Command

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd stepped forward and spoke loudly: “Captain, it was a near-run thing. I’ll have ye know I’m proud of my ship, sir!” He paused for just a moment. “But I own, it was the Americans who beat us this day.”

  The frigate broke into a riot of cheering and noise. Bainbridge held out his hand. “I hope we meet again soon, Commander.”

  Gindler saw Kydd to the side. “It did me a power of good to see you, my friend,” he said quietly.

  “Aye—and we’ll be sure t’ meet again . . . an’ in better times f’r us both.” Kydd signalled to the pinnace and donned his hat.

  “And that was handsomely done of you, if I may say,” Gindler said, his glance as fond as a brother.

  Kydd murmured something, but Gindler cut him short. Leaning forward he said, in an odd manner, “If you’re returning to Malta, you will be passing by Lampedusa. You might wish to admire the scenery. It’s remarkable—especially in the sou’-sou’-west . . .”

  CHAPTER 7

  “RUN OUT!” The eight larboard six-pounders rumbled and fetched up against the solidity of the bulwark at the gun-port with a crash, the sailors at the side-tackles heaving like madmen at the cold iron. The gun captain threw up his hand to indicate that the exercise was finished—but three aimed rounds in four minutes was not good enough.

  “Mr Stirk, y’r men would not stand against a Caribbee mud-lark,” Kydd called irritably down the deck. “Shall we see some heavy in it this time?”

  It was now sure: thanks to Gindler, there would be a meeting shortly. And not with a despised privateer—this was a fully fitted out man-o’-war, an eight-pounder corvette of the French Navy, bigger, heavier and possibly faster than Teazer.

  Now that the reality was upon him the looming fight was awaking all kinds of feelings in Kydd; before, he could always glance back and see the captain standing nobly on his quarterdeck, a symbol of strength and authority to look to in a time of trial, the one who would see them safely through.

  But did he, Thomas Kydd, former perruquier of Guildford, have it in him? The simple act of taking command had become complicated by so many elements that were not amenable to plain thinking and common logic: men’s character, the probability of the enemy taking this course or that, and now the requirement that he should show himself as a strong commander, contemptuous of danger and sure of himself—a leader others would follow.

  His back straightened as he watched the men at their gunnery exercise. It was not simple duty and obeying orders that was making them sweat: an alchemy of character and leadership was turning their mechanical actions into a willing, purposeful working together. But was it for him or their ship? Or both?

  He was still in his twenties, but Kydd’s face was hardening. Lines of responsibility and authority had deepened and changed his aspect from the carefree young man he had been. The simple ambition that had driven his thirst for laurels had become multifaceted; his need for personal triumphs was now tempered by the knowledge that men were following him, trusting him, and he had a bounden duty to care for them. His quest for professional distinction must now be subordinate to so much else.

  The gun crews stood down, drinking thirstily at the scuttled butt after the strenuous exercise, but Kydd’s thoughts rushed on. They would be meeting the enemy shortly and much depended on him. The combat, when it came, would be far from the country he had sworn to defend, far out of sight of the Admiralty and the statesmen who had decreed that he and his men should be there to fight for them. He would strive to his utmost for a victory—but would he be able to forge that precious spirit of steadfast devotion in their cause that would bring Teazer’s company with him?

  When Stirk roared at a gun captain, Kydd threw off the mood and focused his thoughts. Lampedusa: a wretched little island to the south of the Sicily Channel, hardly inhabited. A temporary base for their quarry? Possibly, provided there was a suitable haven. Bonnici had surmised it could be Capo Ponente and a cove beyond of the sort apparently common there—rocky cave formations and small beaches well protected with ugly shoals.

  This left the question of the plan of attack. In the absence of any charts of scale worth the name it was a waste of time to attempt anything detailed. The only course he could see was simply to appear at where his best guess was for the corvette’s lair and be prepared for anything—assuming it was there and not on its trail of devastation on the high seas.

  The immediate future of Teazer and her entire ship’s company were now in his hands: in the morning men were going to live or die depending on the cunning and effectiveness of the course of action that he alone must come up with.

  He remembered Nelson’s tactics at the Nile. Expecting a classic fleet action at sea he had instead been confronted by the enemy securely at anchor, a wall of guns. Immediately he had conceived a brilliant and original plan. He sailed before the wind but had stern anchors ready to swing them to a stop alongside the enemy and his fleet had gone straight on to achieve a legendary victory. What was his own strategy compared to this?

  Kydd did not spend a good night: they would be off Capo Ponente at daybreak, ready at battle quarters.

  He was on deck well before the first light stole in to bring form and life to the dark waves. Then, the black mass of the island resolved into a featureless low tumbling coastline of bleached grey, and the masthead lookout screamed, “Deck hooo! Ship at anchor close in wi’ the land!”

  Kydd snapped from his muzzy fatigue. There was no doubt that this was Lampedusa, and there, in a cove between two small headlands about four miles away, was a ship-rigged vessel at anchor.

  Excited chatter broke out. “Still!” he roared. All eyes were upon him. This was the moment—the point at which he must justify his captaincy of a man-o’-war, and he needed to think.

  His senses brought the picture to him immediately: a coastline trending to the north-west from where the steady morning breeze was coming—winds would be parallel with the shore. If the ship was going to strike for the open sea then at best it could beat out at an angle from no better than seventy degrees off the wind close-hauled, to sail down the coast running free.

  With rising hope he knew what he must do. If he closed quickly with the entrance of the cove he would be in a position to force the enemy to battle as he emerged. The clear image of the ship through his telescope showed no sail bent on and therefore no capability to flee. Realisation dawned: he had trapped his quarry!

  A new respect showed in Dacres’s eyes as he approached for orders. “Remain at quarters,” Kydd said crisply, “We take him as he comes out—loose courses.”

  Teazer sped towards the distant ship. The enemy was at bay! Excitement took hold of Kydd as he went over in his mind what had been done to prepare.

  He noticed that he had increased the speed of his pacing about the decks and forced himself back to a confident stroll. “Pass th’ word for my sword,” he ordered. Fighting would start in hours.

  Then doubt rushed in like a returning tide. What proof had he that this was the ship he was pursuing? There were no colours, no one knew its distinguishing features. Was this all to be in vain? But, on the other hand, what was an innocent ship-rigged European-built vessel doing in such a place? Somehow he knew that this was La Fouine.

  If it was, they were in for a sharp fight. By eye he appeared about a quarter as big again as Teazer, and there were nine ports along that graceful side, an eighteen against their sixteen. If the report of eight-pounders was correct, Teazer was appreciably outgunned as well as out-manned. A twisted smile acknowledged the irony that he, the smaller, was assuming the role of aggressor.

  There was a chance, but he was raw and untried in the art of captaincy at war, while a significant unit of the French Navy on an independent cruise far from home would surely have an experienced and formidable commander.

  In all probability, within hours, the lovely Teazer would be a shattered ruin and . . . He fought to keep himself expressionless while he crushed the betraying thoughts. His ship would need e
very ounce of his strength and will in the near future and he would give it.

  “A cool one, sir,” Dacres said, beside him. “No sign of a fluster aboard even as we close.”

  Kydd said nothing, gazing through his glass at the vessel. Indeed, there were figures just visible on deck but, puzzlingly, none in the rigging as they bore down. “They know we’re here. That is sufficient,” he said.

  “Sir!” Bonnici was wearing a small-sword for the first time. Kydd wondered if the older man expected to be in a boarding party but assumed that it was probably more as a gesture for personal protection if they themselves were boarded.

  “Yes?”

  “I cannot advise but you mus’ not keep in wi’ the land. There are rock offshore, so many an’ not to be seen!” In the breakdown of his English there was no mistaking the man’s urgency. It brought a complication: if they remained offshore for their prey, the ship, with superior local knowledge, could slip through the shoals and away.

  “We take th’ risk,” Kydd snapped. But advancing with a leads-man in the chains forward was no way to go into battle and he had reluctantly to concede that there was a seaward limit to his approach. He lifted the telescope again. This time there was movement about his mizzen peak halliards and a flash of colour jerked aloft. The ensign of a French man-o’-war.

  There was now no doubt, and scattered cheers about the decks of Teazer showed that it had not been lost on the men. At this point it would be usual for the captain to step forward and deliver a stirring call to arms, to excite and inspire—but it was the last thing Kydd felt capable of doing. He was only too aware of the nervous excitement building and the challenge to his confidence, and was afraid that anything he said would come out too weakly.

  “We’ll shorten sail, I believe,” he ordered instead. They were close enough now that whatever La Fouine did they would be up with him quickly. They would be fighting in topsails. There was no point in racing past their target: the more sail-trimmers aloft the fewer on the guns.

  Kydd had decided how far in he was prepared to risk Teazer. They were rapidly approaching that point and still there was no move from the French to put to sea. He lifted the telescope and braced it, steadying the image, staring long and hard.

  He had been mistaken: there was sail bent to the yards, but it was in such a fine stow along the yardarms that he had not noticed it: La Fouine’s captain was a seaman. He was anchored side towards but then Kydd noticed the line dropping away from the stern-quarters. So it was at no chance angle that he lay—the captain had laid out a mooring by the bow and stern both, which kept his broadside trained resolutely on any who would dare enter the little cove.

  “They’re anchored by th’ stern as well,” he grunted, keeping the glass up.

  “Sir,” said Dacres.

  But it was not his problem, Kydd thought sourly; it was the captain’s. “Heave her to,” he growled, still searching with his telescope. Not a single move to ready for sea—they might as well have been alongside in their home port. “While he’s there we can’t touch him.”

  To approach the vessel they would have to present their unprotected bow for an unendurable pounding before they reached him—and, with unknown rocks lurking, tricky manoeuvring would be impossible. La Fouine was quite safe where she lay.

  “Sir, that point—”

  “God rot it f’r a poxy—!” Kydd exploded in useless anger. Although they were hove to and stopped in the water, an insistent current was slowly but surely urging them towards the low, rocky southerly point of the cove. And stretching well out from it were the tell-tale hurry and slop of dark irregularities in the wave pattern that betrayed the threat of unknown rocks below the surface. “Get sail on an’ take her out.”

  He bit his lip in frustration: this was not how it should be. Keyed up for a desperate clash of gunpowder and blades he had not expected a long wait until the Frenchman decided he was ready.

  “Boats, sir—a cutting out?”

  “No.” Dacres was a fool or worse to suggest that. Boats pulling madly towards a prepared warship would be blown out of the water even at night—and this captain would certainly have lookouts to detect an approach in any direction.

  “Er, land a gun an’ drive ’im out?” Purchet countered.

  Kydd ground his teeth. “No, damn y’r eyes—he’d be a prize simkin should he neglect t’ land sentries on both points, an’ that’s not the kind o’ man I think he is.” His sister’s patient tuition in polite discourse on his promotion to King’s officer was wilting fast under the strain.

  The quarterdeck fell into silence, Teazer obediently stretching out away from the shore—and Kydd’s only chance of making his name. “Wear about an’ keep us with th’ land,” he threw at Bonnici, whose expression remained blank.

  And still no sign of movement in the anchored vessel. Was it ever going to make a break for the open sea?

  Teazer closed rapidly with the coast again. “Pass th’ word for the purser.”

  “The—the purser, sir?” Dacres said in astonishment.

  “Yes, you heard. The purser.”

  Kydd kept his silence while Ellicott scrambled up the hatchway. “How many days’ vittles do we have at hand?” he asked the man.

  Ellicott shot a shrewd glance at the motionless French vessel. “Sir, as you remember, you gave directions—”

  “How—many—days?”

  “Er, no more’n three, five if we’re three upon four.”

  All La Fouine had to do was sit tight until Teazer had sailed away and then he could depart into the unknown. Kydd clenched his fists. No glorious fight, no conclusions, just a hungry and miserable return to Malta to report that he had seen the corvette, but had done nothing but leave him in peace.

  There had to be something. A rammer clattered to the deck at a nearby gun and the seaman shamefacedly retrieved it. Kydd swung round at the distraction, then realised the gun crews had been at quarters since dawn. “Stand down at y’r weapons,” he ordered loudly. There was no question about dismissing them in the face of the enemy but at least they could take a measure of relaxation at the guns. “And they shall have their grog. Mr Dacres?”

  The gun crews accepted their three-water rum on the upper deck from the grog-monkeys with hushed voices and stifled laughter. They would usually be in a roar of jollity below on the mess decks at this time. By the long custom of the service they were entitled to a double tot before battle and Kydd had ensured they got it. Besides, it gave him precious time to think.

  He paced up and down, oblivious of the glances that followed him. His passion had cooled and he now directed all his resources into cunning. La Fouine was bigger in all respects—by definition that probably meant defeat if they attempted a land battle even if he sent every last soul ashore to storm him. And a sea battle? He was more than willing to stand against this foe but how the devil was he going to drive him out?

  Then it came to him. “Mr Dacres, find me a trumpet, an’ someone who knows how to play one! This minute, d’ye hear?” Without waiting for a reply from the dumbfounded lieutenant he turned on his heels and went below. “Mr Peck! Rouse out y’r writing tackle an’ please to wait on me in ten minutes.” It would give him time to jot down a few ideas.

  He settled at the table. Now just how was it done? He knew what he wanted, but was hazy in the details. Was it not a chamade he was contemplating? A formal parlay? No, that was just the flourish of a trumpet necessary to get attention and a cease-fire. What was it called? Did it matter? He scrawled away.

  “Sir?”

  He motioned Peck to the other side of the table. “You c’n write Frenchy?” he said severely.

  “I do, sir, yes.”

  “Then write this—in y’r best round hand.” Peck busied himself with his quill and Kydd focused his thoughts. His mind produced an image of the French captain in his own cabin, frowning over a paper handed to him by a shadowy petty officer. He began composing.

  “Au capitaine de vaisseau—” No
, this was an unrated vessel, so, “Au capitaine de frégate La Fouine, au mouillage à Lampedusa ...” He presumed it was spelled the same way in French, if not then they could guess. Then the meat. That he was disappointed with the dull spirit of the famed French Revolution that they felt unable to try the fortune of their flag against such an insignificant and lone brig-sloop of His Majesty’s Navy. That for their convenience he was shortening sail and holding fire until they were both fairly on the open sea and would salute their flag with the utmost politeness before any act of hostility. In effect this was no less than a personal challenge.

  He waited for Peck to finish, then snatched the paper and scanned it quickly. The painful hours of learning with Renzi had yielded a workmanlike competence in the language but by no means a familiarity with the high-flown courtliness that seemed to be the style required in high diplomacy. But with a savage smile he decided that if he had erred on the side of plain speaking then so much the better. “Ask Mr Dacres t’ attend me,” he said to Peck. Dacres was fluent but Kydd did not want to be told what to say: they had to be his words—but with no misunderstandings.

  Dacres took the paper as if it would catch fire but manfully worked his way through it. “Sir, if I could suggest . . .” To Kydd they were footling changes but he allowed them in the final draft.

  “Did you find a trumpet?” he asked, when they had regained the deck.

  “Er, Able Seaman Ridoli—it would seem he has tolerable skill at the flügelhorn, which he assures me is a species of trumpet. As he will never be parted from his instrument, he therefore has it on board—”

  “Get him in the boat. Mr Bowden, ye know what to do? When you reach th’ rock, set Ridoli t’ play for a space, then return.”

  “May I know what he should play, sir?”

  “Damn it, I don’t know!” Kydd said irritably. “Some kind o’ tan-tara as the lobsterbacks like playing—use y’r initiative.”

  The boat left Teazer under a huge white flag of truce and headed shorewards. There was no response from the French, and through his telescope Kydd saw Bowden head purposefully for a prominent flat rock. There was a wild leap from the bowman and then Bowden and Ridoli clambered uncertainly through the seaweed to stand atop the craggy outcrop. Ridoli took up his instrument, glittering brassily in the sunlight and the mellow, haunting strains of some Italian air floated back across the wave-tops. Bowden waved him to silence and they boarded the boat again for the pull back.