“I’ll thank ye t’ be more civil, Yates, while I’m in th’ boat,” Kydd muttered, then addressed himself to the task of stepping out with his cocked hat, sword and frock coat unmarked.
He was met by General Pigot’s aide. “Good voyage, Captain?” he asked smoothly. “His Excellency will see you shortly.” Was Pigot now taking the airs of a governor? Kydd wondered wryly.
He did not have to wait long but the man seemed preoccupied. “An’ good morning to you, Captain,” he said, rummaging on his desk. “Blast it,” he muttered. “Was here before, dammit.” He glanced up. “An’ what can I do for you, Mr Kydd?”
“Ah, here is my report on th’ voyage just concluded, sir.”
“Oh? What kind o’ passage was it, then?” he said politely, as he put it down in front of him and went back to his rummaging.
“Er, we found Admiral Warren, sir, but he already had word o’ Ganteaume sailing.”
“Good. Our soldiers are very exposed at the landing, need ’em to be well protected. Anythin’ else?”
Kydd gulped. “We fell in with a merchantman being set upon by a pirate. I went in chase but—but he got away.”
“Tut tut—can’t be helped. Did you see Ganteaume at all? Blasted man seems to be everywhere these days.”
“I didn’t. No, sir.”
“Well, that’s that. You’ll be on your way, then?”
This was like no other naval operational discussion he knew of: what about the strategics of tasking his ship, an appraisal of intelligence, some kind of indication of future planning? What should he do now? “Er, sir, I’m a little hazy about what m’ duties are, an’ those of m’ ship. We have no senior officers until th’ fleet is here—er, do y’ have orders concerning me at all, sir?”
“Orders?” Pigot frowned. “From me? Does seem you have an odd notion of what we’re doin’ here.” He pursed his lips. “We—that is, the British—freed Malta from the Frenchies but this doesn’t mean t’ say that Malta is now ours.”
“Er, then whose—”
“In course, we have t’ give it back. To your knights—the Knights of St John who’ve been here since afore King Henry’s day. Meantimes we keep Malta in trust for ’em.”
“Are they returning to claim, sir?” Kydd asked.
“Ah—there we have a problem.”
“Sir?”
“The last Grand Master died in exile when he an’ the other knights were driven out by the French and the others elected a new—then asked the Tsar of Russia for a home an’ protection. He gave it—and now the Grand Master who wants t’ claim Malta is a Russian. So do you fancy a sovereign Russian territory astride the centre of the Mediterranean? Strongest fortress outside Gibraltar? Hostile t’ England? Neither do I, sir!”
“And so—”
“And so we stay until we’re told t’ hand ’em over an’ do nothing precipitate like.”
Kydd was beginning to see why there was such a lack of order in this place and no formal naval presence. Money would not be wasted on works that would have to be given up at any point. “Then you have no instructions for me, sir?” he persisted.
Pigot said gruffly, “Sir, I’m not one of your admirals as knows the sea. I recommend you find someone who does and take your orders from him.”
Kydd rose. “Thank you for y’r time, sir.”
It was all most irregular, Kydd pondered in the boat on the way back to his ship. If Pigot did not want him, who did? If he reported to the distant commander-in-chief off Toulon for clarification that would take weeks. By the letter of his orders he should attach himself to the “Malta Service”—if anyone could be termed senior officer of such an operational force he was obliged to accept that it was none other than himself.
No King’s ship was at liberty to do as she pleased: if he took to the high seas on his own account it was piracy—even the act of going to sea required orders of some kind, if only to cover the routine expenditure of stores accountable against the object of the voyage. By rights he should remain at moorings until he received specific orders for the employment of his ship.
Could he endure swinging about a buoy for long weeks— months? Was it even morally right to do so while others fought? No, that was intolerable.
He could think of one solution: he would issue orders to himself. Orders for the prosecution of the war in these waters: chasing down pirates, spying out for the French, other warlike moves—and, where unavoidable, carrying dispatches. It would, of course, be prudent to have them counter-signed. He brightened at the thought of his own war without a senior to interfere. A satisfied smile spread as he ordered his coxswain to turn about and return. This time he would go to the Grand Palace and see the civil commissioner on quite a different matter.
Cameron seemed mildly curious to see him. “Anything I can do, Cap’n?” he said cheerfully.
“Indeed, sir, there is,” began Kydd, importantly. “I have been placed in command o’ the Malta Naval Service, an’ I beg you will acquaint me with your chief concerns that they might be taken into account in our planning.”
“Malta Naval Service?” Cameron murmured absently.
“Aye, sir. The man-o’-war Teazer is returned from sea trials, as ye know . . .”
“Well, now, an’ I do have my worries as well you c’n understand.” He leaned back and regarded Kydd curiously. “An’ the chief one, o’ course, is trade protection, destroying th’ pests that infest these seas. We’re particularly vexed by privateers in the Sicily Channel—that’s your passage between Sicily and the Barbary coast. Quite upset the trade from the west. And then there’s always troubles around the Greek islands, Ligurians and similar.”
“A serious matter, sir.” That would be an aggressive war patrol to the west, then, showing the flag and spreading the dismaying news among the vermin of the sea that a Royal Navy warship was now to be reckoned with in their hunting grounds.
“But of most importance at the moment is the need to support our trade in the Adriatic.” Cameron rubbed his jaw speculatively. “What with the Italian ports in French hands directly across the water, it leaves only the Balkans in the whole eastern Mediterranean open to our cotton exports. You’d be doing us a great service should you be able t’ offer us any protection in that area.”
“O’ course, sir.” A fast strike north into the unsuspecting Ionians—he would have as much action as he could wish for in the near future.
“Excellent. Splendid.” Cameron leaned back in his chair. “I shall immediately issue a public notice to that effect.”
He got up from his chair and came round to Kydd. “This is fine news, and ye must know will give much heart to the people, sir.” Kydd mumbled an embarrassed acknowledgement. “It only needs us to agree the date when the convoy sails, then, Captain.”
“Convoy?” Kydd blurted.
“Yes, of course. And let me tell you, when they hear that it will be escorted b’ one of Nelson’s victorious sea officers, why, they’ll be fighting each other to be part o’ such a one!”
Outside Grand Harbour a tight cloud of sails massed. Of every conceivable shape and size, exotic and homely, all were united in the common objective of making it safely to Ragusa in the republic of Dubrovnik on the Balkan coast.
Any sight more different from the stern discipline of an Atlantic convoy would be difficult to conjure—no divisional pennants, masthead wefts, numbered columns or even identity vanes. Instead, in the five days left to him, a harassed Kydd had everyone he could find scribbling away at Convoy Instructions for the mass of ships.
All that could be expected was the bare minimum: private recognition signals and one or two for manoeuvring. The formation of the convoy was to be simply a giant advancing square with the escort to windward. It was the best he could do.
A single gun from Teazer’s fo’c’sle set the whole mass in motion, an enthusiastic scrambling of sail to fit within the square defined by the four marker ships Kydd had chosen and which bore the distinctive Republic of D
ubrovnik flag above the British. Kydd’s strict orders were that any vessel that strayed from this square for any reason, impatience or laggardliness, would no longer be considered under protection.
It was crazy—by count about twenty-seven merchant ships and a single escort—but Kydd was determined to see it through. “Take us t’ wind’ard, Mr Bonnici,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll have th’ ship ready t’ drop down on any who make a false move against us.”
Teazer eased into position on the weather side of the square and trimmed canvas to stay with the slow-moving crowd of sail. Kydd remained on deck until he was sure the convoy was on its way, then turned to the officer-of-the-watch and said, “I’m going below, Mr Dacres. Call me if ye think there’s anything amiss.”
He climbed into his cot without undressing.
There was no incident for three days: the convoy was getting used to sailing together, a singular thing for merchantmen who had no real conception of using the set of the sails to spill wind in order to match speed to that of others.
The square was still more or less together, but now they were approaching the choke point of the Strait of Otranto where it was almost possible to see the coasts of Italy and Albania at the same time, and where any predators could be expected.
As the morning light displaced the darkness of night on the fourth day, at the narrowest part of the strait with a rugged blue coast distantly to starboard, company was spotted. A pair of small but speedy vessels paced together some way off to leeward of the convoy. Their lazy progress, just out of gun range, was that of sharks cruising round a school of frightened fish.
Kydd lowered his telescope and turned to Bonnici. “It’s a xebec I recognise, but what’s th’ other?” It was more substantially built than the low, fine-lined xebec, and on the very much smaller lateen mizzen a tiny but complete square sail topped the mast.
“They both Algerines,” Bonnici said quietly, as though they could be overheard.
For Barbary pirates ranging far from their desert lair this larger vessel would hold their stores and booty while the smaller xebec could swarm aboard their selected victim. At eight guns a side, though, it would not do to dismiss the larger too lightly.
“The large, he a barca—do not confuse wi’ the Spanish one,” Bonnici added, carefully studying it with the glass.
Those of the convoy nearest shied away from the threat, huddling closer. If any of the deep-laden merchantmen ran a-foul of another they would be instant prey—Kydd could not risk leaving the others and they would be on their own. He tried not to think of the fate in store for any small merchant crew overwhelmed by Barbary pirates.
The evil pair, however, did not appear in any hurry as they glided along with the convoy, no doubt picking out victims.
Kydd was confident Teazer could win against either of them and probably both, but this was not in question. The safety of his convoy was. He could not leave his precious windward position for the sake of a few weak sailers and race down on the pirates through the convoy to rout them, then be faced with a long beat back against the wind to save the rest.
The raiders would probably take one or two hapless ships on the fringes and then fall back, knowing Kydd could not pursue.
“Mr Dacres—Mr Bowden, I have a service for ye. Now, mark m’ words, an’ let there be no mistake . . .”
The two Algerines made their move not much more than an hour later straight at the heart of the convoy. Wheeling about, the two vessels leaned into the wind. Unknown pennons streamed from the tip of their lateen yards as they readied for the onslaught.
Instantly a complex hoist soared up from Teazer’s signal halliards, then another. The pirates slashed onwards, but from one of the convoy’s front marker ships then from a rear one answering signals streamed out. Large battle ensigns broke out bravely on both ships and they threw over their helm to lay a course directly for the Algerines.
The “trap” was well sprung and it did not take the attackers long to realise their danger. With a brig-of-war bearing down on them directly and several obviously disguised warships closing in fast on both flanks they were not going to stay and dispute. They turned about abruptly and fled.
Teazer recovered her signal teams from the marker ships and resumed her vigil. Climbing back aboard, Lieutenant Dacres smiled uncharacteristically. “Such a to-do, you’d never have believed it—I had to draw my sword on the craven villains to get them to conform!”
The rector of the Republic of Dubrovnik himself came aboard with the thanks of the merchant community when the convoy was delivered safely, but Kydd needed to press on. After an uneventful return passage, the massive crenellations of Malta were a welcome sight. He wished that Renzi was there to admire the ancient town with its long city wall and stonework mellowed by the centuries. He was probably still in Tenacious, first lieutenant of an old and weary ship with a vindictive captain. And on endless blockade.
Teazer found her berth again in Dockyard Creek and Kydd gave leave to all the Maltese hands. With certain employment in difficult times they could be relied on to return and their absence released space for the rest.
The muster book had to be sent to Gibraltar and proved before pay could be authorised, and even then it might be months in arrears. The British sailors would have only what they had kept from their previous ship but Jack Tar would never be renowned for frugal habits. Not for nothing was it said, “They earn money like horses and spend it like asses.” Kydd resolved to try for an advance from the clerk of the cheque in the dockyard.
The shipwrights and riggers tut-tutted over the amount of extra rigging, blocks, pendants, clew garnets and the rest involved in spreading a main-yard but it was the appearance of young Attard, brimming over with self-confidence and full of salty yarns about his experiences, that most eased the process, and Teazer prepared for her new sail, the langard mainsail.
It was more difficult in the matter of carronades. It was not a weapon much seen in Mediterranean arsenals and in the peculiar circumstances of Malta the Board of Ordnance did not figure at all.
No carronades but still, Kydd accepted, six-pounders were not to be despised; Teazer’s sixteen long sixes were normally more than enough to settle an argument with a privateer, and even if they were to find carronades it would mean re-equipping with special slides in place of the usual wheeled gun-carriage.
Kydd returned to his ship; there would be some delay while these improvements were put in train and he had time on his hands. “Mr Dacres.”
His lieutenant came across the quarterdeck from where he had been watching the movements of the exotic little craft about the great harbour.
Kydd removed his cocked hat and smiled. “I have a mind t’ step ashore and see a little o’ Malta. I thought to hire a carriage, save m’ legs a hard beat t’ windward. I wonder if ye’d care t’ join me f’r the day?”
“I would like that, sir,” he replied, but then added, “But without we have a pilot with Italian or the Maltese lingo, I fear we would be at a stand.”
“O’ course. Then as this is a problem o’ navigation, who better than our master t’ plot the course?”
The sun was warm to the skin and had a benign cast that set the mood for Kydd. For the first time in weeks he could let tranquillity take hold. In the sternsheets of the cutter he relaxed against the backboard and grinned at Dacres in the sheer escapism of the moment, but Dacres only smiled back politely.
“Mr Bonnici,” Kydd asked, “I’m intrigued t’ know—who was it built this mighty place? Seems t’ me that it’s the strongest citadel in all Europe.”
“Well, sir,” Bonnici said, “ye have to understan’ that in the time of your Queen Elizabet’ we were attack by the Turk, an’ suffer a long and cruel siege. We win, but the knights say they never suffer such again, an’ build Valletta—only fifteen year and finished!” he said proudly.
Kydd picked up the “your” and wondered at Bonnici’s loyalty, but remembered his years of service to the Royal Navy. “They did
a fine job, right enough. An’ since then, Mr Bonnici, has any dared t’ invade Malta?” In the magnificence of Grand Harbour the island seemed one extended fortress and quite impregnable.
“None, sir,” said Bonnici, simply. “The French were let here b’ treachery, no fight.” He stopped and added, “Ah, none saving th’ English—only one time Malta taken, an’ that was you, last year against the French.”
“I rather fancy you’re glad to see the back of them,” Dacres murmured.
“Yes!” Bonnici spat with the first emotion Kydd had seen him display. “They come as robber, bandit—take fr’m our church an’ the people. We hunger, starve, our trade finish. They say they come as liberatore, to throw out th’ knights, but really they wan’ to take, seize.”
Kydd let him subside then asked, “Where are th’ knights now, then?”
“The Gran’ Master and most o’ the knights go to Russia an’ wait to return,” he finished abruptly.
“You don’t want ’em back?”
“For me—no, sir, they are no good f’r Malta.”
“But if they are Maltese—y’ knows, of th’ noble orders—”
“They are not, sir. They come in th’ year 1530. Ver’ old, but they given Malta by others.”
“So you were before . . . ?”
“No, sir. The Normans were here before, the Count Roger.”
“And before then, you?”
“No, sir. Before them the Arab, an’ before them the Greeks.”
“I see.”
“Before them th’ east Roman, an’ the empire, they call it Melita.”
“And—”
“The Carthaginian before, stay seven hundred years. An’ before them . . .”
“Er, yes?”
“Before them many say we are giants—at Tarxien, in the country, are strange an’ magic dwelling of stones, even th’ wisest cannot tell of them . . .”
The boat approached the landing place on the flanks of the fortress city and Yates stood for the final approach. “Hold water larb’d, give way starb’d—Jones, y’ fawney bastard, ye’re nothing but a mumpin’ packet rat. Do I ’ave ter show y’ how?”
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