Command

by Julian Stockwin

  But there, in plain view, resting on top of the rock, was the white dot of the letter that Bowden had left. “Stay in th’ boat, if y’ please,” Kydd ordered. He stared at the French vessel until his eyes watered. This was his last throw of the dice.

  “Sir!” Attard’s eyes had caught sight of something around the bow of the corvette; then a boat pulled smartly into view. It also had a flag of truce and it headed for the rock. The letter was snatched up and handed down into the boat, which lost no time in returning.

  It had worked! So far. By now word of Kydd’s action would have spread the length and breadth of Teazer and the deck was crowded with excited men who had no business being away from their quarters for battle but Kydd could not deny them.

  Time dragged. Teazer wore round for another stretch out to sea—but the boat reappeared and again headed for the rock. A figure mounted the highest point and sounded off a meticulous and elaborate call on his trumpet, so much more martial than their offering. And when the boat headed back there was a letter waiting in the precise centre of the rock.

  “Go!” Bowden and his crew needed no urging, pulling directly for the rock and claiming the letter. In a fever of anticipation Kydd took it below, in passing snapping at Dacres to send the men properly to quarters.

  It was exquisitely written, the wordy introductory paragraphs ornate with unnecessary curlicues. Kydd’s eyes went to the closing salutation; it seemed the commander of La Fouine had the honour to be Capitaine de Frégate Jean Reynaud. There was no other clue about the man he had the duty to kill or vanquish—or who would do the same to him.

  Kydd began the laborious task of penetrating the thicket of verbiage then, too impatient to continue, he summoned Dacres. “There—what do ye think o’ this?” he said.

  Skimming the text with a frown Dacres looked up. “Er, it seems plain enough, sir,” he said, with a degree of wary puzzlement.

  “I asked ye what you make of it, Mr Dacres.”

  “Well, sir, he, er—”

  “Read it out, man—in English, th’ main heads.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Starts with compliments on our fine vessel—”

  “Th’ main heads.”

  “Yes, sir. Er, he accepts that we are in a state of war and therefore we have a certain duty to assault his ship . . . but notes that while he is tranquil in a secure anchorage, well supplied, we are obliged to ply the sea until he decides to quit it. And, er, as this is not convenient to him at the present time he is desolated to be obliged to decline your gracious invitation . . .”

  Kydd’s spirits sank. The French captain knew that Teazer could not wait indefinitely and had made exactly the decision he himself would have made in like circumstances. For the French captain it was a hostile sea with no friendly harbours or dockyards for repair; there was no compelling reason for him to risk damage that would cut short his cruise of depredation, and therefore he would lie at anchor until Teazer left. Quite the logical thing to do, in fact.

  But Kydd had had to try. Before they left, could he think of any other card to play? What would Renzi have said? Perhaps this was not the kind of problem he would have been best placed to resolve, he being such a martyr to logic . . . Of course. “Mr Dacres! Time is short an’ I’d take it kindly if you would assist me!” With Dacres sitting at the desk writing French in a flying hand at Kydd’s dictation and Mr Peck hovering by, the task was quickly completed.

  It was nothing elaborate, no cunning scheme of deception, it merely pointed out that as the clandestine anchorage was now known, Teazer would have no alternative but to lie off waiting for a period of time before quitting to secure provisions— or she would leave immediately and soon return; La Fouine would never know which, and the chances were that he would be set upon almost immediately he departed. The logical course therefore would be to stop wasting time, deal with his tormentor at once, and so be sure of the situation.

  The letter was sealed and taken out to the rock with all due ceremony and Teazer waited once again. The answer was prompt and unequivocal. One by one, at every masthead, the ensign of France floated free. At the same time the yards were manned and activity at bow and stern revealed work at the anchor cables.

  Nervous exaltation seized Kydd. He had what he wanted: this was now to be no less than a duel between two ships-of-war, and more than pride was at stake. “Shorten t’ tops’ls,” he ordered, conforming to his promise.

  Under easy sail, Teazer slipped along in a feather of water, all aboard at a knife-edge of tension. There was one final thing Kydd wanted to do. “With me, Mr Attard,” he said, to the solemn-faced youngster. “I’m taking a turn about the decks, Mr Dacres. If anything—”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Dacres, who crossed to the helm, his expression grave and resolute.

  The gun crews turned to watch Kydd pass, some with studied nonchalance, others with a smile or an air of bravado. “Where’s y’r stations f’r boarding?” he challenged the most cocksure.

  “Why, sir, th’ foremast wi’ Mr Bowden,” he said easily.

  “And?”

  “Oh, well, barkers an’ slashers in course—jus’ follows Mr Bowden, sir.”

  “Aye, that’s well said,” Kydd said gruffly, and moved on.

  It was the way of it. Nelson always had said that if in doubt no captain could go wrong if he placed his ship alongside that of an enemy, and in this he was only taking to a higher plane the lionhearted spirit of the seamen that was so much the reason for the invincibility of the Royal Navy.

  Forward, Bowden touched his hat; his gaze was direct and untroubled. “All forrard ready and waiting, sir,” he said gravely.

  “Thank ’ee, Mr Bowden. I hope . . .” But Kydd could not finish and turned away abruptly.

  The gunner was imperturbable in his tiny, claustrophobic magazine; the carpenter and his mates waited patiently at the forward end of the mess deck for the first smashing cannon strike through Teazer’s side.

  Acknowledging the boatswain’s sketchy salute as he handed out from his store the tackles and stoppers for emergency repair to the rigging Kydd mounted the fore hatchway, nearly tripping over the sailmaker who was mustering his gear. “Ye’re going t’ be busy in a short while, Mr Clegg,” he said.

  “Sir,” he acknowledged, in his dry, whispery voice. The man had probably seen more service than that of any other two aboard put together.

  Kydd moved to go, then paused. “Ah, I’d like t’ be very certain Teazer is properly at quarters in every part. Er, can ye tell me—slipped m’ mind—what’s the quarters f’r battle of, er, Able Seaman Sprits’l?”

  Clegg’s face creased into a pleased smile. “Why, sir, you’ll find him in y’r cabin safe ’n’ snug,” he said, without embarrassment, “Mr Tysoe standin’ by.”

  La Fouine took the wind to starboard and gathered way, his bowsprit as unwavering as an arrow, fixed on Teazer, who lay quietly under topsails two miles offshore.

  “He’s comin’ out!” The yell went up from all parts of the ship, dissolving into high-spirited cheers. If there was to be any doubt about the outcome it would not be from before the mast.

  Kydd stared forward resolutely, trying to penetrate the mind of the man who opposed him but receiving no hint from the cloud of canvas the ship carried as he pressed on through the entrance. What would be his next move? A flying pass, bow to bow, followed by a sudden turn to rake across Teazer’s stern? A stand-off bombardment, given his greater range guns? Close-in carnage? He must foresee every possible move and be ready to parry. And have his own counter-moves.

  La Fouine came on fast with all plain sail set, no topsails for him. Kydd grew uneasy: what did it imply? He was just about to send topmen aloft when, clearing the mouth of the cove, La Fouine put up his helm and plunged downwind through the unknown coastal shoals, making for the open sea at the south end of the island.

  “Be buggered! He’s runnin’, the shy cock!”

  It was totally unexpected and Kydd had no option but to throw Teazer rou
nd and follow at a safe distance offshore, losing ground until his own courses were set and drawing. The straggling headland at the last of the land came and went; there was nothing now but a vast and empty sea, the ultimate battlefield.

  Was La Fouine enticing Teazer towards a more powerful consort? Or simply making a break? At least his duty was plain: to use all possible means to close with the enemy and bring him to battle. But La Fouine was making fine speed away to the southeast and Teazer had yet to get into her stride.

  There was one niggling fact, however: if La Fouine was trying to get away, why had he not set stuns’ls and all other possible aids to speed in running before the wind? Whatever the reason Kydd would not set them either; if La Fouine saw them laboriously rig stuns’l booms and bend on such sail he need only wait until all was in place, then go hard up into the wind, leaving Teazer to thrash along for the time she needed to take them in again.

  The two ships stretched out over the sea until it became evident by sextant that the angle from waterline to La Fouine’s masthead was increasing. Teazer was gaining! For all La Fouine’s fancy ship-rig and smart seamanship Teazer was the faster vessel before the wind.

  Thumping the rail Kydd urged his little ship on. La Fouine was now visibly nearer and a plan for close action would be needed. Through his glass Kydd thought he could pick out the blue and white figure of the captain on his quarterdeck: what was he thinking of Teazer now?

  Then, not more than a quarter of a mile ahead, La Fouine spun at right angles to take the wind hard on his starboard cheek, angling away to the right. At the same time as his side lengthened his whole broadside bore on Teazer—he did not waste his chance and up and down his length hammered the flash and smoke of his guns, the breeze gaily sending the smoke rolling away over him to leeward.

  Teazer’s guns could not bear, but she made a narrow target, bows on; as far as Kydd could detect there was no damage.

  Quickly he bellowed orders that had her pirouetting round as fast as the braces could be won, but La Fouine had gained vital points by reducing Teazer’s advantage to weather.

  In the contest of ships’ speeds it did not take the sextant to tell that close-hauled Teazer was even faster. Kydd guessed that La Fouine was overdue a careening, and a brig-sloop had the edge over the less handy ship-rigged species, but even so he felt a jet of pride.

  A conclusion was now inevitable, and Kydd’s mind raced. In the chase to windward he had the same kind of quandary: close-hauled, the best advantage to be gained was to toggle bowlines to their bridles and stretch forward the weather edge of the sails. This took time and, in just the same way as with the stuns’ls, if La Fouine were to revert back before the wind they would need removing. Again, he took his cue from the Frenchy: no bowlines, therefore none for him.

  Kydd stepped over to the quartermaster at the wheel. “Luff ’n’ touch her,” he ordered. Tentatively Poulden eased the helm, watching for the slightest flutter at the taut, windward edge of the sail, at which point they were straining as close to the north-westerly as it was possible to be. Kydd was bargaining that Teazer had the speed to overcome the disadvantage of being so tight to the wind compared to one slightly fuller, and thus claw back some distance into the breeze. It would take longer to overhaul their quarry but the advantage would be priceless.

  By two in the afternoon the end was in sight. After miles of a sea chase Teazer was comfortably to windward of her opponent and was about to establish an overlap—the guns would be speaking soon.

  Kydd had done all he could to prepare his ship and her company. Now it was time.

  “Firing to larb’d,” Kydd warned. There was no doubt of their target, slashing along just ahead of them and to leeward, but by this he was indicating that he would not be putting his wheel over suddenly and crossing the enemy stern for a savage raking broadside from his starboard side—that would offer one chance only and, with six-pounders, it was not a battle-winning tactic. Instead he would continue coming up, then pound away broadside to broadside until there was a result—one way or another.

  And because of Teazer’s hard-won weather position his foe could not turn away from the onslaught as that would present his vulnerable stern-quarters to a double broadside. The French commander must have come to the same conclusion for he could see aboard La Fouine that they were shortening sail: it could only be in readiness for combat.

  At last: no more tactics, manoeuvring, hard racing. This was the moment.

  Kydd allowed Teazer to move ahead before he ordered sail shortened and their frantic speed faded to a purposeful trot as they squared away to their opponent. As he had seen his captain do at the Nile, he started pacing slowly up and down to throw off the aim of muskets in the fighting tops of the enemy picking him out as an officer.

  Along the exposed decks the gun crews tensed, held to a hair-trigger, seeing their enemy so brutally clear. Kydd saw no reason to delay: as soon as the last gun had slewed round and could bear it was time to begin. “Mr Dacres, fire when ready.”

  All along the larboard side the six-pounders woke to violent life, eight ringing cracks joining in one ear-splitting discharge, which, Kydd noted again, was quite unlike the deep smash of Tenacious’s twenty-four pounders. Still, when the smoke cleared there were several tell-tale dark blotches on La Fouine’s sides.

  But there would be pay-back. The gun crews worked like maniacs; Kydd remembered from his past at the lower-deck guns that the best cure for cannon-fever was furious work at the guns. Then La Fouine’s eight-pounders replied in a vicious stabbing of gunflash and smoke. A musical twang sounded as a stay parted, and a single scream came from forward, cut off almost as soon as it began. Teazer seemed to have escaped serious injury.

  Firing became general, guns spoke as soon as they were loaded in a harsh cycle of labour and pain, which was now the lot of the gun crews. Kydd’s glance went down to the facings on his coat, smeared with the soft grey of gun-smoke. This was now a smashing duel and it was only just beginning.

  He turned at the mainmast and began his pace back to the wheel. He knew only too well that the helmsman had the hardest task: the target of so many sharp-shooters, he could neither move nor retaliate, but at the same time he had the vital responsibility of keeping the ship from veering wildly off course, a fatal matter in the heat of battle.

  He glanced across—it was still Poulden at the wheel, calm and measured, a fine example to all who saw him.

  From far forward there was a distinct strike of shot, the shock transmitted down the ship through her frames, even to where Kydd stood. Then followed a slow, rending crack as of a tree falling—which could have only one meaning.

  “Hold her!” he bawled at Poulden. Teazer was sheering up out of control into the wind, her sails banging and flapping as they were taken full aback and her speed dropped away to nothing.

  A seaman pelted up, wild-eyed. “Sir, we took a shot in th’ bowsprit at th’ gammoning an’ it carried away.” Chest heaving, the man seemed to be looking to Kydd for some sort of miracle, but with the bowsprit and therefore all the headsails gone there was nothing his captain could think of that would salvage the moment. One thing was imperative: to stop the wild flogging of the sails—even as he glanced over the side they were slowly gathering sternway under their impetus.

  Mercifully, La Fouine had shot ahead, leaving them flailing astern, his guns falling silent as they ceased to bear. Kydd hurried to the bows. Teazer’s dainty bowsprit had taken an eight-pounder shot squarely at its base and now lay in the sea under her forefoot, shattered and tangled in an appalling snarl of ropes and blocks. With the ruin so complete, Teazer was now dead in the water.

  A single lucky shot: it was unfair so early in the fight—and in the worst possible place. Completely out of balance Teazer could neither turn away nor keep a straight course and was now terribly vulnerable.

  Over the fast-opening stretch of sea La Fouine continued on, the smoke around him dissipating quickly. Now was his chance to make his escape t
o continue unimpeded on his voyage of destruction.

  But he did not. He wore round in a lazy circle that would end with the methodical annihilation of his helpless opponent.

  A cold pit of fear opened in Kydd’s stomach, not so much for himself but for the men who had trusted him, for his lovely ship that had minutes of life left—and he knew for a certainty there was nothing he could do about it.

  The circle was closing. As a carnivore stalks its kill, La Fouine was going to make sure of his prey. Out of range of Teazer’s little six-pounders he was coming round to cross her stern—a true deciding blow, for with perfect impunity he could slowly pass by, sending every shot in his broadside in deadly aim smashing through her pretty stern windows and on into her vitals, unstoppably down the length of the ship. It would be an onslaught of death and devastation that would be unimaginably violent.

  It was the end. The only question left was, at what point did Kydd stop the carnage by yielding to the enemy?

  La Fouine came round and steered straight for Teazer’s forlorn stern. If war was logical, thought Kydd, dully, now would be the time to give up and strike his colours. But war was not logical; if he hauled down his flag, after mere minutes of fighting, he and the Navy would be damned for ever as cowardly. Therefore there was no alternative: Teazer and her people must endure what came until—until Teazer’s commander put a stop to it . . .

  As he straightened for the final run, La Fouine’s cannon showed in a sinister line along his side. Kydd imagined he could see the slight movements at their black muzzles as gun captains triumphantly trained their weapons for maximum damage. He closed silently, aiming to pass no more than ten yards away.