The trio climbed a short way up some broad steps before a water fountain with a statue of Neptune. “We call this th’ Nix Mangiare Stairs, on account of the beggars have nothing t’ eat. This is their cry,” Bonnici said, then went ahead for a carriage.
“The cales,” he said. In the four-seater Kydd and Dacres sat facing forward with Bonnici opposite. They set off, with the driver walking, bridle in hand, and wound up into the city proper. People streamed past, most ignoring them; the women, many in hooded black silk capes, were all prettily adorned with rings, bracelets and silver shoe-buckles and stepped out proudly, while the men affected either dress that would go unremarked in Oxford Street or colourful country garb of trousers and a long sash.
As he took in the sights Kydd realised he had been more than a little distracted before. They began with the five-hundred-yearold Grand Master’s Palace, now occupied by Cameron and his administration. The interior of the Cathedral of St John took Kydd’s breath away. A riot of gilded tracery, with a blue-stone altar before a life-size religious group in marble, it reeked of a past age of splendour and devotion.
“Th’ Manoel theatre—it’s lower down, an’ some say th’ oldest in Europe.” It was not large but well appointed.
Then followed sightseeing of the mighty walls, and the public gardens in Floriana outside the massive gates offering views without end of surrounding bays and inlets with their fortifications.
Over a simple meal Bonnici finished their education: the ancient capital, Mdina, was apparently a perfect medieval walled city, complete with drawbridge and castle. At nearby Rabat there were catacombs and noble buildings, while on the coast the alluring Blue Grotto waited to bewitch unwary seafarers. And if it were at all possible the little port of Marsaxlokk and the enchanting Dingli cliffs should not be missed, to say nothing of Zurrieq and Kirkop, Qrendi and Mqabba. Proudly he described in detail the bravery of the Maltese sailors when the apostle Paul was wrecked in a bay up this very coast after meeting with a gregale, a fierce local storm, on his way to Rome.
Kydd was sorry when the day ended and they made their way down to the marina and their boat.
“Sir—for you.” Bowden was waiting at the gangway and passed across a note. It was sealed inside an expensive card and addressed impeccably to himself as “The Captain, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Teazer.” Kydd took it down quickly to his cabin away from curious gazes.
“Well, damme!” he muttered. It was an invitation: but this was no ordinary social occasion. Phrases like “. . . sensible of the obligation owing to Commander Kydd upon his late meeting with the Barbary pirates . . .” and “. . . we, merchants of Malta in the Adriatic trade, do wish to render plain our deepest appreciation . . .” left no doubt of its drift.
There was to be a presentation of silver to the brave captain who had defied the sea-robbers so cunningly, and this was to be made by the distinguished English merchant Mr Roderick Mason in the presence of Chevalier Antonio Mancini, fifth Baron Baldassare.
“Tysoe!” Kydd roared. “D’ ye think m’ best red ’n’ green with th’ lace will serve for a baron?” He held out the invitation with the merest trace of smugness.
“Oh, sir, my opinion is . . .”
“Spit it out, man!”
“Then sir, if you’ll permit me . . .”
“Yes or no, y’ villain!”
Tysoe’s eye held a glimmer of complacency as he continued suavely, “Sir must be aware that he cuts a fine figure—in uniform blues, and most especially in full-dress. The guests will be expecting you to appear in the character of a sea officer and we don’t wish to disappoint, do we, sir?”
He was met by torchlight and conveyed in a carriage to a well-proportioned building with an impressive entrance. Standing waiting were several elderly gentlemen of apparent wealth—silk stockings and lace, ostrich-fringed hats, gold-tipped canes, and jewels on their shoe-buckles.
Kydd felt his relative youth but took assurance from the splendour of his full-dress uniform with the substantial gold of the epaulette, cuffs and lapels against the discreet dark-blue and white of the rest. He took off his gold-laced hat and waited politely.
“Captain, so happy you were able to come.” A dignified man greeted him with a quick bow. “Mason, Roderick Mason, at your service.” His shrewd grey eyes appraised Kydd.
They went in together to an enclosed inner courtyard crowded with people. The murmur of voices stopped as they appeared. “Gentlemen, might I present HMS Teazer’s gallant commander? Captain Thomas Kydd!”
There was a spatter of genteel applause, and he bowed civilly to right and left. A footman appeared at his side with wine in a tall crystal glass. He accepted it and turned to Mason. “S’ good of ye t’ invite me, sir.”
“Our honour entirely, Captain. Shall we proceed?”
The room was not large and was warm with the glitter of candles on a long table. Mason ushered Kydd to its head where a jovial man in scarlet stood up to meet them. “Sir, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd?” He turned slightly. “Chevalier the Baron Baldassare.”
“Y’r servant, sir,” Kydd replied, with a workmanlike bow, and allowed himself to be seated between the two, trying to remember the graces taught so patiently by his noble-born friend Renzi. Turning to the chevalier he opened, “Rousin’ weather we’re having, this time o’ the year, or do ye prefer it the cooler?”
The dinner passed most pleasantly. Lingering looks were cast his way by the ladies, and valiant attempts made to engage him in conversation over the energetic sawing of a string trio. Mason leaned closer. “I must allow, sir, it was a fine service you performed for us. Have you any conception of the value, for instance, of a single Ragusa-bound brigantine in currants?”
Kydd shook his head.
“It would probably amaze you to learn that the ship—if tolerably new—would be of the order of some migliaia of scudi. If we then add in the desideratum for insurance and other expenditures on the vessel, the capital outlay on the cargo and loss of expected profit, then the depredations of these vermin stand as an impossible burden on any merchant and therefore deleterious to the trade of Malta as a whole.”
Kydd nodded and added quietly, “An’ not t’ mention y’r sailors slaughtered by the Moor, Mr Mason.”
Finally the cloth was drawn and the chevalier stood up; fine words were said, then Mason took the chair. “My lord, the distinguished ladies and the gentlemen of Malta here gathered, we are come this night to do honour to the Royal Navy—and in particular the brave Commander Kydd who . . .”
Pink with embarrassment Kydd sat through it, only relieved that he had not let down his ship or her company.
“And so I give you Captain Thomas Kydd!”
He stood and a footman entered bearing a tray. On it were two articles of handsome silver, which Mason lifted up and presented to him. He accepted them graciously.
When he turned to address the guests, he was ill-prepared for the storm of applause and cries of support that echoed about the room. It was all he could do to stutter something about stern duty, the trade of Great Britain and the new prosperity of Malta, but it seemed to suffice and he sat down.
“Well spoken, sir,” said Mason, and the rest of the evening passed in an agreeable blur of sociability.
“Mr Bonnici, if ye has the time, I’d like t’ speak with you in m’ cabin.” The master followed and sat, politely attending. “I’ve promised Commissioner Cameron a war cruise, let the Frenchy know we’re about, an’ I’m exercised to know as t’ where we should go to annoy them the most.”
Bonnici’s brow furrowed. “Sir, wi’ respect, this is not a thing for I, a sailing master,” he replied slowly.
Operational matters were for the commissioned officers and Kydd knew that, strictly, it was improper to approach him. “I understand, Mr Bonnici,” he said, “yet you’ll hold better acquaintance than we with th’ waters in the eastern Mediterranean, I fancy. It is y’r opinion only that I’m seeking—the decisions are mine.”
“Er, it is my difficulty, sir. If some—gentlemen in Malta hear I tell you where t’ go for taking the private ships . . . it may be they think I do this for other reason.” Bonnici’s family were all in Malta and in their closed community would bear any suspicion if it seemed questionably coincidental that they had appeared suddenly on the scene. Kydd would have to make his own guesses.
“I see. On another matter entirely, may I have y’r opinion? Should Teazer go south-about to th’ Sicily Channel this time o’ the year? Do you think this a . . . wise course?”
Back on deck, Kydd checked again the progress with the new main course. Purchet seemed to have it all in hand. The main-hatch was off and stores were coming aboard; Teazer could keep the seas for several months, if necessary, but water was the limiting factor. He watched the seamen hoist the big barrels aboard— the Maltese were doing well, laying into their tasks with a will, their clothing now far more in keeping with a British man-o’-war. It was all deeply satisfying: it would be Teazer’s first true independent cruise, something that every captain of a man-o’-war yearned for.
But what was particularly pleasing to Kydd was the new mainsail. It had cost some keen thinking to figure how to spread a sail, complete with all its gear, on the biggest yard in the ship where none was before. Even a stout chess-tree needed to be fashioned and bolted on the ship’s side forward to take the tack of the new sail out to windward when close-hauled, exactly the same as could be seen in a ship-of-the-line.
Teazer was settling into her routine and, to Kydd’s critical eye, was showing every evidence of contentment. He knew the signs: easy laughter from seamen as they worked together, good-natured rivalries out on the yardarm, the willing acceptance of orders where surly looks would be the first sign of discontents.
He knew that he himself was on trial: he was expecting the men to follow him into peril of their lives but they would not do this unless he had first won their trust, their respect. He had reached the first stage, a wary deference, which he could tell from their direct gaze but ready responses. There were ways sailors had of conveying their feelings—he would instantly recognise silent contempt, but he had seen nothing of it.
There was a tentative knock at his open cabin door; Kydd could see Bowden and some others.
“My apologies at the intrusion, sir, but these men have something on their mind and they’d be obliged if you’d hear them.”
Kydd looked sharply at him. “What’s this, Mr Bowden? Do ye not know—”
“Sir, I think you should hear them.”
There was something in his tone that made Kydd pause. He looked at the foretopman standing next to Bowden. “What is it, Hansen?”
He was a reliable hand, not given to trivialities. “Sir, if y’ pleases, we got a worry we think ye should know of,” he said quietly.
His eyes slid away to the others for support as he talked and Kydd felt the first stirring of unease. Deputations as such were punishable under the Articles of War and they were taking a big risk in bringing it before him like this. “Well?” he growled.
“Sir. Could be we’ll be voyagin’ quite a ways soon,” Hansen mumbled.
Behind him another, older, hand said, more forcefully, “Aye, an’ this means we have t’ be ready.”
“F’r rats!” added a third.
“What th’ devil is this all about, Mr Bowden?”
“Er, I think they mean to say that Teazer being a new-built ship, she doesn’t have yet a full crew on board. They tell me they’re very concerned that our stores and provisions are as yet still unprotected . . .”
Kydd was beginning to see where it was all leading and eased into a smile.
“. . . therefore, sir, they’re requesting you take aboard a—a ship’s cat.”
“Ah. Well, that is, I may have omitted t’ bring the complement completely up to strength in this particular. I see I must send a hand ashore to press a suitable cat—” There was a shuffling, eyes were cast down. Kydd saw and went on “—that is unless a volunteer c’n be found, o’ course,” and waited.
Glances were exchanged and then the seamed old sailmaker, Clegg, was pushed forward. Nearly hidden in his horny hands was a scrap of fur from which two beady black eyes fixed themselves solemnly on Kydd.
Kydd’s eyebrows rose. “Seems a hard thing t’ put such a morsel up against a prime ship’s rat, I believe.” At the sullen silence this brought he hastened to add, “But, o’ course, he being new t’ the sea he’ll have a chance to show something of himself later.” After the ripple of relieved murmurs faded, he snapped, “Volunteer, this day rated ordinary seaman.” Grins appeared and Kydd continued, “Er, what name goes in th’ muster list?”
Clegg gave a slow smile and, in his whispery voice, said softly, “It’s t’ be Sprits’l, sir, on account we being a brig we don’t have such a one, an’ now we does.”
• • •
Kydd spread out the best chart they had of the area, a copy of a French one, and pondered. The Sicily Channel was the only pass between the east and west of the Mediterranean, discounting the tiny Strait of Messina. Through this hundred-mile-wide passage streamed the tide of vessels heading for the rich trading ports of the Levant, among them neutrals with contraband, and French trying to slip past to supply their hard-pressed army in Egypt. But with a hundred-miles width of open sea, what would be their likely track?
It was important to make the right choice. How long would it be before a senior officer arrived to put a stop to his independence? He emerged restlessly on deck and caught the flash of sails as a cutter rounded the point into the inlet.
“She’s our’n!” Work on deck ceased as every man gazed out at the new arrival come prettily to her mooring.
“Mr Purchet, get th’ men back to work this instant!” Kydd snapped. A few minutes later an officer got into a boat, which stroked across to Teazer.
The visitor was of a certain age, with shrewd eyes and a strong manner. Removing his hat he said, “L’tenant Fernly, in command Mayfly cutter.” It was naval courtesy for an arriving junior to call upon the ranking officer and this was due Kydd as a full commander.
“Shall we step below, L’tenant?” Kydd said. In his great cabin glasses were brought and respects exchanged. Mayfly was with Army dispatches and material from Gibraltar for General Pigot, with a side voyage to Alexandria in prospect later.
“An’ you, sir?” Fernly asked politely.
“I shall be puttin’ t’ sea shortly on a cruise, but not before I have time to beg y’ will take dinner with me,” Kydd said.
“That’s right kind in you, sir,” Fernly answered, easing into a smile. “I don’t often find m’self able t’ sit at table with a new face, as you’d understand, sir.”
• • •
Kydd certainly did understand. He warmed to the prospect of a convivial evening and, with a light heart, he set Tysoe to his preparations. The gunroom decided to hold an evening of their own, and as the sun dipped in the west the first seamen from Mayfly arrived to claim their age-old right to ship-visiting while in port.
“You’re right welcome,” Kydd said warmly, holding out his hand as Fernly came aboard again. Forward, lanthorns were being triced up in the fore shrouds and groups of men below were gathering in noisy groups until the first hornpipes began. Later it would be sentimental songs at the foremast and well-tried yarns to capture and enthrall.
It was a good sign, and with the length of the ship separating them it would not be a trial for them in the great cabin. The table was laid; Tysoe had contrived another easy chair to complement Kydd’s own and the two naval officers sat at the stern windows, taking their fill of the fine evening view of Malta.
The candles cast a mellow gold about the cabin and set Kydd’s new pieces of silver a-glitter. The local Maltese wine, chirghentina, was cool and delicious, and Kydd felt a spreading benevolence to the world take hold. “Ye would oblige me extremely, sir, if we might talk free, as it were,” he said, hoping the officer�
��s courtesy would give way to the forthright character he suspected lay beneath.
“By all means,” Fernly replied, perhaps picking up on Kydd’s mood. “It’s a damnably lonely profession, in all.” He set down his empty glass, which Tysoe noiselessly refilled. “May I ask ye a question?”
Kydd looked up, surprised.
“Forgive me if I’m adrift in m’ reckoning, but y’ have the look o’ the fo’c’sle about ye.”
“Aye, this is true,” Kydd admitted. He saw no reason to hide it.
“Then c’n we raise a glass together—we’re both come aft th’ hard way.” There was brittle defiance in his tone.
Cautiously, Kydd raised his glass in agreement. “T’ us.” It was rare for a King’s officer to have crossed the great divide from the fo’c’sle to the quarterdeck and Kydd had come across few of the breed. “Do ye not find it an advantage in command?” To Kydd, it was of considerable benefit to be able to know the mind of the seamen in his charge, to understand the motivations and simple but direct elements of respect that so often differed from those of the quarterdeck.
“Of course. I flatter m’self that I’m at least two steps ahead of the lazy buggers. Let ’em dare t’ try any o’ their slivey tricks in my watch, is what I say.” Fernly grinned mirthlessly and pushed out his glass to Tysoe.
Kydd did not reply. He knew of hard-horse tarpaulin captains who used their familiarity with the seamen to make life difficult for them. He was also aware that there was an ocean of difference for the foremast hand between obedience and respect, which the older man seemed to have forgotten.
Fernly seemed to sense Kydd’s feeling and changed the topic. “Can’t say I’ve seen Teazer in Malta before. A trim craft, very handsome . . .”
Kydd thawed. “Goes like a witch in anythin’ like a quarterin’ blow, an’ I’m going after more b’ crossing a main-yard in place of the cro’jack. Rattlin’ fine work b’ y’r Maltese shipwrights.”
“You mount fours or sixes?”
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