto acknowledged Rebecca’s curtsy – no more now than a pause and a bow, in deference to his asking that she did not bend the knee, yet acquitting herself in what she felt most strongly was her obligation as a female, and a subordinate.
He could not quite bring himself to smile, but his intention was warm enough. He so much admired this . . . girl, with her pleasing self-possession, intelligence, pluck – and her pride in her father. He thought it the greatest pity that father and daughter could not have met, though he perfectly understood the very proper instincts of a commander-in-chief. Indeed, he trusted that his own would have been no less dutiful; except that – he would freely admit it – since his betrothal to Elizabeth, his judgement in certain matters was not as it had once been. Perhaps he gave way to sentiment, but could he have denied himself the pleasure of an encounter with his own daughter, especially before action? He could not but reflect on how his old friend – soon to be his brother-in-law – was so happily obligated to his daughter.
He raised his telescope again and swept the sunny eastern horizon, and to north and south, stern to bow, in another vain search for the sloop that would take Rupert’s women off. He called for his signal midshipman.
Pelham fairly flew down the ladder.
‘Make to Calpe, “For Asia. Where is Firefly?” ’ He said it briskly, trying to conceal his chagrin at having to signal the flagship on a domestic matter when action loomed.
Midshipman Pelham now had the squadron’s additional codebook, with each ship allotted a number, so that the signal was a matter of but half a dozen flags and a couple of minutes’ work in the hoisting. Nevertheless it was a full quarter of an hour before any reply came, and then it was ‘Not understood’.
Peto fumed. ‘In God’s name, man, what did you make to the flag?’
But Pelham did not flinch. ‘ “For Asia. Where is Firefly?”, sir.’
Peto glowered. ‘I grant you may have a perfect memory, Mr Pelham, but what flags did you hoist?’
Lambe was already bounding up the poop deck ladder to prove the reserve codebook for himself. Before Pelham was even half-way to verifying the signal, the lieutenant had Peto’s answer. ‘Signal is accurate, sir.’
Peto cursed again. ‘What in God’s name is Asia’s flag-lieutenant thinking, then?’ Or was it – surely not? – Calpe seeking clarification rather than simply repeating? It was her duty, after all, if she could not see the flags clearly enough. But they flew well in this breeze . . . ‘Repeat, and make: “For Asia, urgent, lady still aboard.” ’
It was possible, of course, that the flag-lieutenant did not know what the Firefly’s special duty was, and therefore had not appreciated the urgency of the enquiry. But unless he believed the signal to be corrupted it was his business to put it to the admiral at once.
It took Pelham rather longer this time, for he had to spell out ‘lady’ and ‘still’. Nevertheless, he managed to get it hoist inside of seven minutes.
The reply, however, was half an hour in the coming, and in the meantime the crew were piped down to breakfast. Peto himself remained on deck the while, determined as he was to have the business concluded before battle was joined – powderless battle as may be.
Flowerdew brought him chocolate in a silver pot, on a tray with two other cups and saucers.
‘Ask Miss Codrington to join me,’ he said gruffly. ‘And Mr Lambe.’
Rebecca came at once. ‘It is a beautiful morning, is it not, Captain Peto?’
Peto cleared his throat. ‘It is indeed, Miss Codrington. I fancy your father will be well pleased with the weather: light airs, just enough to make easy headway without too much sail set – just the thing to
enter Navarino Bay.’
‘Shall we be able to see it, Captain Peto? We are not so very far away, are we?’
Peto cleared his throat again, and consciously. ‘We are some dozen and more miles out. Yon brig, the Calpe, stands between us and the fleet, to relay your father’s signals. We do not close until we have his order.’
Rebecca nodded. ‘And there is still no sign of the ship that will take us off?’ She said it quite matter-of-fact.
‘There is not,’ replied Peto, gravely. ‘I am waiting on a signal telling me where is the Firefly, and what’s to do.’ Only then did he think about the activity that would follow breakfast. ‘Your belongings, Miss Rebecca, and your maid’s – they are ready to be taken off?’
‘They are. Mr Pelham has been most kind. And Mr Flowerdew.’
His steward, standing by, looked sheepish as Peto turned to him, and then back to Rebecca.
But both were spared any remark by Midshipman Pelham’s hailing from the poop. ‘Calpe signalling, sir!’
Peto put his glass to his eye. He could not read a signal without the codebook, but he might judge the length of it well enough.
It was mercifully, and encouragingly, brief. Pelham had it out in no time. ‘ “From flag, Hind to take off lady”.’
‘Hind?’
Pelham was already rifling through his Admiralty progress book and the Navy List. ‘Ex-Revenue-cutter, sir.’
‘Cutter?’ rasped Peto. There was scarcely decent room in a cutter for one woman, let alone . . . There again, he had said nothing of Rupert’s total complement of that sex. He cursed himself.
‘Yes, sir, cutter,’ Pelham confirmed, mistaking the captain’s exasperation. ‘Mr Robb, sir.’
Peto huffed. He considered it were no consolation had its captain been called Nelson. But, if a cutter was all the admiral could spare . . . ‘Very well, Mr Lambe: have the officer of the watch report as soon as Hind hoves in sight. Have you breakfasted?’
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