Command

by Julian Stockwin

  At long cannon-shot Kydd ordered a gun to windward. It took another before the vessel set topsails a-fly in surrender and came up into the wind. With the greatest satisfaction he set Teazer hove to a little to windward.

  The ship resembled the Marseille traders that Kydd knew so well from blockade duty off Toulon, and if this was so it was almost certainly a French supply transport. A flutter of white and gold jerked up her mizzen halliards.

  “Naples,” muttered Purchet. “Won’t save ’em,” he added happily. Kydd was not so sure: Naples had been occupied by the French, as had Sicily, but as far as he knew the Bourbon Kingdom of the Two Sicilies still existed in exile and was an ally. As well, of course, a vessel could hoist any colours it chose.

  “Call away the cutter, an’ I’ll take a dozen men.”

  “You’ll—?”

  “Yes, Mr Dacres. You’re in command. I don’t have t’ tell you, any sign o’ trouble you’re to run out our guns, show ’em our force.” It was not at all usual for a captain to perform a boarding himself, but this was not a job for the inexperienced.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The cutter pulled strongly towards the merchant ship. Stirk, forward with bared cutlass, would be the first to board. Bowden sat set-faced next to him, other seamen ready close by.

  The ship was larger than Teazer, four hundred tons at least and well laden, wallowing weightily in beam seas. There was something strange, almost menacing, about the drab, dark-stained timbered vessel. Kydd gave an involuntary shudder and was guiltily glad that Stirk was going over the bulwark first. They neared and prepared to hook on: now would be the most likely time for a line of vengeful French soldiers to stand up suddenly at the deck-line with muskets trained, but only a row of bored, dark-featured Mediterranean sailors looked down on them.

  Stirk seized the flimsy rope-ladder and with a snarl swarmed up and on to the vessel’s deck. The others followed quickly and Kydd found himself confronting a short and red-faced individual. The master, he guessed.

  “Le capitaine?” Kydd growled, pleased that his hours with Renzi at French lessons in the dog-watches were now paying off. But French was virtually unknown in the eastern Mediterranean and the master shook his head angrily. Kydd mimed the riffling of papers and waited patiently for him to return with them.

  The man’s hands trembled as he handed them over and his face showed as much anxiety as bluster. Kydd inspected the papers, looking for a bill of lading, but all the papers he held were in an impenetrable foreign language.

  “Sbrigati, abbiamo una fretta del diavolo,” the man burst out angrily.

  Kydd looked at him in surprise, then handed the papers to Bowden, who studied them in puzzlement. “Er, sorry, sir, I’ve no idea—I think it’s a form of Italian.”

  “Where—you—go?” Kydd asked slowly. Suspicions were forming: the unusually wide cargo-hatch covers, the heavy stay tackles still triced in place along the yards . . . “Stand to, you there,” he growled at his party, some of whom clearly shared his unease. He snapped, “What—is—your—cargo?”

  The man’s eyes flickered once then he drew himself up and shouted venomously at Kydd, “Una fregata da ghiaccio! Capisci? Ghi-acc-io!”

  There was a definite air of anxiety now and Kydd’s suspicions hardened. “We’re going t’ take a look at his cargo,” he called to his men. The course of the vessel was fair for the deserts of north Africa—and Alexandria: the desperate French would seize on any means to deliver cannon to their beleaguered army.

  Thrusting past, Kydd strode across. The hatches were well secured: battens nailed down firmly over canvas sealed the contents of the hold and the little hutch that normally allowed entrance to the hold was nowhere to be seen.

  “Get a fire axe!” Kydd told Stirk, who found one at the ship’s side. The master’s eyes widened in horror as he saw what was happening and he threw himself at the hatch, shouting hoarsely. The axe splintered the first batten as he tried to wrestle it away. “Carry on,” Kydd barked. Two seamen forcibly held back the frantic master.

  Using the pointed end of the axe Stirk levered aside the battens on one side, then dealt with the opposite side. The master’s struggles ceased and he now moaned loudly. Kydd looked warily at the rest of the crew, but they stood stolidly as if the events were none of their business.

  “Quickly now,” Kydd urged. The top of the hatch was merely planks that were smartly lifted away but under—there was straw. Nothing but straw to the very top of the hatch.

  Kydd told Stirk to stab down with his cutlass point. Such a heavy cargo—it could not be straw. Stirk’s thrust brought the unmistakable sharp clash of metal. He tried in another place— the same betraying clang.

  The master now fell to his knees, imploring, sobbing. “Ghiaccio! Per amor di Dio—ghi-acc-io!”

  “Clear th’ straw!” Kydd knew his voice sounded weak, nervous. The straw was quickly pulled away to reveal an expanse of shiny metal sheeting. “Open it,” he said thickly.

  Seeing no easy way Stirk brought the axe to bear on it, and began to hack a hole through to see into the interior. The smash of the axe in the stillness sounded against the moaning of the master. Then Stirk fell back abruptly and pointed to the hole. Glistening through the rent torn in the metal was tons and tons of ice and snow.

  Kydd stared at the sight as the hot sun began to melt the top layer. He was completely at a loss. Then he heard Bowden mumble, “I did hear once, sir, as how there are ships that bring ice from Mount Etna to the tables of the Barbary princes . . .”

  “Then why th’ devil did you not tell me, y’ bloody villain?” Kydd snarled.

  In the seclusion of his great cabin Kydd smiled wryly. The aggrieved master had been mollified with silver and a hastily scrawled pass, but it had been a less than glorious first encounter for Teazer.

  Still, as they beat further to the east the ship was pulling together well; his insistence on daily practice at the guns was paying off and small tokens of homely sea life were making an appearance. A dog-vane cunningly crafted of cork and feathers on each shroud to indicate the wind direction for the benefit of the quartermaster, an elaborate turk’s head knot worked on the centre spoke of the wheel so the helmsman could find the midships position by feel—all reflected an increasing pride and respect in the little ship.

  Kydd quickly retrieved his equilibrium and when Teazer had reached far enough into the eastern Mediterranean and needed to put about for the remaining leg of returning to Malta he was sincerely regretful. The watch-on-deck was now, without being told, taking the trouble to flemish down lines neatly after sail trimming and he had seen several sailors pointing rope, an unnecessary but most seamanlike ornamenting of a rope’s end in place of the usual twine whipping.

  “Mr Dacres!” he called.

  The officer came up, touching his hat. “Sir?”

  “I have it in mind t’ grant a make ’n’ mend for all hands this afternoon—make today a rope-yarn Sunday, as it were. Did y’ have anything planned for ’em?”

  Dacres frowned, but could not object. A make and mend was given to allow seamen time to make repairs to their working rig and draw slops from the purser to fashion clothes. It also meant that they could sit on the foredeck in the sun gossiping amiably while they sewed, out of reach of an irascible boatswain or others wanting men for duty about ship. But Kydd knew the value of allowing the men time to add individuality to their rig and their ship: later it would translate to ownership, pride in themselves and their sea home.

  Thus it was that after the grog issue and noon meal Teazer’s men set out their gear for an agreeable afternoon.

  “Mr Dacres, a turn about the decks?” Kydd removed his hat ostentatiously and placed it firmly under his arm, a sign that he was off duty; Dacres reluctantly followed suit and they paced forward slowly. The decks were crowded and Kydd was careful to step round the industrious; others drew back respectfully.

  There were some with the gift of the needle and they were turning the
ir talents to account for their messmates, a favour that no doubt would be returned in grog. To Kydd, it was not odd to see hardened seamen deftly turn a seam in a smart jacket complete with white piping, or crafting exquisite buttons from bone, but it might just extend Dacres’s education.

  Some sailors told salty yarns or closed their eyes in the simple luxury of the sun, others busied themselves at whalebone scrimshaw: fine pieces would fetch a good price ashore. At the bow, pairs of seamen plaited each other’s pigtails—Kydd’s own tie-mate had been Nicholas Renzi.

  Teazer was a small ship with tight living conditions and it was essential her company quickly settled into amicable sea routines: the process, Kydd was pleased to see, seemed already well under way.

  CHAPTER 4

  “DAMME, BUT YOU TOOK YOUR TIME, Captain,” General Pigot grumbled but Kydd detected a certain satisfaction. “So, we can account the good ship Teazer one of our company, hey?”

  “We are ready f’r operations now, sir,” Kydd said carefully.

  It was a delicate matter: his direct allegiance was to his commanding admiral, yet he was on detached service from the fleet and in the service of Malta, now governed by a civil power. In turn the civil commissioner would rely for military matters on the garrison general, Pigot. Thus, in elliptical fashion, Kydd would in effect report to Pigot—but he had no wish to become a creature of the Army with its ignorance of the sea and its perils.

  The general looked at Kydd speculatively. “T’ be quite honest with ye, Captain, I didn’t think you had it in you to get your ship up to scratch in time. What is it? A brig?”

  “Aye, sir—a brig-sloop.” Then Kydd added warmly, “She mounts eight 6-pounders a side, an’ more besides for close-in work.”

  Pigot nodded slowly. “Well, as long as ye don’t come up against a bigger,” he said, as if to himself. He raised his eyes to meet Kydd’s. “I’d be obliged if you’d wait on me in the morning. I may have a service for you.”

  • • •

  “Now, I’d like you to get a sense o’ how important these dispatches are, Mr Kydd,” Pigot said, leaning forward seriously. “Our landings in Egypt are bein’ hotly disputed—if Johnny Crapaud gets resupply it’ll turn the situation right round.”

  He looked at Kydd shrewdly. “This is news of the French admiral, Ganteaume. A powerful crowd o’ battleships an’ such sailed from Leghorn to God knows where. Be a good chap an’ let your Admiral Warren know about him just as quick as y’ can.”

  There had been a landing in Egypt by the British under Abercrombie with the objective of dealing with the still-potent French Army stranded there by Nelson’s dazzling victory at the Nile. Any threat to its lines of support would be serious indeed. Kydd stuffed the dispatches crisply into the satchel. “Aye aye, sir. I sail afore sunset.”

  The rest of the day was needed to stow last-minute stores and water. This was going to be no simple exercise: Teazer would shortly be embarking on a deep-sea voyage to face all weathers and whatever enemy lay outside. What was not aboard when they sailed could not be obtained until they returned after their mission.

  With the men below at their midday meal, Kydd called his officers to his cabin. “I’ll not have you in ignorance of th’ ship’s movements,” he said, trying not to sound pompous. “It’s straightforward enough, gentlemen. Dispatches—th’ French under Ganteaume are out an’ tryin’ t’ supply their army in Egypt. If they find they c’n beat us, I don’t have to tell ye, it’s as if the Nile never happened an’ they have a royal road to India. We have t’ rendezvous with Admiral Sir John Borlase Warren an’ advise him in time.

  “Mr Bonnici, show us y’r charts.” There was a new chart of the Alexandria coast by the Admiralty Hydrographic Office, the first Kydd had seen, but the others were of questionable reliability.

  “Th’ reigning wind’s fair fr’m the north-west, o’ course, and we’ll make good time—I expect t’ be at the rendezvous in five or six days at most. I shall be pressing Teazer hard, an’ I want you all to be watching f’r strains aloft.”

  He thought for a space, then added, “Were we to fall in with an enemy, m’ first duty is to the dispatches an’ I will not offer battle. But we might have t’ fight our way clear, so . . .” He tailed off at the blank faces. Then he understood—all this was so much a waste of words: the men knew full well what was to be expected of them and their ship without his needing to spell it out, but were too polite to say so.

  He dismissed them, and remained alone in his cabin. It was the first proper mission of his first command and failure or mistakes were unthinkable. It was coming home to him just what being a captain meant: there was not a soul he could talk to, seek advice from or even reveal his feelings to about the momentousness of this occasion.

  Other thoughts jostled. Now he had all of the responsibility but at the same time all of the power. He could give orders for anything within reason but unless it was the right order . . . Where before things had just happened, which his responsibility was to conform to and support, now it would be his role to think about and make those things happen or nothing would. In the past if he failed in a duty it would be a matter of reproof. Now it would be the ship and her company who suffered calamitous consequences.

  Anxieties flooded in: supposing he had overlooked a vital task and Teazer suddenly found herself helpless before the guns of an enemy? What if a strange man-o’-war loomed up and he had forgotten to give out the secret recognition signal to the signals crew in time? And had he taken aboard sufficient of the right sort of stores, enough water, powder, charts—were they wise to trust in Kydd, the raw new captain of Teazer, to get the crucial dispatches into the right hands?

  He tried to throw off the demons. Rationally there was no future in worry, in formless anxiety, and it was vital to keep a strong, calm manner in front of the men. He reached for composure. Then he found Renzi’s reassuring image materialise before him. What would be his closest friend’s advice, his calm and ordered appreciation of his position?

  He saw Renzi’s expression assume a saintly sorrow, as it always did when there was a hard truth. And he knew what it was before the vision faded. He was the captain: there was no other alternative than that he must find the strength, courage and intelligence from within himself.

  “Let go!” HMS Teazer’s last bond with the land was cast off; her jack forward was struck and her largest ensign, the blue of the Mediterranean Fleet, soared up her main halliards just as the crack of her salute to General Pigot sent gun-smoke wreathing agreeably across Kydd’s nostrils.

  In the brisk southerly, Teazer leaned to the wind, eased cautiously to the north-east in the busy harbour and made for the open water. The following seas, with their swelling rhythm from astern, seemed to urge the ship on to adventures ahead.

  “Mr Dacres!” Kydd called across the quarterdeck. “Set sea watches, starbowlines to muster.” From now on there would always be at least half of Teazer’s complement closed up on watch, ready to meet any challenge at every hour of day and night until they made port again.

  He stood looking on as the watch mustered. The petty officers were consulting their lists and jollying the tardy to their stations. It was satisfying to feel the familiar routines establish themselves and Kydd found it difficult to keep a stern appearance.

  He saw Stirk approaching. With a grin that could best be described as huge, he said, “Ready t’ scale the guns, sir.”

  Kydd smothered an answering smile. “Carry on, Mr Stirk.” The six-pounders had been in store at the arsenal long enough for rust to form in the bores and scaling by dry firing would scour them clear. Soon the flat blang of the reduced charges sounded along the deck.

  He looked across at Dacres. “You have th’ ship. Course east b’ south, all plain sail.”

  As simple as that! He brightened at the thought of never having to stand a watch again, instead taking charge or handing over whenever he felt inclined. “Aye aye, sir,” Dacres murmured, and went to the conn.

&nb
sp; Kydd knew he should go below and start on the work that was waiting in neat piles on his desk but it was too exhilarating on deck with the regular heave of the waves under the keel and their stately move forward, the boundless blue expanse of sea, flecked with white under a perfect Mediterranean sun.

  The log was cast and the result pegged on the traverse board: nine and a half knots. Given the lateness in the day, he would leave until tomorrow the agreeable task of exploring Teazer’s sailing qualities and quirks to bring out the best in her. The southerly was veering more to the west but holding steady—they should have a soldier’s wind in the morning.

  Eight bells, the first dog-watch. The decks cleared as men went below for grog and their supper. It would be a cheerful conclusion to the day for them and Kydd could picture the jollity as they settled in with new chums, shipmates who would share with them the dangers aloft and in the fighting for their lives. The talk would be of their new ship, the calibre of their officers, their prospects for their voyaging and, the most important topic of all, their new captain.

  Alone on deck but for the lookouts and the small group at the helm, Kydd felt even more the peculiar isolation of his position, the utter absence of any he could relax with in the same way. This was the hidden price for the fulfilment of his ambitions. In the gathering dusk he became aware of the flash of eyes in the cluster by the helm: they were affronted by the captain’s continued presence on deck, his implied lack of trust in them. Kydd turned and went below.

  “Oh, sir,” said Tysoe reprovingly, “you never sent word. Your supper is no longer hot. Shall I tell the steward—”

  His cabin table was spread. “No, thank ’ee,” Kydd said: the galley fire was probably out by now. He had forgotten the behindthe-scenes activity that accompanied even the smallest domestic want of the captain. “Open a claret an’ I’ll take a glass. The rest t’ go to the midshipmen’s berth.” The small gesture might help to allay the anxieties of the two new faces going to sea for the first time, perhaps even hinting that their captain was of the human species.