Command

by Julian Stockwin

  Teazer put about and made off to the west, her commander standing alone on the quarterdeck. As soon as the ship was settled on her new course he went to his cabin.

  Kydd realised that he was still a very new captain but a future of being a lap-dog at the beck and call of any senior to him was not how he saw a fighting ship should spend her time. He had broadsides and fighting seamen ready for his country’s service. He had achieved the peak of his ambition: his own ship.

  For a captain loneliness was inevitable, but he hadn’t realised how much he would feel it. It was something that came with the job, though, and he would have to get used to it. The only “friend” he was in a position to contemplate was the single other officer, Dacres, but he could find little in common with the man.

  The seas coming on the bow produced an energetic dip and rise and an eagerness in the motion that Kydd could sense even this far aft. The willingness in his ship reached out to him and his moodiness eased. Looking around his cabin he felt a quickening of the spirit: he was captain of the ship, damn it, and he was a sad looby if he failed to make the most of it.

  “Tysoe!” he bellowed—he must find a bell or something: without a marine sentry outside ready to pass the word this was the only way he could send for his servant.

  Tysoe appeared quickly, only slightly aggrieved at the manner of the summons. “Sir?” he said quietly, now carrying himself nobly as befitted the manservant of the captain.

  “I shall have some veal for m’ dinner—an’ open one of the pino biancos to go with it.”

  “Certainly, sir. Could I be so bold as to remind you that your cabin stores include some pickled berberries that would accompany admirably?” The flecks of silver in the man’s bushy hair added maturity to his appearance and Kydd knew that he could expect Tysoe to function with distinction on any ship’s occasion.

  “Yes, rouse ’em out, if y’ will.” Tysoe inclined his head and left, Kydd smiling at the way he kept his dignity while bracing against Teazer’s playful movements.

  The papers on the desk, weighted with a half musket-ball, recalled him to duty. Captain’s Orders: now, just how did he want his ship run? For Teazer there were no precedents from a previous commander, no existing orders to copy and adopt, and Kydd had the chance to set out his own ideas.

  “Instructions and Standing Orders for the General Government and Discipline of His Majesty’s Sloop Teazer.” The well-remembered heading now preceded his own orders: he must start with due obeisance to His Majesty in Council, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and so on—Peck could be relied on to chase up the wording.

  And the meat. Conduct of the watch-on-deck with particular attention to the logs; the rough log of the mate-of-the-watch with entries by others listing provisions and stores expended, returned or condemned and so on, to be later taken to the appropriate officer for signature. And only then would the master deign to gather up the threads and transcribe this officially into the ship’s log for Kydd’s approval.

  The signal log: this would most certainly be used in evidence in any court-of-inquiry as would officers’ journals detailing the day’s events and any reckoning of their position; he would, of course, require that Dacres regularly submit his journal to him.

  The bulk of the rest would be as much advice as regulation: if the officer-of-the-watch sighted a strange sail at night, water shoaling—all the hundred and one things that could suddenly slam in on the unwary. If there was no provision for guidance in a Captain’s Orders the negligent could plead ignorance. Kydd’s rich experiences gave him an advantage in foreseeing these situations.

  There were whole sections on the duties of the first lieutenant, master, boatswain, even the petty officers. They would all be left in no doubt about their responsibilities, as far as Kydd was concerned.

  And on to working the ship: silence fore and aft when major manoeuvres were being performed; the precise line of demarcation between the captain, master and officer-of-the-watch, and other general matters. He debated whether to include instructions for topmen aloft for their varying situations but decided against it, not least because it was turning into a wearisome task indeed.

  Kydd was thankful for midday and his necessary appearance on deck at the noon sight, with its welcome vision of sun and sea. He left the others comparing their readings and returned to his cabin to find Tysoe standing solicitously with a cloth-encircled bottle and a steaming dish neatly set.

  While the men congregated noisily at their mess-tables and the officers gathered in their tiny gunroom Kydd sat down to his solitary dinner—and, be damned, he was going to enjoy it.

  A timid midshipman knocked later at the door with their workings, the position of the ship at noon by their own estimation. He had asked to see these but the two sheets had identical handwriting. To succeed in their profession the young gentlemen must know their navigation faultlessly—and individually. He would speak to Bowden.

  A passing shower pitter-pattered on the cabin deckhead above, then strengthened to a drumming and at the same time Teazer’s leaning lessened as the wind dropped. With a surge of sympathy Kydd realised they must be having a wet time of it on the upper decks working at their gun practice.

  When he picked up his own work again he focused on the people, the men and officers, aboard. His orders would see them properly clothed, the sanctity of their mealtimes preserved and hammocks maintained clean, lashed and stowed clear of seas flooding aboard. There was so much to think about—scrubbing decks: how often and by whom? Sea-chests or sea-bags allowed on the main deck? Slinging hammocks next to hatchways in bad weather? When to rig windsails for ventilation? It went on and on for as many things as Kydd could remember to include.

  Yet was this what it was to create a taut, happy ship? He well knew the answer: it all depended on the goodwill and intelligent practicality of his subordinates, and their success, inspired by himself, in drawing out a spirit of excellence, of unity and pride in themselves and their ship.

  The noise of the rain squall fell away and there was a sudden cry from a lookout. “Sail hoooo! Two sail three points t’ loo’ard!”

  Kydd dropped his work and scrambled to his feet, hastening on deck. “Sir!” Dacres pointed with his telescope. There were two vessels lying stopped together just ahead and to leeward, clearly surprised by Teazer’s sudden emergence from the shower.

  Heads turned to Kydd in expectation. “Y’r glass, Mr Dacres,” he snapped, and steadied the telescope on the pair.

  There was not much doubt: they were witnessing the predation of one vessel upon the other. No flag on either, but one had the unmistakable low, rakish lines of a corsair. Kydd’s eyes gleamed: he could not go far wrong if he took action. If the victim was friendly he would earn undying gratitude, and if enemy, Teazer would be taking her first prize.

  “Down y’r helm—set us alongside, Mr Bonnici!” he roared, thrusting back the telescope at Dacres. The last image he had seen was of an ants’ nest of activity on both decks as, no doubt, the corsair prepared to flee. A mile or so downwind and both vessels dead in the water; the circumstances could not have been better.

  “Brace round, y’ lubbers,” he bawled as, close-hauled, Teazer loosed bowlines and came round to lie before the wind, picking up speed now she was not in confrontation with the waves.

  “Hands t’ quarters!” he snapped. Wincing at the ridiculous drum, he was pleased nevertheless at the enthusiasm the gun crews showed: with wet clothing still clinging they readied their weapons for what must come. On both sides of the deck—eight 6-pounders a side—gun captains checked gunlocks, vents and tackle falls with ferocious concentration.

  The corsair was now poling off from the victim, on its three masts huge lateen yards showing signs of movement: it had to be a xebec and, judging from the polacre rig of its prey, this was a merchantman.

  In his excitement Kydd could not hold back a wolfish smile as they bore down on the two vessels and he could see that the others aboard Teazer were as exulta
nt. Stirk’s head popped up at the fore hatchway and its owner stared forward. His quarters were at the magazine but he obviously wanted to see what was going on.

  This was what Teazer had been built for—destined for! One by one reports were made to him of readiness for battle. Dacres’s quarters bill would be shortly tested. Kydd could see him forward, scribbling in a notebook. But it would be an easy baptism of fire for the ship: they would get no fierce broadside-to-broadside hammering from the undisciplined rabble in a corsair.

  The xebec had its sails abroad now: the two larger forward ones a-goosewing, spread on opposite sides to catch the following wind and the smaller mizzen taken in. Its low, wasp-like hull would give it speed but Teazer was no plodder.

  They were coming up fast on the merchant ship, which was untidily at sixes and sevens and with no clue as to its flag. Its side timbers were bleached and drab, the sails grey with service. However, Kydd had eyes only for the chase, which was making off with ever-increasing speed.

  “Cap’n, sir,” said the master, quietly. Kydd spared him a glance. “Sir, you’re not a-chasin’ this pirate?” Kydd frowned. Of course he was—the merchant ship would still be there after they had dealt with the corsair.

  “You c’n wager guineas on it, Mr Bonnici,” he said testily, and resumed his eager stare forward. The master subsided meekly.

  They plunged past the merchantman under every stitch of canvas they possessed. “Give ’em a gun, there,” he threw forward. “Let ’em know we’re not forgetting ’em,” he growled, in an aside to a solemn Dacres.

  Kydd snatched a glance at the master, who was watching events blank-faced. The chase was just what was wanted to sort out the real warriors among them, and if Bonnici was not up to it his days in Teazer were numbered.

  “Stretch out aloft, there, y’ old women!” he bellowed, to the foremast topmen who were sending up stuns’ls but making a sad mess of it. Kydd stared ahead through his pocket glass until his eyes watered, willing Teazer on. As far as he could judge they had a chance. The xebec seemed over-pressed with sail, with much white around its bows but not making the speeds he had seen in similar craft. One thing was certain: with the large number of men crowding its deck he would be very sure never to come close enough to allow them to board.

  A popping and a puff of smoke from its high, narrow stern was met with contemptuous laughter by the seamen in Teazer—they had no bow-chasers worth the name but all they needed was to come up with the vessel and settle the matter with a couple of broadsides. A xebec, like all corsairs, was intended to board and overwhelm, never to try conclusions with a warship.

  It began angling away, trying for a better slant, and Kydd was certain they were slowly overhauling it, now no more than a mile ahead. His excitement increased and he recognised a rising bloodlust.

  “The merchantman is falling astern, sir.”

  “Thank ye, Mr Dacres,” Kydd snapped. The ship was now at quite a distance, but it was still apparently immobile and could wait. Should he try a yaw? That involved suddenly throwing over the helm briefly to bring Teazer’s broadside to bear, but it would be at the cost of losing way in the chase and he could not allow that.

  It was fast and exhilarating, this hot-blooded flying after the corsair, knowing that there was little doubt about how the battle would end, and then a triumphant return to the grateful merchant ship.

  Kydd turned to his midshipman messenger. “Go an’ get my sword, if y’ will, Mr Martyn.” The heft of his fine fighting sword was satisfying and he saw that they were decidedly nearer. It would not be long now—neither darkness nor a friendly port would save their prey.

  Every eye forward was on the xebec. It seemed to hesitate, the big lateens shivering, the speed falling off. Surely not—it couldn’t be so easy. Teazer came on in fine style, Kydd giving away nothing to chance. The corsair’s aspect changed slightly to larboard. He would take it ranging up on his starboard side for the first broadside and then—

  As quick as a warhorse wheeling for the charge, the xebec’s sheets flew in and it slewed round. Was it trying to fall upon Teazer before it was ready in order to board her? “Stand by y’r guns!” Kydd roared.

  Heading back towards them at speed, its lofty lateens drawing hard, it seemed intent on a suicidal last charge. “Hands t’ shorten sail!” If the madman wanted a yardarm to yardarm smashing match, he would oblige.

  The sharp drawn bow of the corsair was aimed like a lance at Teazer and Kydd felt the first nagging doubt. What was going on? Had he missed something? His ship slowed ready for the struggle but the xebec still hurtled down on them. The cheers and pugnacious mockery faded away on Teazer at the bewildering sight.

  It was a successful manoeuvre for the xebec as its head-on charge prevented any of Teazer’s guns being brought to bear, but it could not last. Sheering suddenly to starboard it would pass down the brig’s larboard side. Then the action would begin, Kydd thought savagely.

  At the last possible moment the xebec sheered aside—now it must brave Teazer’s broadside. It angled nimbly away to increase the range before daring its passage. Kydd saw the evil craft under his guns and did not hesitate: “A broadside, on m’ word—fire!”

  Teazer’s guns spoke in anger for the first time. Her broadside, however, was more a ragged series of cracks than the full-throated blast that would have come from Tenacious. Kydd waited eagerly for the smoke to clear—but there were only some ragged holes low in the sails and no other significant damage he could see. The xebec slashed past in a flurry of white, largely untouched.

  But on one side Teazer was defenceless until the guns were reloaded. The corsair could now strike like a snake to lay itself alongside and board. “Load wi’ canister!” Kydd shouted urgently. He wheeled on the helm. “Hard t’ larboard!” This would bring their opposite broadside to bear if they were quick enough but Teazer seemed to be in thrall to the menace off to one side and turned so slowly.

  “Stand by t’ repel boarders!” Men not at the guns raced to the masts and to the stands of boarding pikes. Others went to the arms chests in the centre of the deck, casting anxious looks at the crowded deck of the xebec. Kydd drew his sword. They would shortly be fighting for their lives.

  Where would the strike come from? The corsair had passed Teazer but could now turn and fall away downwind to pass her again, or place itself across Teazer’s stern and grapple.

  “What the devil—?” The corsair was showing no interest in closing with Teazer. In fact, it continued on its course, steadily making off into the distance without so much as a backward glance.

  Teazer wallowed about on her turn, which was taking her away from the diminishing sight of the xebec. “Belay that—come up t’ the wind,” Kydd snapped. Teazer obediently stopped her turn and rotated back to face the way they had come—as far as she could.

  And then he understood. The chase had been long and downwind, the corsair had deliberately drawn Teazer after it and then at the right time had put about and, with its fore and aft rig superior in lying close to the wind, was now heading back upwind to the helpless merchantman to finish the job.

  Kydd’s face burned. To be gulled so easily! To let his fighting spirit heat his blood to the point where it had taken the place of cool reasoning! This was not how it was to be a successful captain. The corsair had made a cunning show of desperate flight, staying just out of reach, luring Kydd on and on before casting loose a hidden drag-sail and flying back to secure its prize. Teazer was left clawing back in slow tacks.

  Kydd stole a quick look at Bonnici, still standing impassive. He had known all along, and said nothing. Kydd’s embarrassment deepened. He glanced forward: there he saw Stirk at the fore hatchway, looking down the deck at him. While he watched, Stirk turned away and went below again. His humiliation was complete.

  Alone in the great cabin, Kydd balled his fists with frustration and bitterly went over the day’s events. The first lesson was burned into his soul for ever—never again would he allow the ardou
r of battle to cloud his reasoning; it needed more than dash and courage to be a leader of men. The feeling of shame, of every eye on him as he slunk below, would live with him for a very long time.

  From now on, it would be an icy calm, an automaton-like analysis of the situation and a ruthless focus on bringing about a victory. Nothing else would serve.

  There were other things, practical matters he had discovered. Teazer’s broadside was insufficient in weight of metal, although in accord with her establishment. Before he next sailed he would add carronades to his armament, by whatever means.

  And sail: he could see no real reason why he could not ship a main-yard in place of the cro’jack on the mainmast. At the moment it acted solely to spread the foot of the main topsail, which left the fore as the only course. More substantial sail area there would surely add speed, especially sailing by the wind and he had seen several Navy brig-sloops so fitted.

  But the chief objective for Kydd at the moment was to win back the trust and confidence of his ship’s company. When he met the corsair again on the open sea it would not hesitate to take on Teazer, knowing she had a raw and impetuous captain, ripe for the taking. Kydd was determined that next time things would be different.

  CHAPTER 5

  SET-FACED, IN FULL-DRESS AND SWORD, Kydd boarded his cutter for the pull across the busy stretch of Grand Harbour to Porta della Marina gate. His report for Pigot had cost him hours of word-grinding and now would be put to the test.

  “Toss y’r oars, God rot it!” his coxswain grated at the boat’s crew. Kydd noticed signs of resentment at Yates’s manner but all his focus was on the imminent meeting. He sat rigidly in the sternsheets rehearsing his words as the boat stroked across to the stone steps below the ramparts of Valletta.

  “Oars—I’ll split yore ear, y’ bugger, you feather like that agen!” Yates swore at the stroke oar. As bidden, the man ceased rowing but sat sullenly at his oar.