“Sir,” the master began.
“Mr Bonnici?” Kydd replied, aware of the irony that this man whom he himself had taken on would continue to remain at sea professionally while he—
“We c’n get water,” the master continued softly.
“Where?” To call at any port on the Barbary coast would be to condemn Teazer and her company to the insupportable tedium of a Malta quarantine.
“Sir, all they who sail th’ Mediterranean know where is water. Not at the port—no, on th’ shore, in the rock.” His shrewd eyes crinkled with amusement.
“Go on!”
“Near Zuwarah. Another five leagues, no more.”
Cautiously, Teazer shortened sail as the little bay opened up. Miles from any settlement that Kydd had noticed, there was a ragged point of land with a small beach, ending in an untidy jumble of rocks and a tight cluster of tall date palms. Not far beyond was another point, which provided the opposite enfolding arm of a calm haven.
“What’s the depth o’ water?”
“Good holding in seven fathom, jus’ four cable off.”
While watering they would be vulnerable, but the bay was set back and out of the way of casual coastal transits. The prize of perhaps another week at sea was too good to pass up.
“We’ll do it!”
With a leadsman chanting the depths they ghosted in and anchored—with chancy desert winds inshore, Kydd took the precaution of laying out a kedge first and Teazer came slowly to rest.
The hold was opened. As quickly as possible, the planking of the mess deck was taken up and the hatchways thrown back to allow tackles between the two masts to be rigged to sway the big casks up and into the cutter for the pull to shore.
Dacres returned from a quick exploration. “Water indeed, sir! Comes out from between the rocks in that cliff.” Heaven only knew how water was present in such quantities in rocks of the desert, but Kydd was not in the mood to question; the sooner they were under way again the better. He paced impatiently up and down, then retreated to his cabin.
He stared out of the stern windows at the watering party ashore: with an exotic earth beneath the feet they might be difficult to control. Perhaps he should have sent Dacres instead of midshipman, but he knew he could not grudge them a lighthearted seizing of the moment.
A sudden shout of alarm pierced his thoughts. Confused thumping of feet sounded and, as he stood up, the door burst open. Attard was wide-eyed. “Mr Dacres’s compliments—sir, there’s a frigate! A thumper! He says—”
Kydd knocked him aside in his rush on deck. It was the nightmare he had feared—Ganteaume! They were neatly trapped in the little bay as if by special arrangement. And there it was, frighteningly close in, and manoeuvring to close off their escape.
“That’s not Ganteaume—that’s one of ours!” Dacres exclaimed, with relief.
“One o’ Warren’s frigates?”
“No, it ain’t, sir,” Purchet said heavily. “Can’t say as I know ’oo he is—but one thing’s f’r sure, he’s not ours.”
Kydd ignored Dacres’s anxious look and snatched his telescope. He did not recognise the vessel either. Big, very big. In a sudden rush of hope he searched the mizzen rigging, the image dancing with the thump of his heart, until he found what he was looking for. “Thank God,” he breathed. “Stars ’n’ stripes,” he said, in a louder tone, snapping the glass shut decisively.
“Stars and what, sir?” Dacres asked hesitantly.
“They’re Americans,” Kydd said happily. “The United States Navy!”
“The United States?”
“Yes, Mr Dacres. They have a regular-goin’ navy now, I’ll have ye know.” It was not the time to explain that two years or so before he had been aboard the first war cruise of the newly created United States Navy.
What was puzzling was that their concern, as far as he knew, was in the defence of the seaboard of the United States and their interests no further distant than the Caribbean. Why were they in the eastern Mediterranean?
Then another thought struck: he had not heard that the quasi-war was over, the undeclared war that had broken out between the United States and an over-confident France over the latter’s arrogant interpretation of the rights of neutrals and the subsequent taking of American prizes. Could they be here as a consequence of quasi-war operations?
“Clear away th’ pinnace and muster a boat’s crew. I’m t’ call on the Americans, I believe, Mr Dacres.”
It soon seemed clear that their manoeuvring was an evolution to allow them to remain, probably for watering, and while he watched, sail was struck smartly while their anchor dropped. Kydd made sure that Teazer’s ensign flew high and free and put off for the American. She had a no-nonsense, purposeful air, spoiled for Kydd’s English eye by the bold figurehead of a Red Indian chief and a rounded fo’c’sle instead of the squared-off one to be seen in a King’s ship.
As they approached, he saw activity on her decks. At first he feared his gesture of respect had been misconstrued: in his experience the young navy could be prickly and defensive, but then again there could be no mistaking his own purpose, with boat ensign a-flutter and his own figure aft. Then he saw they were assembling a side party to pipe him aboard.
The boatswain’s call sounded, clear and piercing, as Kydd came up the steps, his best cocked hat with its single dash of gold clapped firmly on as he mounted. At the top he stopped and deliberately removed his hat to the flag in the mizzen, then turned to the waiting officer. “Commander Kydd, Royal Navy,” he said gravely, “of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Teazer.”
The officer, young and intense with a high forehead and dark eyes, straightened. “Lootenant Decatur, United States Navy frigate Essex.” He did not offer to shake hands, instead bowed stiffly and stepped aside to make way for his captain coming out on deck.
Kydd bowed and allowed himself to be introduced. “Cap’n Bainbridge. Welcome aboard, Commander. Might I offer you some refreshment?”
The pinnace lay off; Bowden could be trusted to keep his boat’s crew in order and be ready for the signal to return. “That’s kind in ye, Captain,” Kydd said politely.
The great cabin was plainly furnished but clean, with a sense of newness and the scent of North American pine. “Ye have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Kydd said carefully, over some wine. “We were at our watering, as you can see.” If there was going to be any friction then it would be this: access to the single water source.
“Our intention also, Commander.” Bainbridge was an impressive figure, over six feet tall and with a striking fore-knot in his plentiful hair. “I’ve a ready respect for your service, Mr Kydd, and that’s no secret. Why don’t you take your fill of the water and we’ll stand by until you’re done?”
“That’s handsome in ye, sir, but I know th’ spring an’ there’s enough f’r us all. We’ll take it together, cask b’ cask.”
“A good notion. We’ll do that,” Bainbridge said genially, and got to his feet.
“Sir,” Kydd said earnestly, “I was in th’ United States when y’r quasi-war with France started. It strikes me there’s grounds here f’r—who should say?—mutual assistance against th’ aggressor?”
Bainbridge’s eyes went opaque. “Commander, the quasi-war is now concluded.”
“Ah. So—”
“The treaty of 1778 is no more. We are neutrals, sir, and will faithfully abide by our obligations. I will wish you good day, sir.”
It had been worth the try, but it did not furnish the real reason for an American presence so deep into the Mediterranean. “Sir—may I know of y’r interest in these parts, if y’ do not think it impertinent t’ ask?”
“I do. Good day to you, sir.” He conducted Kydd back on deck.
Out in the sunlight Kydd blinked, aware of every eye on him. “Thank ye, sir, f’r your hospitality—it’s a very fine ship y’ commands.”
He passed a silent Decatur, sensed the burning eyes following him and was making to step over the side
when someone grabbed his shoulder. He swung round and saw a grinning officer holding out his hand. “Be darned—and this must be Tom Kydd as was. A commander, no less!”
“Aye. An’ don’t I see Ned Gindler afore me?” It was half a world away from Connecticut but the same friendliness that had so cheered him as a new lieutenant again reached out to him. “Well met, Ned!” Kydd grinned. The deck remained silent and still about them. Kydd turned and crossed to Bainbridge again. “Sir, it’s not in m’ power t’ return y’r kindness to all of ye in my little ship, but it would give me particular pleasure t’ welcome L’tenant Gindler aboard.”
“Thank you, Commander. Mr Gindler would be pleased to accept. Until sundown, Lootenant?”
Gindler lifted his glass to Kydd. “Well, I have to declare, she’s one trim lady—I guess she’s handy in stays?”
“She is that,” said Kydd, smugly. “A real flyer on the wind. Not as you’d say spankin’ new, but she’ll get a lick o’ paint when we have time,” he added defensively.
“You must be very proud, Tom,” Gindler said softly, looking at Kydd with an enigmatic expression. “Captain of your own ship, and all.”
It brought Kydd up with a start: what were his present worries compared to what he had won for himself? “A noble thing it is indeed, Ned. Do ye know, I have more power than the King of England?” At Gindler’s quizzical look he added, “I may hale a man before me an’ have him flogged on the spot—by the law of the land this is somethin’ even His Majesty may not do.”
It brought laughter from the American but all Kydd found he could manage was a lop-sided smile. Gindler’s amusement receded. “My dear fellow—if you’ll pardon my remarking it, your demeanour is not to be expected of a grand panjandrum. No, sir! Too much bowed by care and woe in all . . .”
Kydd’s smile turned to a grimace. “Aye, I will admit t’ it.” He stared through the pretty stern windows at the bright, sunlit sea outside. “I have m’ ship, this is true, but unless I can shine in its command I’ll have t’ yield to another. And there’s no glory t’ be found in small-ship work, all convoys ’n’ dispatches, so how am I to find it?” Gindler started to come in but Kydd went on bitterly, “We got word of a French corvette in these waters an’ I was sent to bring it t’ battle. My one chance—but the cruise is finished without so much of a smell o’ one.”
He looked up half hopefully. “Ye haven’t word of it at all, Ned?”
Gindler murmured noncommittally.
Kydd’s eyes fell. “Then, o’ course, you havin’ made y’r peace with the French you’ll be honour bound not t’ tell me even if ye knew.” Gindler continued to look at him wordlessly.
Tossing off his wine, Kydd changed his mood. “But here I sit, neglectin’ m’ guest! Tell me, Ned, have you hopes y’self for an advancement at all?”
Gindler’s face shadowed. “You may recall, friend, that our war is finished. We’re now neutrals not just in name. No war, we don’t need ships—or officers is the cry.”
“Did m’ eyes deceive? Is not Essex as fine a frigate as ever I saw?”
Looking uncomfortable Gindler replied, “Yes, but I have to say there are few more.” He hesitated, then went on, “We have a new president, m’ friend, a Thomas Jefferson. Now, in the past we’ve been handing over bags of gold to the Barbary pashas to keep from raiding our trading ships. Jefferson loathes this craven knuckling to pirates and hates even more what it’s costing us. We are here to do something about it.”
Kydd made to refill his glass, but he shook his head. “Have ye?”
“Not—yet.”
“You—”
“Some would say that Dale, our commodore, is a mite lacking in spirit. We surely put their noses out of joint at first, but all we’ve achieved is threats of war from all four pashas, who are put out by not getting their due tribute.”
“So you’ll have y’r war.”
“Not so, I’m grieved to say it, for Congress has not declared war back. In the main, we’re to leave their ships in peace to go about their ‘lawful’ occasions of plundering our trade.” His face tightened.
“It has t’ come to war,” Kydd said warmly, “and then you’ll get y’r ship, Ned!”
Gindler said nothing, and at his dark look Kydd changed the subject. “The Essex—a stout enough frigate. Must be a fine thing t’ be an officer aboard.”
Gindler threw him a look of resigned exasperation. “Dear Tom, we’re a small young navy and everyone in it knows everyone else. Therefore preferment and seniority are a matter of characters, origins and hearsay.
“I speak only between we two, but under the strict and unbending Cap’n Bainbridge—whose treatment of the enlisted hands is, well, shall we say less than enlightened?—I share the wardroom with our absurdly young first l’tenant, Stephen Decatur. Who is of burning zeal but given to duelling, a vice much indulged in by us, I fear. Therefore I’ll leave it to your imagining what it is to be one of such a company who do suffer our frustrations to such a degree . . .”
Kydd had never been in such a situation, but he could see what it meant to his friend and felt for him. “Ned, y’r New England trees in spring should be a famous sight, I believe. Do tell me, I c’n remember ’em now . . .”
“You’re in the right of it, friend. All along the—”
There was a hesitant knock at the door: it was Dacres. “Sir, I’m sorry to say, there’s some kind of—of altercation at the watering place. Midshipman Martyn seems unable to keep order in his men. Shall I—”
“No. Call away the jolly-boat, an’ I’m going ashore m’self.”
“And if you have room . . .” said Gindler, smoothly. At Kydd’s look he added, “In the instance that I may be of service in the article of translations, as it were.”
The source of the altercation was easy enough to detect: the slippery runway for the casks up to the rock fissure from where the water sprang could take only one, either coming or going. Boatswain’s mate Laffin stood astride it with fists at the ready, a sailor opposite him, a bull-sized black man, grinned savagely, and other Americans were bunching behind him.
“Moses! Step back now, d’ you hear?” Gindler shouted, from the boat. “You want to start another war?”
A harsh bass laugh came from the huge frame. “They wants ’un, I c’n oblige ’em, Mr Gindler.”
Kydd quickly crossed to Laffin. “What’s this, then?” he snapped.
“Cousin Jonathan—can’t take a joke, sir. Thinks mebbe they’re better’n us—”
There was a roar from the Americans and Kydd stepped between them, holding up his hands. If he could not pacify both sides, and quickly, there was every likelihood of a confrontation and repercussions at an international level.
“I’m surprised at ye, Laffin,” he began. The man looked at him sullenly. “Do ye not remember how we settle these matters in the fleet?” Laffin blinked without reply.
He turned to Gindler, whose eyes were warily on his men, now spreading out as if taking positions for a fight. “Sir.” He took off his cocked hat and flung it on the sand in front of Gindler. “I do challenge th’ United States Navy!” There was an audible gasp and he saw Gindler tense. “T’ find which is th’ better ship—fair ’n’ square—we challenge Essex to a contest o’ skill an’ strength. A race o’ one mile, under oars.”
After a dumbfounded silence there were roars of agreement. Gindler stepped forward, picked up Kydd’s hat and returned it to him with a bow, saying, in ringing tones, “On behalf of my fellow Americans, I accept your challenge, Mr Kydd.”
He turned to his men and said, “We can’t let ’em think that as a nation we do not know how to play fair. We’ll have the same number of men, of course, but—we exchange boats before we start.”
Kydd grinned. Clearly Gindler was no stranger to the stratagems common in fleet regattas. This would put paid to anything underhand.
The watering was completed at breakneck speed and a course laid out from under the bowsprit of Essex to a
buoy half a mile along the coast.
The two boats were readied. In deference to the smaller craft that Teazer carried, her pinnace was run against Essex’s yawl, both pulling four oars. Much was made of the transfer of oarsmen from one to the other, particularly the remarkable sight of the sovereign flag of each nation proudly at the transom of another. Wry comments were passed concerning the workmanship of their boats of the occasion, Teazers scorning the carvel build of the yawl while the Essexes sighed theatrically at the clencher-build of the pinnace, but the four oarsmen took their places readily enough, adjusting foot-stretchers and hefting the fifteen-foot sweeps.
Every boat that could swim lined the course, filled with hoarsely yelling spectators; the rest crowded the decks of their respective ships. On the fo’c’sle of Essex Kydd slowly raised a pistol. The shouting died away as the oarsmen spat on their hands: the crack of the pistol was lost in a sudden storm of cheering and they bent to their sweeps in a mighty, straining effort.
The boats leaped ahead, nothing between them. Bainbridge and his officers grouped together on the foredeck, solemnly observing progress—the first to return and pass under the bowsprit would be declared winner.
It was a tight race; the shorter but quicker strokes of the Americans contrasted with the longer but deeper pulls of their opponents and they were round the buoy first—but on the run back the gap narrowed by inches until it became too close to call.
“America by a nose!” Decatur yelled, punching the air as the two craft shot under the line of bowsprit.
“Not so fast, Lootenant,” Bainbridge said, in a hard voice, among the deafening noise of cheering and argument.
“Sir, I know what I saw,” Decatur protested, moving to confront Bainbridge, “and it was not an English victory.”
With his eyes still on the lieutenant, Bainbridge said quietly, “Mr Kydd, what do you say?”
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