“Hold her at this,” he ordered the conn, and roared, “Clear f’r action!” Seeing Bowden about to bend on the two huge battle ensigns he intervened and instead a puzzled “please repeat your last signal” rose slowly up while they wallowed in the brisk seas. To any spectator Teazer’s raw captain had clearly been taken in by La Fouine’s stratagem: he believed the other ship to be British and her signals unclear.
It would take nerve, and precise judgement: they had to be under way and manoeuvring before La Fouine reached them, but too early would not achieve their object of luring him near. There was apprehension on the quarterdeck—what was Kydd thinking, to lie helpless before the onrush of their enemy?
La Fouine knifed towards them; at the right distance Kydd hoisted an ensign and loosed his men in a panic-stricken effort to get away. A desperate last-minute attempt at tacking had them fall away helplessly in stays and, with savage delight, Kydd saw La Fouine shape course to come down and fall upon them.
Kydd sent for Stirk and told him what he was planning to do; the man grinned and went to each gun captain in turn. Dacres looked grave when he received his orders; Poulden’s reaction was a gratified salute. Now nothing more could be done.
La Fouine drew closer, coming in from astern as Teazer tried to make way after the “failure” of her tacking, her guns run out along her length, men standing forward to catch sight of their victim. There was an unmistakable air of triumph aboard: his bowsprit drew level with Teazer’s quarterdeck. Kydd was relying on the corvette’s cupidity: that they would not wish to damage their future prize unduly.
The first guns spoke: balls whistled overhead from La Fouine’s eight-pounders aimed high, and Teazer continued to claw into the wind, apparent panic on her decks. The corvette sheered confidently across, men massed on the fo’c’sle. Their purpose was all too plain—boarders!
Kydd watched the distance narrow and held his order until the moment was right—there would be only the one chance. He roared the command: Teazer’s helm went down and as she slewed across towards La Fouine the carronades blasted out together. Shot three times bigger still than La Fouine’s smashed into his vitals—but every other gun was loaded with canister on grapeshot and these turned his decks into a bloody charnel-house.
The shock and surprise were complete and the two ships came together in a splintering crash. Acrid gun-smoke hid Kydd’s final throw. Drawing his sword he leaped for the bulwarks and on to the enemy deck. Impelled by both dizzying nervous excitement and desperation he battered down a cutlass-wielding seaman’s defence then mercilessly impaled him. A pistol banged off next to him, catching another in the belly as a wild-eyed Frenchman lunged at Kydd with a pike, then dropped screaming. An officer with a rapier flicked it venomously at him but at that moment the two ships ground together again and they both staggered. Kydd regained his footing first and his blade took the man in the neck; the victim’s weapon clattered down as he clutched at the blood spurting over his white uniform facings.
“Teazers t’ me!” Kydd bellowed, seeing a gap in the milling mass and pounding aft towards the wheel. He heard others behind him and hoped they were his men; the two Frenchmen at the helm fled, leaving the area clear about the wheel. They were in a position to turn the tables on their attacker—but, to Kydd’s dismay, the smoke cleared to reveal the worst. The two ships had drifted apart and he was left stranded on the enemy deck with only the men who had been able to scramble across before it happened.
He looked round rapidly; none were behind him on the after end of the ship but, forward, the French had recognised the situation and were beginning to regroup. Teazer’s hull slid further away—there could be no help from her. Then the French charged and once again there was frantic hacking and slashing: Kydd had learned in a hard school and fought savagely.
They were being driven to their last stand—the afterdeck with the mizzen mast in the centre, then nothing further but the taffrail and the sea. Still the widening gap of sea between the two ships. Should he cry, “Enough,” then surrender and save lives?
In a split-second glance about the decks he noted a skylight in the centre of the deck and did not hesitate. “Here!” he bawled, and leaped feet first, smashing through the glass into the cabin below. Others tumbled after him in disarray. Staggering to his feet he saw that, as he had guessed, this was the great cabin. A flash and bang of a pistol from a side cabin made him wince, the bullet’s wind passing close to his face, but the man paid for his temerity at the point of Poulden’s cutlass.
Kydd reached the ornate door to the cabin spaces and barred it crudely, only just in time. There came the unmistakable sounds of men clattering down the main hatchway forward and battering at the door as the French seamen realised where they had gone. Soon there were ominous thumps and the wicked point of a pike pierced the door with a ringing thud. It was only a matter of time before the maddened men broke through.
The eyes of the men trapped below showed the whites—but then came the most beautiful sound in the world: the heavy smash of Teazer’s carronades. Those aboard had seen Kydd disappear below, leaving the deck clear and had obliged with grapeshot and canister once more.
The buffeting at the door faltered and stopped: the French were hastily returning to man the upper-deck guns but were being cut down by the murderous carronades. On the edge of reason with blood-lust, Kydd forced himself to cold control but when the crunch and grind of the ships’ coming together again sounded he threw back the door and, cheering frantically, he and his men burst on to the deck to take the defenders from behind just as they were overwhelmed by waves of Teazers swarming over the bulwarks.
They had won.
The great cabin of HMS Teazer was alive with laughter, feminine faces and excitement, the candlelight glinting on the ladies’ adornments and Captain Winthrop’s gold lace, and it was hard to concentrate in the hearty bedlam. Kydd, flushed and happy, sat at the head of the table and beamed at the world.
“Wine with ye, Mr Dacres!” he called across the table. It had been difficult to know whom to invite to his victory dinner and he had settled on Teazer’s other officer, with the frigate captain and an envious lieutenant-in-command of the only other man-o’-war in harbour. The two ladies were of Winthrop’s acquaintance and had been nearly overcome to be chosen to attend the most famous event in Malta.
Miss Peacock’s tinkling laugh at a sally by Dacres brought a smile to Winthrop’s weathered features. “My dear Kydd, I do wish you joy of your evening—it does one’s heart good to see audacity and courage at the cannon’s mouth rewarded in such measure!”
“I thank ye, sir, but do y’ not think—”
“No, I do not, Mr Kydd! You are fortune’s darling, for you have seized what she’s offered and turned it to best account. Go forth in trust to take your portion of glory and never again repine. Your health, sir!”
Red with embarrassment Kydd raised his glass and mumbled something.
“Of course things have changed for you now,” Winthrop said archly.
“Sir?”
“Why, it’s not every officer who may claim a gazette,” he said significantly.
“You think . . . ?”
“I do.”
With a sense of unreality, the implications of what Winthrop was saying dawned on Kydd. A famous action at sea was a matter of the deepest interest to the whole nation and it was now the established tradition that the personal dispatches of the senior officer concerned would be published in full in the London Gazette, the government’s publication of record, for all to peruse. His actual dispatch—his words—would appear along with the Court Circular, the highest legal notices and the weightiest of news and would, of course, be read by every noble and statesman in the land. Even the King himself would read it! The Naval Chronicle, of course, would want a fuller account and his few hours of madness would later be taken in thoughtfully by every ambitious naval officer . . .
“And it hardly needs remarking, no flag officer would dare to contemp
late the removal from command of an established hero. Sir, you have your distinction—you may nevermore fear that your ship be taken from you.”
When it had penetrated, a profound happiness suffused Kydd’s being to the very core. No more to fear the brusque letter of dismissal, the dread of being cast up on an uncaring land, the—
A scream of terror pierced the merriment and the cabin fell rapidly into a shocked silence. Everyone turned to Miss Peacock, who was staring into a corner, struck dumb with fright. Kydd hurried over to her and followed her pointing finger. Chuckling, he bent down and retrieved a petrified scrap of fur. “Sprits’l, bless y’ heart!” he said, turning to the throng. “Doesn’t care f’r cannon fire—we’ve searched the whole barky, fore ’n’ aft, looking for the little rascal!”
Miss Peacock came to see for herself. “Why, it’s a wee-bitty kitten!” she cooed, offering her finger to be licked. “It’s so thin, the poor bairn—to be kept in this awful ship to be fired at with guns! Whoever could do such a thing?”
“Miss Peacock,” said Kydd, “this is Able Seaman Sprits’l, a member of Teazer’s ship’s company, an’ he has his duties.” The button eyes moved about in sudden interest and the tiny nose twitched. “I’ve an idea he’ll need t’ be used to the sound o’ gunfire if he’s going to be a Teazer!”
CHAPTER 9
TEAZER WAS HEADING NORTH to the trading routes around the heel of Italy. She had been sent on a cruise of her own with the barely concealed purpose of acquiring a prize or two to line the pockets of her brave commander and crew.
They had been fortunate indeed: there had been remarkably little damage and only a small number with wounds, such was the speed with which it had all happened. The French captain, Reynaud, had been mortified at his misreading of Teazer and the result of his overweening confidence, and had sulked below during the short but triumphant journey back to Malta at Teazer’s tail.
It had done wonders for the Teazers’ morale, and as Kydd strolled about the decks that fine morning he was met with grins and respect; even Tysoe assumed a regal bearing.
For Kydd only one thing mattered: he had achieved distinction and his command was secure. He and Teazer would be together from now on.
And that meant he could make plans for both Teazer and her company. In Malta he had seen a new ship fitted with patent windsails for ventilation that would be perfect for keeping a flow of fresh air through the length of the mess deck. There were other things he had in mind: Yates, his coxswain, had been among the wounded left at the hospital and he would take the opportunity to rate up the cool-thinking Poulden to the position. Perhaps tonight he would invite the two midshipmen to dinner—they had grown considerably in both stature and confidence and were a lively pair . . .
His pleasant musings were interrupted by the lookout’s call of “Sail hoooo!” There had been sightings aplenty since their departure but only feluccas and other small vessels, not worth the wear and tear of a chase.
“Deck, ahoy! Ship-rigged, an’ holding f’r the north!”
A sizeable vessel. Was it predator or prey? That they had overhauled it under full sail suggested a fat-bellied merchant ship. This would be confirmed by a sudden sighting and hopeless bid for escape, but it would take a racehorse of a ship to outrun Teazer.
Kydd waited for the expected outcome—but, to his puzzlement, there was neither the instant reaching for the weather position of a man-o’-war nor the consternation and fleeing of a merchant vessel, simply a steady northward course.
Why such confidence? It might be a guiltless neutral or, even more unlikely in these waters, a friend, but its actions were not natural to either. Unknown sail was a threat until proved otherwise and this one seemed to have not a care in the world—or was it leading them into a trap?
“T’ quarters, Mr Dacres. I don’t trust th’ villain.” There were no colours evident but that was not significant: owners of merchant packets were not inclined to waste money on flags that would blow to tatters in weeks at sea.
By early afternoon they had come within gunshot of the vessel, which still held to its course. Doubled lookouts at the masthead could spy no skulking sail, no gathering jaws of a trap—it was deeply unsettling.
“It’s a plague ship, sir,” Dacres suggested unhappily.
It fitted the facts: the lack of activity in the rigging, the monotonous and unvarying course, the lack of fear. Kydd took his pocket telescope and trained it on the vessel’s decks. There were the usual small number of merchant-ship crew, just a couple about the wheel and a few others around the forebitts.
“Mr Dacres, there’s something amiss. Give ’em a gun.” A two-pounder ball sent up a plume ahead of the vessel. It had no effect. The ship stood on regardless, curious gazes on Teazer as she hauled up on them. Another gun brought a sudden burst of angry shouting that was incomprehensible, but no action.
“Half pistol shot t’ wind’d, Mr Bonnici,” Kydd grunted, at a loss to comprehend the situation. They closed and Kydd added, “This time I’ll have ye sight close enough t’ scratch his varnish.”
The threat brought a grudging heaving to, a sullen wallowing with backed sails. “Board him, Mr Dacres, an’ find out what he’s up to,” Kydd ordered. He had considered leading the party himself but he did not want to leave Teazer in this unknown situation.
“If it has plague—” Dacres protested feebly.
“He has nothing o’ the sort. He’s under our guns an’ you’ll take no nonsense. Two shots fr’m us to return directly, a wave of y’r hat should ye want assistance. We’re looking to a possible prize. Do y’ have the latest interrogatories?” he asked, referring to the questions issued by the Admiralty to assist boarding officers in their assessments.
“Aye aye, sir,” Dacres muttered.
The cutter pulled away smartly and disappeared round the leeward side of the ship while Kydd went below to his paperwork. It generally took an hour or so for the preliminaries of a prize boarding to be concluded.
After just ten minutes there was a knock on his door, and the message, “Sir, our boat is returning.” This made no sense and Kydd hurried on deck.
Dacres climbed over the bulwarks with an acutely worried expression. “Sir, may I see you privately?” he said urgently.
In Kydd’s cabin he looked about carefully, then closed the door firmly. “Sir, I have to inform you . . . If you’d please to read this.” It was a French commercial newspaper, not the government Le Moniteur, notorious for its lies and sweeping claims, but a sober publication from Marseille, intended for merchants and others in trade. A phrase blazed out in the headlines: “La Paix”—peace!
Kydd stumbled through the rest, and the impossible became real. Apparently for more than a week it had been known that negotiations for peace from the English government had been accepted and an armistice declared, pending full ratification.
Peace? It was not possible! Had not the French been thrown so recently out of their Oriental empire at great cost? And with brilliant victories this was not a time to be treating for peace! He held up the newspaper. It seemed ordinary enough, a little grubby, with a pencilled column of trading figures. There was nothing to suggest it was a forgery.
Now he understood the reason for the confidence, the steady course probably to a port on the other side of the Adriatic. Peace! The implications were endless—the treaty that must follow had to decide the fate of empires, colonies, whole peoples. Peace! In a world at war for nearly ten years it was hard to think in any other terms.
“Er, sir?” Dacres looked anxiously at his captain. “The people—when shall I . . .”
The men: how would they take the news? Kydd’s mind spun. He knew he could not keep it from them long. “Get back to th’ ship with our apologies an’ let ’em go. We return t’ Malta.”
The news had arrived in Malta the day after Teazer had sailed. Addington’s government had seen fit to accept humbling terms to secure any kind of peace in a war that was reaching titanic proportions, spreadi
ng over the globe and waged now by Britain on her own at an appalling cost.
It seemed that, for Downing Street, the limits had been reached, the price finally too great. From now on England would have to learn to live side by side in a world dominated by the colossus of France and First Consul Bonaparte.
Kydd landed in Malta amid a ferment of rumour and anxiety; there was widespread fear on the small island, which had done well under the umbrella of British protection. The population now faced a return to the rule of the ancient knights who had allowed in the French.
Cameron had no information and Pigot was less than helpful. Kydd’s only option was to report himself and his ship to the Commander-in-Chief, Keith, in person. Kydd realized the admiral would no longer be on blockade off Toulon: he would be falling back on Minorca and its capacious fleet anchorage.
The three-day voyage passed in a haze of unreality; the sea seemed full of ships going about their lawful occasions. Neither friend nor foe, all were now simply fellow seafarers. Dawn was not met at quarters, the guns’ charges were drawn and Teazer proceeded with only a signal swivel gun loaded. It was unnatural.
What did the future hold? Increased trade in the Mediterranean would require the guarantee of a naval presence but what would peacetime life be like? With a wry smile Kydd acknowledged that he had no idea: his entire time at sea, from pressed man to commander, had been spent at war.
There was one bright prospect, however: with all the fleet in harbour he would at last see his great friend Renzi, first lieutenant of Tenacious. There would be so much to tell and, for the first time since he had assumed the mantle of command, Kydd would know the company of one to whom he could at last unburden his soul.
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