Command

by Julian Stockwin

  The meeting broke up. A worried young lieutenant tried to ask Kydd about his role in a gunboat but Kydd brushed him off: he had other things on his mind. Smith was deep in conversation with a Turkish field officer and he waited impatiently for it to end, then the two began to move off together.

  “S-sir! If y’ please—”

  Smith broke off and turned to Kydd.

  “Sir, about y’r plicatiles . . .”

  “And do I hear an objection? Let me remind you, Mr Kydd, that I’ve gone out of my way to accede to your evident desire for the opportunity of distinguished conduct by an independent command—are you now about to renounce it?”

  “B-by no means, sir!” Kydd stuttered. “I shall bend m’ utmost endeavours. It’s—it’s just that . . .”

  “You find the service too challenging?” Smith’s eyebrows rose.

  “No, sir!”

  “Then I can safely leave the matter with you.” He turned his back and resumed his animated conversation with the Turk.

  “Be damned t’ you, sir!” the elderly colonel spluttered, his fist waving comically in the night air. “I’m not about to risk m’ men in that contraption! What kind o’ loobies d’ ye think we are?”

  A seaman patiently held the blunt prow of a boat for the milling and distrustful soldiers to board. But this was no stout and seaworthy naval launch—it was a flat, awkward beast built in sections joined with leather seams, a portable boat that had been carried across the desert on the backs of soldiers: a plicatile. It was now ready to take to the waters of the rejuvenated Lake Mareotis to catch the unsuspecting French in the rear. And it leaked like a colander.

  Kydd took a ragged breath. It had been a nightmare, ensuring that there were enough reliable seamen to conn the hundreds of craft and that each had a boat compass and dark-lantern, repair kits, balers and so on as well as the right fit of army stores. The tedious and bitingly cold night march through the anonymous sand had been preceded by days of Kydd’s organisation and planning that had taken its toll on his stamina, and he was in no mood to debate the wisdom of embarking the troops in the transport provided.

  “Then, sir, I’m t’ tell Gen’ral Hely-Hutchinson that his regiments refuse t’ move forward?” he retorted. “Th’ colonel says he might get his feet wet?”

  “Have a care, sir!” the officer spat dangerously. “I’ll remember your name, sir!”

  “Aye, Kydd it is—meanwhile . . . ?”

  All along the reedy “shore” of the new lake more and more of the plicatiles took to the water. It was vital that a credible force was assembled ready at the appointed point on the opposite shore at dawn. This implied a departure time of not later than two in the morning if they were to avoid being revealed by a rising moon. They had to board now.

  Stumping along the shoreline, shouting himself hoarse, goading, wheedling, ordering, it was a nightmare for Kydd. If the night succeeded, there would be not much more than an avuncular pat on the back: if he failed, the whole world would hear of it.

  He had also come to realise bitterly that Smith had probably engineered his removal ashore during this phase to remove a hungry rival for glory in the only true naval enterprise on offer. Dacres had been at first surprised, then transparently avaricious at the prospect of temporary command of Teazer and was now somewhere out to sea in her while Kydd stormed about in the marshes ashore.

  It was time: ready or not, they had to start. He fumbled for his silver boatswain’s call, set it to his lips and blasted the high and falling low of “carry on.” It was yet another thing to worry about, setting some thousands of men into an advance without the use of trumpets or other give-away signals. From up and down the line of shore came the echoing peal of other pipes sounding in a caterwaul of conflicting notes. They died away but then the first plicatiles tentatively began their long paddle across the invisible dark of the lake.

  In a fever of impatience Kydd watched their slow progress, but then more and more ventured out until the dark waters seemed full of a cloud of awkward shapes disappearing onwards into the night. Energised to desperate hope, he scrambled aboard the nearest and they pushed off. Water instantly began to collect in the flat bottom and sloshed about; Kydd growled at one of the nervous redcoats and threw him the baler.

  The boat felt unstable and Kydd was grateful for the absolute calm of the waters. He snapped at the four paddlers for greater efforts; he wanted to close with the main body ahead before they reached the other side. To his right despairing cries turned to shrieks. Why the devil could they not drown quietly? he mused blackly.

  Ahead, from what must be over the dunes to seaward, a rocket soared. Several others answered and distant gunflashes lit the sky, with continuous dull crumps and thuds. The sea diversion was beginning: if the French thought it was the main assault it would draw them there and the rear assault would have a chance—but if not . . . Kydd knew that if their own attack attracted the majority of defenders, the enterprise of the Navy would attempt a landing of their own: marines and seamen would be establishing a vital bridgehead while his lightly armed force was cut to pieces.

  “Stretch out, ye haymakin’ shabs!” he ground out fiercely, at the hapless soldiers plying the paddles. He had to be up with the others when they made their surprise move—but when they did, exactly what orders would he give?

  A soft edge to the darkness was turning into the first delicate flush of dawn. He could see ahead much further and the reed-fringed bank of the opposite shore materialised. Mercifully it seemed they had not yet been seen, and under cover of a low ridge the boats were touching ashore and being pulled up.

  An impossible mass of men was assembling at the water’s edge; he had not realised the minimum area of ground a thousand men or more must occupy. His feverish imagination rushed stark images into his mind of the muzzles of cannon suddenly appearing at the skyline to blast a storm of grape-shot and canister into the helpless crowds—what could he do? What orders should he give the moment he landed?

  The boat nudged into sandy mud and he splashed into the shore, urgently looking about and swallowing his concern. Then from random parts of the mass came stentorian bellows—he recognised the colonel’s—and up and down the milling mass other military shouts. Here and there pennons were raised high with regimental colours, attracting men to them. Order coalesced out of chaos and, with a sudden emptiness, Kydd knew his job was done. The Army was taking charge of its own.

  Columns formed, scouts and pickets trotted forward and the force prepared to move out in disciplined silence. The fireworks display was still playing out to sea but now the deeper thuds of heavier guns could be heard in the distance; closer to, the light tap of muskets became more insistent, then a marked flurry before dying away. The men moved forward into battle.

  • • •

  “That was clean done, Mr Kydd,” Smith said equably, seated in a tent in an encampment overlooking the city. He had resumed his Turkish raiment and, with the pasha of Egypt, was bubbling away on a hookah with every indication of enjoyment. “Achieved its object. With our fearsome motions from seaward and the sudden appearance of an unknown number of men in their rear, where before they felt safe they now have no other option than to retreat into the city. Well done, sir!”

  It was all very well for Smith to feel so complacent, Kydd thought sourly. He was the one mentioned in the general’s account.

  “I rather think it is now a matter for the French of treating for the most honourable capitulation they can get—they cannot continue, of course.” Polite words were exchanged with the pasha, who beamed at Kydd, accepting his best bow with an airy gesture.

  “It only remains to make a show of strength sufficient to allow Menou to yield honourably,” Smith continued. “Probably the squadron forcing the harbour entrance with guns run out should suffice.” He took another puff and finished smugly, “Then the whole of the Levant, north and south, east and west, will be ours. Makes you a mite proud at this time, don’t you think?”

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nbsp; “Aye, sir,” Kydd said heavily. “Should I square away Teazer for th’ entering?” At least he would be one of the triumphant ships entering the ancient port.

  Sir Sidney came back smoothly, “Sadly, that will not be possible. I require that you will take my dispatches to Malta. Their secure arrival is of importance.”

  Dispatches. While the last grand scenes of a great army of conquest capitulating to one of lesser number were played out, brought about by the unanswerable exercise of sea power of which HMS Teazer was a proud representative, she would not be present.

  Tysoe came in to set the table for dinner but saw Kydd staring through the stern-lights at the ship’s wake stretching away on a rapidly darkening sea. He left as quietly as he had entered.

  The situation was complex and not at all as Kydd had expected. With the final ejection of the French from the eastern Mediterranean it was probable that this part of the world would revert to a backwater, as far as naval occasions were concerned, but in the hours since they had left Alexandria for Malta he had made a reappraisal of his situation.

  It was not Teazer’s fault. Neither was it his. It was, as Renzi would strongly concur, in the nature of her being, that as a brig-sloop she had been designed for humble roles on a larger stage. It was therefore inappropriate and foolish to dream of glory and daring while his ship was faithfully doing the job for which she had been created.

  Now that the war had subsided there was never going to be a chance of real distinction. The wise course would be to take comfort and pleasure from her willing performance of these tasks and, while he could, taste to the full the sensations of command. There was only a short time left to him, perhaps a few months, before the commander-in-chief needed to satisfy a situation and he was replaced. His eyes pricked, but only for a moment: he would make the most of the days left to him before it was time to coil and belay his sea-going life.

  Tysoe appeared with wine, the glass glittering in the candlelight. Kydd did not make a habit of drinking alone, fearing it might take hold in the solitude of his great cabin, but this night was different.

  If it had to finish now there was much he could be proud of: there were precious few in the Navy who had made the awesome step from fo’c’sle to quarterdeck, and even fewer who had gone on to command their own ship. When he settled back in Guildford he would be a gentleman of consequence, one whom the townsfolk would point out to each other. When he settled . . .

  The cabin was now as he wished it; his eyes roamed wistfully over the miniature sideboard for his silver and the polished panelling with his pictures and a small framed old sea-chart of Anson’s day. He could sit six at the table at a pinch, although no occasion for such entertaining had presented itself, and he had been able to secure a neat little Argand lamp in its own gimbals for reading at night. There were other ornaments, keepsakes and a handsome mercury barometer, but without a woman’s touch it retained a pleasing masculine order.

  A swell lifted Teazer’s bows; as prettily as a maid at a dance she acknowledged with a lissome dip and unhurried rise as it passed down her length. Kydd warmed to the grace and charm that was so natural in these, her native seas. With such a lovely ship it would be brutish not to take pleasure in her embrace.

  Suddenly restless, he got to his feet, opened the door and pushed past a surprised Tysoe out on deck. The night had a velvety soft darkness that allowed the stars to blaze in unusual splendour in a celestial vastness so low it seemed possible to touch, while the light north African night breezes brought dry, pungent scents to blend with the comfortable smells of shipboard life.

  He became aware that the quiet drone of voices from the dark shapes around the wheel had ceased: the captain had come out on deck.

  Kydd moved across to them. “Good evening, Mr Dacres,” he said agreeably, and sensed the other relax—the captain was not on the prowl. “All’s well?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dacres answered cautiously.

  As captain, Kydd could expect no light conversation in the night watches; this was one of the crosses he must bear.

  Kydd turned to the midshipman. “Tell me, Mr Attard, where do I look t’ find the Pleiades?”

  The lad swivelled and pointed. “There, sir, the head o’ the bull—Taurus, I mean.”

  “Just so. Not as we’d use ’em f’r our navigating. And—”

  “The Arabs say El Nath, that’s ‘the one who butts,’ sir—and it’s the first of their zodiac, which they calls Al Thuraya, ‘the crowd,’ by which they mean a crowd of camels, and—”

  “Thank ’ee, Mr Attard. Ye knows the tongue o’ the Moors, then?”

  “Sir. Most who are born in Malta know it.” Now abashed before his captain he retreated into silence.

  Kydd looked up at the dark splash of sails against the star-field, moving gently, never still. He stood for a precious moment, then returned below.

  The next day was bright and clear and Kydd had no doubt of what he wanted. “A right good scrubbing, Mr Dacres. Brightwork agleam an’ get some hands aft to point every fall that ends on th’ quarterdeck.” He had no idea who his guests would be, but Commander Kydd would be entertaining in Teazer when they arrived in Malta.

  He was insistent, nonetheless, that there would be a live firing of the carronades; a round from three guns after loading practice. It was odd not to hear the squeal of gun-carriage trucks or men straining at the training tackle to simulate recoil. The sound of their firing was different as well: deeper-throated, perhaps, even though the powder charge was less. What was most satisfying was the massive plume sent up by the twenty-four-pound ball, but the scant range was still of some concern.

  By evening Teazer was trim and neat; they would be at moorings under the guns of the fortress of Malta by this time the following day and Kydd’s thoughts turned to those whom he felt he could invite to his little entertainment. It would be gratifying to a degree to have ladies attend; for some reason their presence always seemed to bring out the best in conversations and politeness. What his sister Cecilia would not give to host the evening, he thought wistfully.

  The final day of the voyage dawned with a light drizzle and murky skies, but later in the morning a fresh wind from the northwest cleared it away and the watch-on-deck was set to swabbing the wet decks dry.

  Over on the south-east horizon to leeward the lightening sea contrasted pleasingly with the uniform dark grey of the retreating cloud masses in a precise line, lighter sea to darker sky, the inverse of the normal order. The new wave of Romantic artists should take a sea voyage, thought Kydd, and capture striking scenes such as this, particularly when the white sails of a distant ship showed so dramatically against the dark grey, like the one now lifting above the horizon—“Be damned! Th’ lookouts, ahoy! Are you asleep? Why did y’ not sight that ship t’ loo’ard, ye rogues?”

  There was a lookout at the fore-topmast head, another at the main, but their attention was forward, each vying with the other to raise the cry of “Land ho!” when Malta came into view ahead.

  “Hold y’ course, Mr Dacres,” Kydd ordered. Carrying dispatches took precedence over all and therefore there was no need to stand towards and go through the motions of intercepting possible contraband. In the unlikely event of an enemy of force the security of the dispatches was paramount but Teazer was well on her way to Malta some dozen hours ahead.

  The brig plunged on close-hauled in the freshening breeze, the other vessel on the hard line of the horizon stood at a slight angle away, crossing her stern. “Sir, I do believe he’s signalling.” Dacres handed over his telescope: there was indeed a distinct dash of colour at the mizzen halliards but directly to leeward it was impossible to make out the flags.

  “Is she not Stag, sir?” Dacres asked. The vessel was now visible as ship-rigged and had come round to the wind and bore towards them. If it was Stag she must have good reason to wish to speak them and it would be prudent to await her.

  “We’ll heave to, I think,” Kydd ordered, still watching the vessel. Bows t
oward, it was difficult to make an identification. “Mr Bowden, hang out the private signal, if y’ please.”

  An answering hoist appeared at the main. “Er, still can’t make it out, sir,” Bowden reported. Kydd waited for the ship to come up with them.

  Then he stiffened. There was something about . . . He jerked up the glass and screwed his eyes in concentration. That fore topgallant, the dark patching that looked like stripes—it had to be! If that vessel was not La Fouine he was a Dutchman!

  Instantly his mind snapped to a steely focus: this was now much more than a simple incident at sea. The need for instant decision forced itself to the front of his consciousness—all matters such as the corvette’s reason to be so close to Malta would wait. Fight or flee? That was the question now.

  Arguments raced through his mind: dispatches were the priority, therefore strictly he should fly for the safety of Malta. Yet there had been occasions in the past when vessels carrying dispatches had offered battle, even tiny cutters, but they had generally been in a threatening situation and had had to fight for their lives. Could he justify it before a later court of inquiry if he decided to close with La Fouine and lost the day?

  On the other hand La Fouine was most certainly a grave danger to the trade of the islands as well as lying athwart the lines of supply to Egypt. Did he not have a duty to deal with such a threat?

  But all internal debate was a waste of time. In his heart he knew that he would fight. As simple as that: no explanations, no analysis—in the next few hours Teazer would face her enemy again and force a conclusion.

  Once this was decided Kydd’s mind raced over the alternatives. The overriding necessity was for Teazer to get her carronades close—La Fouine’s eight-pounders far out-ranged them and she could end lying off and being bombarded at leisure.

  What did Kydd have on his side? There was the element of surprise—but that only counted if he could manoeuvre Teazer to a killing range. What else? Yes! There was still surprise! At that very moment La Fouine was crowding on sail, thinking Teazer had been deceived by his false signals. Furthermore, he knew Teazer as a six-pounder brig and would have no hesitation in moving in for the kill. Finally, he had had the better of Kydd before, and would not be inclined to think it might be different this time. They had a chance.