Winthrop’s smile widened. “Should you ask Sir John you may receive a different opinion. Most would believe the men to have been destined for him.” Such a core of skilled seamen was almost certainly intended for the commander of the Eastern Mediterranean squadron of battleships continually at sea to thwart French moves east of Italy.
“I lack a sailing master,” Kydd said, changing the subject as quickly as he could. “M’ gunner’s on his way, I’m told, but still there’s no word on a master.”
Winthrop’s expression turned grave. “Then, in course, you are unable to sail. No doubt you are not relishing a month or so at a buoy waiting while the omission is rectified?”
Kydd gave a bleak smile.
Some years past, the rank of “Master and Commander” had been discarded in recognition of the fact that navigation had become too specialised for fighting captains, and now, for all sloops and above, a professional master, certificated by Trinity House, was required.
Winthrop considered for a moment. “There is a course you may wish to consider. In the customs house I met a gentleman who has been a master with us before. Stayed here when we evacuated the Mediterranean as something or other in the merchantry. The French seizing Malta must have put paid to that. He may be amenable at this time to an offer as acting master, the commander-in-chief to confirm. There can’t be many masters at large in this end of the Med.”
“Thank you, sir, I’m indeed grateful for y’r suggestion.”
“He is Maltese, of course.”
“He c’n be a Chinaman for all I care if he gets me t’ sea,” said Kydd, with relish. Impulsively, he went on, “Sir—can I ask— what is it ye sees will make life interesting in these waters?”
Winthrop leaned back, delicately touching his lips with his napkin. “As I remember it, for a brig-sloop your corsair will be an annoyance—Mahometans from the Barbary coast seeing it their holy duty to prey on the Christian, and you’ll find privateers enough in the Sicily Channel to vex any convoy escort . . . but do believe that where you’ll find it the hardest beat to wind’d is with our ‘allies.’
“Did you know there is a strong Russian garrison in Corfu? You should—since Tsar Paul made common cause with the French they must certainly be accounted unfriendly, even though he is recently murdered and succeeded by Alexander. Yet we find that our most caressed friend, Turkey, is at sea this very hour in a combined fleet with the Russians under Kadir Bejja and Ushakov. If you come across them, do you clear away your saluting guns, or go to quarters?”
Kydd held his silence.
“And since the French hold Taranto, and Sicily is lost to us, what do you say to a Palermo merchantman bringing a lading of Marseilles dried fish to Malta? To be safeguarded or—a prize?”
Kydd flushed and changed the subject. “What of th’ French at sea, do y’ think? I dare t’ say they have their cruisers out?” In the excitement of taking possession and command of his ship, with all its unexpectedness, he had not given much consideration to other aspects of command. There was no question, in such a situation as mentioned, that the decision was his, and his alone. And he knew he was unprepared.
Winthrop gave an understanding smile. “The French? There will be quantities of Marseille rovers about, but what are they to stand before a regular-going English man-o’-war?” He politely refilled Kydd’s glass. “You will be more concerned for the trade of Malta. These islands are poor and barren. The inhabitants must live by trade. Should their vessels be set upon by your corsair then it will be more than the merchant who must starve. You will hear from those in high places, I believe, were this to occur . . .”
“Yes, sir, this I can grasp,” Kydd said quickly. It was all very well for a post-captain to discourse lazily on what must seem simple enough affairs to him, but Kydd had been a captain only for a matter of days. There was a damn sight more to learn than he had first thought, and here in faraway Malta he would have no friends to ease the way for him.
At Kydd’s grimace Winthrop picked up his glass. “But I neglect my guest. Here, sir, I give you joy of your step—let us wet your swab in a bumper.”
There was so much fellow feeling in his expression that Kydd could not help but glance down at the gold of his single epaulette as he lifted his glass. “I’d never have thought it, ever,” he said, pride overcoming his embarrassment.
Winthrop’s smile stayed. “You will never forget this moment. I remember when . . . But that was long ago. Your good health, Mr Kydd, and may the fortunes of war favour you always.”
Kydd glowed. After the toast he refilled their glasses and looked through the windows at a small, dark shape at rest within Dockyard Creek. “To Teazer—taut, trim and true, the loveliest creature that ever swam.”
“His Britannic Majesty’s Sloop-of-War Teazer,” agreed Winthrop, “Tiger of the seas!”
The moment could not have held more for Kydd—but then, piercing through the haze of happiness, came a stab of grief: the recognition that he would probably never again know Renzi’s friendship aboard a ship.
“Th-thank you, sir, that was nobly said,” he said, recovering.
“Then I shall not delay you. No doubt we shall meet again— this war seems destined to go on for ever.”
“Aye, sir. And the best o’ fortune for y’rself, if I might say it.”
Winthrop moved to the door and gave orders for Kydd’s boat. “Oh, yes, there is one matter that would oblige me, should you see fit,” he said casually.
“Anything, sir,” Kydd replied, with warmth.
“Well, it does cross my mind that, at this time, I, having a superfluity of young gentlemen aboard Stag, conceivably one might profitably ship with you, if you understand me?”
There could only be one response: “O’ course, sir. Glad to be of service.” He was only too aware that he already had his permitted complement of two midshipmen and that he could not afford to offend the dockyard at this time. It would seem he would have to part with Bowden. A sad betrayal of the lad’s loyalty.
“Splendid. Then I shall require our youngster to shift his berth to you without delay. Fare you well, Mr Kydd.”
Tysoe entered quietly with Kydd’s breakfast of coffee and rolls. It was still a very strange thing to dine alone but at the least it gave time for thought.
He had no idea how he would explain to Bowden his sudden dismissal. No doubt in time he would find another ship, but the company would be strangers. And he would miss the young man’s intelligence and trustworthiness: a midshipman was a rated petty officer and had duties elastic enough to prove more than useful in many situations. But he had no place for a third midshipman.
The irony was that he was nearly a third short of complement, most of them ordinary and able seamen, admittedly, but vital for all that. He could get to sea, possibly, with what he had, but he could not fight a battle nor provide a prize crew. And with an absent gunner and a problematic sailing master there were reasons aplenty for vexation.
And where would there be a master’s mate in this part of the world? Unless there was, he would be obliged to stand watches which—It was obvious! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Mr Bowden!” he bellowed from his door—there were no marines to keep sentry-go outside his cabin. “Pass the word f’r Mr Midshipman Bowden!”
“Do excuse my rig, sir,” the youngster said, in alarm, “I thought I had better—”
“No matter, Mr Bowden. I have news for ye. As of this day you shall be acting master’s mate. How do ye reckon on that?”
For a moment Bowden’s eyes widened; then a boyish smile provided the answer.
Acting master’s mate—Kydd didn’t even know if he had the power to do this: a full master’s mate required an Admiralty warrant. However, he was relying on the commander-in-chief to confirm his actions from his understanding of the situation facing Kydd.
“Y’r first duty, take the jolly-boat to th’ customs house—I’ve an important message for a gentleman there . . .”
•
• •
Teazer was rapidly assuming her final appearance: yards black against varnished masts, the very ends tipped in white to show up to men working out on the yardarm at night. On deck, the inside of the bulwarks was rousing scarlet against the tar-black of the standing rigging and the natural hempen pale of the working lines. The deck was not yet to a pristine salt-white finish but this would come, and with a lick of blue and gold on their figurehead the ship was handsome indeed.
Within two hours Mr Bonnici came aboard. A short, well-kept gentleman, he made heavy going of heaving himself across the bulwarks before presenting himself, puffing with exertion and supported by an ebony cane. In the plain black of a sailing master and wearing a three-cornered hat of a past age, he beamed at Kydd from a genially lined face.
“Sir, er, do I understand that you’ve served as master with us before?” Kydd asked, somewhat dismayed by the man’s age. Could his old bones take service in a small but pugnacious man-o’-war?
Bonnici swept down in an elaborate bow, rising with an even wider smile. “In my time I had th’ honour o’ knowing Adm’ral Howe, sir.”
“Admiral Howe, indeed!”
“As who should say—while I was master in Romulus I often ’mark this gentleman on his flagship quarterdeck a-pacing as we close wi’ the enemy before Genoa, stuns’l abroad an—”
“And since then?”
Bonnici drew himself up, dignified. “An’ since then, sir, consequen’ upon the Royal Navy quit of the Mediterranean, I have been advisin’ of the merchants abou’ their shipping. You will know, sir, how difficult we have been wi’ the French capture Malta, no one eat, our families—”
“Thank you, Mr Bonnici. Now, do ye have evidence o’ this, Navy Board certificates of sea service possibly?” If the man could prove his service in a frigate Kydd would think about it, for without any master at all he was going nowhere.
“Sir.”
Kydd took the papers. “These seem t’ be in order, Mr Bonnici. Now, what do y’ think o’ Teazer? Do ye fancy a post as master in a brig after service in a frigate?”
Bonnici seemed to sense that the tide had turned and began to relax. However, Kydd still had doubts.
“Ah, well, sir, you names her Teazer, but she’s Malta-built o’ the Zammit yard, over yonder,” he said. “For the sea service of the knights, o’ course.” He swept a glance along the line of deck. “Clean lines, some would say fuller in th’ run but our shipwrights know our sea, which is short an’ high. Sound timbers—Kyrenian, fr’m the Arsenale an’ well seasoned these last two year—”
“That’s as may be,” Kydd said, with rising hope. “An’ I’d like your judgement on Teazer’s sailing qualities.”
“Fast. Faster than y’r ship-rigged sloop, handy in stays—say ten, ten ’n’ a half knots on a bowline—”
Kydd made up his mind. “I c’n offer you an acting appointment only, Mr Bonnici . . .”
Teazer’s new master bowed once more, his manner reminding Kydd of his father’s old-fashioned ways before a customer. He rose, and Kydd detected barely concealed relief. “I’m at your service this hour, Captain.”
Their final suit of sails was due aboard shortly and Bonnici would need time to make professional acquaintance of his new ship. “Then I’ll let ye get t’ know y’r new master’s mate. Mr Bowden!”
Kydd took one last appreciative look at the busy scene on deck, then went below. His pulse quickened: the moment had come to plan sea trials—HMS Teazer putting to sea for the first time! The last major items in her fitting out were waiting at the ordnance wharf—her guns—and then the tons of gunpowder would be brought out in lighters under a red flag that would finally make her the lethal fighting machine she had to be, as long as she could find her gunner.
Ellicott and Peck scratched away at Kydd’s desk in the great cabin: every last item of stores brought aboard had to be entered in the ship’s books and accounted for. Kydd took a seat in the middle and began on the pile of papers awaiting signature.
Dacres appeared. “Our gunner has arrived on board, sir,” he said neutrally. “Baggage to follow.”
At last! “Very well. Ask him t’ present himself to me, if y’ please.”
The purser and clerk left the cabin, leaving Kydd alone behind the desk. He assumed a suitably grave expression.
“Come!” he said importantly, to a knock at the door.
There was a shuffling outside and a small, wiry man of indeterminate age entered. “Mr Duckitt, sir, Helby Duckitt,” he said apologetically, his hat held defensively in his hands.
“I had thought t’ see you before now, Mr Duckitt,” Kydd said reprovingly.
“Aye, sir. We was delayed, see, the Gibraltar convoy havin’ no escort and—”
“Can’t be helped,” Kydd said, eyeing his worn, shabby coat. “You’ve just got y’r warrant as gunner, I understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll get y’r gear aboard an’ talk further at another time. Thank ye, Mr Duckitt, an’ I mean to make y’r time in Teazer an active one,” he finished meaningfully.
“Sir, by y’ leave.”
“Yes?”
“I thought it proper t’ accept a share o’ some hands in Gibraltar standin’ idle. They was shipwrecked an’ looking f’r a ship, as we might say. Three on ’em, good men all. Do ye want t’ see ’em now?”
“Hmm.” Kydd was taken with the man’s craftiness in reporting for duty with a sweetener. “D’ ye think there’s a petty officer among ’em?”
“I’ll tell ’em t’ step inside, sir.” Duckitt touched his forehead respectfully before leaving.
The first of the shipwrecked men padded in. Taken utterly by surprise, Kydd saw standing before him a man he had admired even from his first few days as a pressed man in the old Duke William, a mariner he had fought beside as a common seaman in the wild single frigate action that had preceded his famous voyage round the world and who had been such a figure in his adventures in the Caribbean.
“Be damned t’ it—Toby Stirk!” blurted Kydd in delight, rising. “It’s been s’ long—let’s see, Seaflower, th’ Caribbean . . .” If anything, Stirk had hardened further: a leathery toughness now matched a ferocity that was almost visceral. “How are ye, cully?” Kydd said, unconsciously slipping back into foremast lingo.
Stirk hesitated, delight vying with shock at the meeting. Then impulsively he grasped Kydd’s outstretched hand. “Right oragious t’ see you, Tom.” The well-remembered rasp had deepened with time. “Ah—that’s t’ say, sir.” His face crinkled with pleasure.
Kydd resumed his seat. “I’m right glad t’ see you, er, Mr Stirk. Y’ have m’ word on that,” he added firmly. If Stirk, a gun captain of years and the hardest man Kydd knew, was to ship in Teazer, the temper of the whole gundeck would be transformed. “An’ very glad to have ye aboard Teazer,” he said carefully. “Can I ask, what was y’r rate in your last ship?” It was said as kindly as he could.
“Quarter gunner, sir,” Stirk said easily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the young quartermaster’s mate he had known to be a commander rating him for service in his own ship.
“I’d like ye to be gunner’s mate—if I c’n square it with Mr Duckitt,” Kydd said warmly. This was by no means a given: it was the gunner’s prerogative to choose his mates. It would, however, go with Kydd’s most significant recommendation and would put Stirk as the most senior petty officer gunner and the only one carried in Teazer.
“That’s very kind in ye, Mr Kydd, but as y’ knows, I don’t have m’ letters—”
“That’s as may be,” Kydd interrupted. “I doubt that’ll trouble a gunner who’s keen for his mates t’ be as fine as you. You’re rated gunner’s mate fr’m this moment.”
After he had dealt with the two others, memories washed over Kydd. Hard ones, full of violence and terror—but also those of the wonder and beauty of a voyage around the world, the fires of experience that had formed him as a seam
an—and a world within a world that he had now left behind for ever.
Stirk had been a part of it from the beginning, until an open-boat voyage in the Caribbean had seen Kydd raised to master’s mate, his hammock no longer slung before the mast. But now there was the gold lace of an officer and the final majesty of command. How was he to face an old shipmate like Stirk? And how was Stirk going to regard him?
CHAPTER 3
“WELL, SIR? You’ve had two weeks—surely it don’t take for ever to fettle your little barky for sea duty!” Major General Pigot rumbled, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Take ’em away,” he told the hovering footman testily, and the breakfast dishes were swiftly removed.
“She’s not an English-built ship, sir,” Kydd tried to explain. “We’ve had to make changes—an’ it’s not been so easy t’ find hands t’ man her this far from the fleet—”
“Tosh! Other Navy boats manage, why not you?” Before Kydd could reply he continued, “Is it because you’re a new-minted captain, b’ chance?”
Kydd stiffened, but held himself in check. This was the Officer Commanding Troops and Military Representative of His Britannic Majesty in Malta. In the delicacies of line-of-command the Malta Service to which Kydd had been detached was a civil affair, including requirements for naval action, but when there were matters requiring a military presence, the general would be consulted. However, Kydd’s authority as a commander was from Admiral Keith and the Mediterranean Fleet—but his orders directed him to act under the advice of the Malta authority . . . “I shall have Teazer ready f’r sea within the week, General.”
“Good.” He looked at Kydd keenly. “Understand, Captain, we’ve got no standing naval forces. Since the frigate left, we’ve been pestered by vermin—small fry—that are taking the opportunity to make hay among our trade an’ this is a serious matter, I’ll have ye know! Sooner you can get your ship at sea, show o’ force sort of thing, sooner they gets the message. End of the week?”
“Sir.”
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