## Chapter 110: A Salute from the Channel Fleet
The deck of the Beagle was a scene of chaos.
“Damn it! It hurts like hell!” Eldred hissed, clutching his split knuckles, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Arthur glanced at the sailors sprawled across the railing and masts, taking a break from their duties. He pointed towards a fleet of battleships on the horizon, their hulls dwarfing the Beagle by a factor of seven or eight. “What’s with all these ships?”
Eldred winked at Arthur, nudging him with his elbow. Arthur understood immediately and pulled out his pipe, lighting it for his friend.
Eldred took a long drag, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “You’ve come to the right guy for this one. That’s Admiral Edward Codrington, former Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, now in charge of the Channel Fleet. He was also my uncle’s old boss.”
“He was part of the Battle of Trafalgar,” Eldred continued, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “He was the commander of the reserve squadron under Nelson. They dealt a devastating blow to the Spanish flagship, the ‘Prince of Asturias.'”
“He’s a decorated veteran, a true legend,” Eldred added. “He was forced to relinquish his command of the Mediterranean Fleet a couple of years ago for a small mistake. They sent him back to the Channel Fleet as a figurehead.”
“A small mistake?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. “The Royal Navy is that strict about promotions? Such a distinguished admiral, held back for a minor error? What did he do?”
Eldred chuckled, chewing on his pipe. “It wasn’t anything major. During the Greek War of Independence in 1827, Codrington, as Commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, led a combined Anglo-Franco-Russian fleet. They destroyed the Ottoman Empire’s naval power at the Battle of Navarino.”
“If I recall correctly,” Eldred added, “Codrington, without losing a single ship, sunk or captured over sixty Ottoman vessels. That included three battleships, twenty cruisers, and a whole bunch of miscellaneous ships.”
Arthur’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You call that a small matter? That battle was a glorious victory! What’s wrong with the Admiralty? They didn’t even commend him, and they demoted him to a desk job? What in the world did he do?”
Eldred looked at his friend, nudging him with his shoulder. “Arthur, you don’t get it. It’s the same in Scotland Yard, right? You’re all supposed to investigate cases, but some cases are cursed. You touch them, and you’re doomed. It’s the same with Royal Navy admirals. They’re supposed to win battles, but some victories are disastrous for them. Codrington is a prime example.”
Arthur pondered for a moment, then his eyes lit up. “Codrington was demoted for winning a battle. It must have something to do with the Cabinet’s ‘Continental Balance’ policy, right? Crushing the Ottoman Navy would make the Eastern Mediterranean a Russian playground, and that’s something the Foreign Office wouldn’t want.”
Eldred nodded. “You’re sharp, Arthur. The Foreign Office and Admiralty had issued Codrington several orders before the battle. They told him to ignore the Ottoman provocations and try to resolve the issue peacefully.”
“Codrington tried to mediate peacefully,” Eldred explained. “He sailed his fleet into the Bay of Navarino to intimidate the Ottoman forces. He sent messengers demanding that the Ottomans abide by the ceasefire agreement with Greece and withdraw from the Peloponnese.”
“But the Ottomans,” Eldred continued, “didn’t listen. They not only refused to withdraw, but they killed Codrington’s messengers and opened fire on his fleet. You can guess what happened next.”
Arthur wiped the sweat from his forehead. “No wonder Codrington didn’t hesitate to sink those Barbary pirate ships. He has every right to be furious with the Ottomans. He won a glorious victory but got the short end of the stick. If I were in his shoes, I’d need to blow off some steam too.”
“He probably has a bone to pick with the Foreign Office too,” Arthur added. “Thank God that French fatso wasn’t on the pirate ship. Codrington might have sunk them too. He’s clearly got a temper.”
“You said it,” Eldred agreed. “Codrington’s war career is over. The Foreign Office hates it when a general ignores their orders. Well, not always. We had that stubborn Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, who hated being ordered around by the Foreign Office and Army Department.”
Colonel Fitzroy, who had been listening to the conversation, spoke up. “Eldred, that’s not the same. Army generals can be stubborn, but Royal Navy admirals can’t.”
Eldred looked at him, puzzled. “Why not?”
Colonel Fitzroy answered solemnly. “Because the Royal Navy has plenty of capable admirals. Richard Howe, John Jervis, Cuthbert Collingwood, William Cornwallis, any one of them is a legend. But the army only produced one Arthur Wellesley in centuries. We cherish the Duke of Wellington.”
The sailors erupted in laughter, echoing Fitzroy’s words.
“You said it!” one of them shouted. “We’re good at beating the French, but it’s nothing special. You lot in the army, you make a big fuss over a little victory like Waterloo.”
Alexandre Dumas, who had been resting on the mast, stood up, his face flushed with anger. “Listen up, you Brits! You won because you were lucky. Try winning Waterloo without Prussian reinforcements, and I’ll see how you like it!”
The sailors, instead of retorting, nodded in agreement.
“You know, you Frenchies, that’s the best thing you’ve said all day,” one of them said.
Colonel Fitzroy quickly intervened to calm him down. “Mr. Dumas, please don’t be upset. I respect the technical skills of the French. Britain is not superior to your nation in every way.”
Dumas, controlling his temper, replied, “Colonel, you are different from these vulgar sailors. Your speech reveals a high level of education.”
Colonel Fitzroy smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Indeed. Only the combined forces of Britain and France can produce the most powerful weapon of the 19th century!”
“Oh?” Dumas questioned, his brow furrowed. “What is the most powerful weapon of the 19th century?”
The sailors, seeing his puzzled expression, burst into laughter.
Arthur, feeling sorry for Dumas, walked over and whispered in his ear. “You don’t know? Mr. Dumas, the most powerful weapon of the 19th century is a ship captured from the French, commanded by a British sailor.”
Dumas was about to explode in anger when a melodious military tune filled the air.
It was the Royal Navy’s march, “Hearts of Oak.”
All the sailors, even the ever-disorganized Eldred, stood up and saluted the flagship of the Channel Fleet, the “Conqueror.”
A gangway extended from the towering “Conqueror” to the Beagle’s deck.
Several officers, dressed in the Royal Navy’s signature red and black uniform with epaulettes, marched down the gangway with a confident stride.
They scanned the deck, then turned to Colonel Fitzroy. “Robert, you did well today.”
Colonel Fitzroy saluted. “For Nelson!”
The officers nodded, then asked, “Where is the Scotland Yard inspector, Mr. Arthur Hastings?”
Arthur, who had been leaning against the railing, smoking his pipe, heard the question. He tapped the ash from his pipe onto the deck and raised his hand. “I’m Arthur Hastings. Do you need something?”
The officers approached him, noticing his bloodstained shirt and the cut on his lip. They nodded, then saluted.
“Mr. Hastings, Admiral Edward Codrington, Commander of the Channel Fleet of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, has requested your presence.”
(End of Chapter)