Man Of War

The off-watch came scrambling to the upper deck – those who had not already come up at the prospect of action. The starboard watch could easily have shortened sail and trimmed the yards, but with an order to heave to within earshot of cannon (rather than merely to lower a boat), the master would lose no time where there was no need.

‘Run out starboard middle- and upper-deck batteries!’

‘Starboard middle- and upper-deck batteries, ay-ay, sir!’

Lambe took up his own speaking-trumpet and relayed the order.

‘Mr Pelham, signal to Archer, “come about”!’

‘Archer to come about, ay-ay, sir!’

Peto saw no call to beat to quarters yet, nor to clear the whole ship for action. It ought to be enough merely for Rupert to run out the lighter of the guns to convince a brig to strike her colours. But if the slaver did try to run astern – and she would have to be remarkably fine handled to sail so close-hauled – Rupert could simply turn to starboard, and with the wind comfortably abeam rake her as she bore. A single broadside would smash her to smithereens. No master, even of a slaver, would dare it. What Peto feared was that she might cast the evidence overboard. It was not unknown, as the despatches from the Preventive Squadron on the West Africa Station revealed only too well.

‘Let us serve her notice. A signal gun, if you please, Mr Lambe.’

‘Ay-ay, sir.’ Lambe put his speaking-trumpet to his lips again. ‘Middle deck, one gun to fire unshotted!’

At such a range there was nothing to choose between guns: no shot, upper-deck eighteen-pounder or middle-deck thirty-two, would reach even half-way to the slaver. It was the noise and smoke, the signal, that counted, and a thirty-two would make the most of each.

A minute and seven seconds ticked by. The aft gun fired.

Peto put his telescope to his eye again to observe for a change of course. In five minutes there was no sign of it.

‘Archer coming about, sir!’ called the officer of the watch.

Peto glanced over his shoulder. The sloop had indeed wore round quickly. ‘Good man,’ he said to himself (her captain was commissioned from below deck, but he was sharp enough). ‘Make to Archer, “stand-by to intercept”.’

There was no need of elaboration, for at that angle Archer would have a better view of the chase than did Rupert, and there was enough sea space for her to intercept without having to sail too close-hauled.

With a three-decker now all but motionless ahead of her, a frigate chasing astern, and Archer about to cut her off to leeward (the wind abeam so that she could not turn away more than a point) the slaver’s only option was to strike her colours – such as were her colours (Peto was damned if he could see any).

But in five minutes more she still had not altered course. Peto was mystified. Did she gamble that Rupert would not open fire, knowing her cargo? A three-decker could certainly not give chase. He considered the propriety of his options: the Royal Navy was enjoined to suppress the slave trade, not to liberate slaves, although the latter was the usual consequence of the former; he would be perfectly justified in sinking the slaver with all hands. That offended his humane instincts, however, and although it was just, it was hardly consonant with that impulse which had animated parliament in moving the legislation in the first place.

‘Make to Archer, “expedite”, Mr Pelham.’

‘ “Expedite”, ay-ay, sir.’

Peto thought it would now come to a fight, but could his sloop catch up the slaver and board her? Even if she could, she would have to sweep her deck first. He hoped she had the weight of carronades and small arms for the job.

The minutes passed, twenty of them before the slaver was within range of Archer’s long twelve-pounders – had Archer turned broadside to her quarry, that is (but, still making to catch her, Archer’s captain had to be content with warnings from the bowchaser). Still the slaver kept her course. Peto reckoned she would pass at least half a dozen cables’ length astern. He thought of sending two boats’ worth of marines to try to intercept her, supported by the sternchasers. He glanced at the boats in the waist and wondered if two would do it, or if he could spare a third, which might too be stove in. He had not many minutes more before he must decide . . . ‘Curse her!’

The sudden discharge of one of Archer’s twelve-pounders made him turn – just in time to see the slaver’s bowsprit carried clean away. The sloop had risked the chase for a shot by turning away from the wind, but with what effect!

‘Great gods! Capital shooting! Capital!’ exclaimed Peto. ‘Mark you, Mr Lambe!’ (Likely as not it had been a warning shot across the bows, fortuitously off its line, but that was no matter.)

‘She strikes, sir!’ came the cry from the maintop, Midshipman Duguid observing the pennant running down.