Man Of War

Admiral Sir George Cockburn was not long appointed. Indeed, it was only this very year that the senior naval member of the Board of Admiralty had been designated ‘First Sea Lord’. Until then, the distinction had been the Duke of Clarence’s, as Lord High Admiral. Hervey, though not entirely certain of these facts, was content nevertheless to be in the company again of his old Guardee friend, and an admiral of no little fighting reputation.

‘I should be honoured to take wine, Sir George, if you will forgive my appearance. I have been out all day. Indeed, I have been to Greenwich.’

‘To Greenwich? How so?’

‘To see a very particular friend, recovering from his wounds.’

The First Sea Lord looked intrigued. ‘Do I know his name?’

‘Laughton Peto, Sir George.’

‘Indeed, of course. I was myself at his bedside not two days ago, though he was so dosed with laudanum he little knew it.’

Lord John Howard looked perplexed. ‘Peto . . . wounded? But—’

The First Sea Lord knew the story well. ‘The stubborn devil refused to let his lieutenant report him hors de combat, insisting he was as capable of commanding from the orlop as any other was from the quarterdeck. He was probably right, too. His lieutenant risked court martial, damn him, though I have this very week promoted him commander. These frigate men!’

The three smiled knowingly, if each for his own reason.

‘What shall happen to Peto, Sir George?’ asked Hervey, sombrely.

The First Sea Lord shook his head. ‘I’m not at all sure. You will know well enough the trouble the so-called “untoward event” at Navarino has brought: the government – Goderich’s government, at least – got in highest dudgeon. The King himself was all of a dither.’

Hervey was intrigued that the First Sea Lord made no attempt to lower his voice at this latter charge.

‘And now that the Russians have declared war on the Turks, there’ll be no end of it.’

‘I did not know that, Sir George.’

‘The news is lately come,’ explained Howard.

‘But what was Codrington meant to do? He had to winkle out the Turks from Navarino, and once there was shooting . . . I tell you, frankly, I have the greatest difficulty keeping Codrington in his command, let alone look after his officers.’

‘I understand, Sir George. But if—’

‘If Peto can get himself to his feet, or even whole and into a wheelchair, I might find him something. Scarcely a week goes by without the same request from Codrington – and not least his daughter!’

Hervey looked puzzled.

‘Ah, you would not know of course. Codrington’s daughter, his younger daughter, girl of fourteen, she was aboard the Rupert. Did sterling service with the surgeon. She nursed Peto back to Malta. Then wrote the most astonishing letter to Clarence! Told him everything he’d done in the fighting.’

Hervey felt like saying ‘we are ever grateful for the intervention of female supporters’, but thought the better of it. He nodded instead.

The First Sea Lord smiled ruefully. ‘And not just to Clarence. She wrote to the French ambassador, and the Russian too. Did you see all the ribbons at Greenwich? Most fetching. He’ll have something from the King, too, without a doubt.’

‘I saw the ribbons, yes, but Peto made no mention of Miss Codrington.’

The First Sea Lord shook his head. ‘I doubt he recalls much of those weeks. And certainly no one would have told him of her intervention on his behalf.’ He rose. ‘But Codrington himself has the very devil of it still, the affair being picked over as if it were a game of cricket! And by men who’d quake at the first discharge of a musket.’

Hervey and Howard rose to acknowledge the First Sea Lord’s leaving, but Fairbrother had by now come in. He bowed, and Hervey made the introductions.

‘I am most particularly honoured to make your acquaintance, Sir George.’

The First Sea Lord smiled indulgently. ‘Indeed, sir? Upon what account? You do not, I trust, hold against me the burning of Washington still?’

Fairbrother returned the smile. ‘No, indeed not, Sir George. I am not an American. But I have long admired your action there in recruiting a corps of marines.’

The First Sea Lord’s face became rather tired. ‘Oh, the marines.’ He shook his head, and turned to Hervey and Howard. ‘From the emigrant slaves. That was Cochrane’s idea. Another of his outlandish schemes!’

‘Outlandish, Sir George? How so?’ asked Fairbrother, looking disappointed.

‘Oh, mistake me not: they were fine men we took in service. Excellent men, for the most part. But the Americans exacted a heavy penalty from their relatives, poor devils. And those they took prisoner they shot out of hand. You’re not by any chance a descendant of one of these, Mr Fairbrother? No, of course you cannot be; are you related in some way?’

Fairbrother shook his head. ‘No, Sir George. My father was – is – a planter in Jamaica.’

The First Sea Lord had served on the West India station; he understood at once.

Hervey thought he must declare his friend’s naval credentials. ‘Fairbrother’s father’s godfather was Admiral Holmes, Sir George.’