On the middle deck they were already casting guns loose from the lashings, though too gingerly, to Peto’s mind – like men who still feared them as wild beasts rather than handling them as if tamed brutes. They seemed to know the working of their business, however, getting away the tackles neatly enough, and the breechings. Crows, handspikes, sponges and worm were all being laid out smartly, wads and shot garland too.
When he reached the upper deck the first of the gun captains were returning from the gunner’s storerooms with their cartouches and gunlocks, and the powder-boys were struggling up the ladders with their ‘salt-boxes’, the charges for the first broadside. Others were sprinkling wet sand on the decking, fetching buckets of drinking-water to each gun, and tubs of saltwater for the swabs. Above the waist and quarterdeck the netting was going up, if awkwardly, much to the consternation of the master’s mates; but aloft, Peto observed the topmen stopping the sheets and slinging the lower yards with chain as ably as ever he had seen it.
As he took the ladder to the quarterdeck he noted the reassuring red of the marines on the poop and forecastle. They were ever a steady and steadying sight – and some of them now armed with rifles, he was pleased to see (for practised as the marines were, the sea-pattern musket had as much windage as the land pattern, and was consequently no more accurate). He saw the fifers and drummers mustered in the waist, a dozen little fellows in oversize coats, younger even than the ship’s boys. They would keep the marines well supplied with cartridge during the fight – and cheer them with a merry tune as they closed for action. Peto felt an uncharacteristic lump in his throat at the sight of them – and the powder-monkeys – as he went to his place of command.
Lambe was already at his post as Peto took his sword from Flowerdew and buckled it on. He touched his hat to his captain, perhaps a shade anxiously, for he knew the clearing was too slow (not a single lieutenant had yet reported his part of ship ready, save the captain of marines), but he would make no excuse. They had held but two exercises with the guns – each ‘dry’, without powder – and this Peto knew already. It mattered not a jot, though, that heavy weather in the Channel and Biscay had kept the gunports closed, for the enemy made no concessions.
Peto touched his hat by return and took out his watch, rubbing salt into the soreness that was the lieutenant’s consternation. ‘It will not do, Mr Lambe. Fifteen minutes gone and not a battery ready.’
‘No indeed, sir.’
‘And the boats still inboard.’
‘Sir.’
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.’