Command (11 page)

He saw Renzi’s expression assume a saintly sorrow, as it always did when there was a hard truth. And he knew what it was before the vision faded. He was the captain: there was no other alternative than that he must find the strength, courage and intelligence from within himself.

“Let go!” HMS
Teazer
’s last bond with the land was cast off; her jack forward was struck and her largest ensign, the blue of the Mediterranean Fleet, soared up her main halliards just as the crack of her salute to General Pigot sent gun-smoke wreathing agreeably across Kydd’s nostrils.

In the brisk southerly,
Teazer
leaned to the wind, eased cautiously to the north-east in the busy harbour and made for the open water. The following seas, with their swelling rhythm from astern, seemed to urge the ship on to adventures ahead.

“Mr Dacres!” Kydd called across the quarterdeck. “Set sea watches, starbowlines to muster.” From now on there would always be at least half of
Teazer
’s complement closed up on watch, ready to meet any challenge at every hour of day and night until they made port again.

He stood looking on as the watch mustered. The petty officers were consulting their lists and jollying the tardy to their stations.

It was satisfying to feel the familiar routines establish themselves and Kydd found it difficult to keep a stern appearance.

He saw Stirk approaching. With a grin that could best be described as huge, he said, “Ready t’ scale the guns, sir.”

Kydd smothered an answering smile. “Carry on, Mr Stirk.”

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The six-pounders had been in store at the arsenal long enough for rust to form in the bores and scaling by dry firing would scour them clear. Soon the flat
blang
of the reduced charges sounded along the deck.

He looked across at Dacres. “You have th’ ship. Course east b’

south, all plain sail.”

As simple as that! He brightened at the thought of never having to stand a watch again, instead taking charge or handing over whenever he felt inclined. “Aye aye, sir,” Dacres murmured, and went to the conn.

Kydd knew he should go below and start on the work that was waiting in neat piles on his desk but it was too exhilarating on deck with the regular heave of the waves under the keel and their stately move forward, the boundless blue expanse of sea, flecked with white under a perfect Mediterranean sun.

The log was cast and the result pegged on the traverse board: nine and a half knots. Given the lateness in the day, he would leave until tomorrow the agreeable task of exploring
Teazer
’s sailing qualities and quirks to bring out the best in her. The southerly was veering more to the west but holding steady—they should have a soldier’s wind in the morning.

Eight bells, the first dog-watch. The decks cleared as men went below for grog and their supper. It would be a cheerful conclusion to the day for them and Kydd could picture the jollity as they settled in with new chums, shipmates who would share with them the dangers aloft and in the fighting for their lives. The talk would be of their new ship, the calibre of their officers, their prospects for their voyaging and, the most important topic of all, their new captain.

Alone on deck but for the lookouts and the small group at the helm, Kydd felt even more the peculiar isolation of his position, the utter absence of any he could relax with in the same way.

This was the hidden price for the fulfilment of his ambitions. In
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Julian Stockwin

the gathering dusk he became aware of the flash of eyes in the cluster by the helm: they were affronted by the captain’s continued presence on deck, his implied lack of trust in them. Kydd turned and went below.

“Oh, sir,” said Tysoe reprovingly, “you never sent word. Your supper is no longer hot. Shall I tell the steward—”

His cabin table was spread. “No, thank ’ee,” Kydd said: the galley fire was probably out by now. He had forgotten the behind-the-scenes activity that accompanied even the smallest domestic want of the captain. “Open a claret an’ I’ll take a glass. The rest t’ go to the midshipmen’s berth.” The small gesture might help to allay the anxieties of the two new faces going to sea for the first time, perhaps even hinting that their captain was of the human species.

He sat alone by the light of a candle, chewing tepid cutlets and sad greens, feeling by turns dispirited and exalted. Hammocks were piped down—he had ordered that for tonight going to quarters could be overlooked—and the watch below turned in. After Tysoe had cleared away, Kydd pulled over the pile of papers and set to. A knock on the door an hour or so later interrupted his concentration. It was Laffin, with the thick-set figure of another seaman in the shadows behind carrying a dim lanthorn.

“Sir. Galley fire doused, lights are out fore ’n’ aft, two inches in th’ well, no men in bilboes,” Laffin said impassively. As a boatswain’s mate in a sloop he took the duties of a master-at-arms, which included ship’s security.

“Thank ye, Laffin,” Kydd said. These reports, made to him as captain, allowed the silent hours officially to begin.

“Er, do you . . .” For some reason he was reluctant to let Laffin go. “. . . go an’ prove the lookouts,” he finished lamely.

“Aye aye, sir,” the seaman said stolidly.

Kydd put aside the paperwork and retired for the night, but he lay awake in his cot, mind racing as he reviewed the day, senses

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7

jerked to full alert by every unknown noise in the new ship, then lulled as his seaman’s ear resolved them into patterns falling in with the regular motions of the invisible ocean.

The wind had freshened in the night and the morning dawned bright and boisterous, white horses on a following deep blue sea.

Teazer
’s sturdy bowsprit rose and fell. Kydd was concerned to notice the foredeck flood several times, even in these moderate conditions, the water sluicing aft before it was shed to the scup-pers—with the working of the vessel’s seams this would translate into wet hammocks for those below.

He heard a tinny sound above the sea noises: a young sailor at the main hatchway was enthusiastically beating away at an odd-looking small drum, breaking into the ordered calm of the early morning.

“Wha—”

“Quarters, sir,” said Bowden, hiding a smile. As master’s mate, he was taking watches opposite Dacres and had the deck. Kydd wondered at his confidence: he remembered his own first watch on deck as an officer and the nervous apprehension he had felt.

But that drum would have to go: the martial thunder of
Tenacious
’s marine drums left no doubt about their purpose—

the men to close up at their guns to meet the dawn prepared for what the new day would reveal.

With no enemy sail sighted, quarters were stood down, hammocks piped up and the men went to breakfast. There was no need for Kydd to remain on deck but he found it hard to stand aside from the routine working of the ship. He had been an in-timate part of it since he had first gone to sea, and particularly since he had become an officer.

He turned abruptly and went below to his cabin. If he chose, there was nothing to stop him remaining in the comforts of his great cabin for the entire day—but then he would not
know
what

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was going on on deck. “Thank ye, Tysoe,” he said, as the man brought in coffee. As routines became evident Kydd’s needs were being intelligently anticipated: Kydd blessed his choice those years ago of Tysoe as servant.

An unexpected surge of contentment surfaced as he gazed through his stern windows at the swelling seas.
Teazer
had a pleasing motion, predictable and rarely hesitating—that was the sign of sea-kindliness: neither crank nor tender, she would lean before the buffets of wind and sea and smoothly return to a stable uprightness.

Today he would discover more of his men and his ship. Dacres was the most imperative task: he was the entire officer corps of
Teazer
and, in practical terms, a deputy-captain. Kydd needed a right-hand man—but, more than that, someone he could confide in, trust, one with whom he could not only mull over ideas and plans but whom he could place in hazardous situations and discover how far he could rely on him. The trouble was that Dacres’s studiously polite but reserved manner made him difficult to approach.

As he finished his coffee, the thumping of bare feet sounded loud on the deckhead above. It would be the afterguard racing across the top of his cabin to the cro’jack braces, which, as in all Navy ships, were crossed and led aft. He longed to know why they were being tended but forced himself to stay seated.

Then the ship heeled to larboard for a space before returning. It was too much. He left his cabin, just remembering his hat, and bounded on deck. A quick glance at the binnacle and out over the exuberant seas told him, however, that all was well. He saw Dacres steadying himself by the weather main shrouds and looking fixedly forward.

At Kydd’s appearance, Dacres moved to leeward, as was the custom. Kydd asked him, “How does she go for ye, Mr Dacres?”

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1

Dacres glanced at him briefly, his pale face taut, then hastily looked away without speaking.

Kydd frowned. “I said, how is she, Mr Dacres?”

The officer remained silent, obstinately turned away. If there was going to be bad blood between them due to some imagined slight the situation would become impossible. “Mr Dacres. I desire you should wait on me in my cabin—directly, if y’ please!”

he snapped, and strode below.

“Now, sir!” he said, rounding on Dacres as he entered. “You’ll tell me what it is ails ye, d’ye hear me?”

Holding to one side of the desk with
Teazer
’s lively motion Dacres stared at Kydd. His eyes were dark pits and he seemed to have difficulty forming the words. Kydd felt a stab of apprehension.

Dacres tensed, his eyes beseeching. Then he swung away in misery, scrambling to get out. Kydd heard the sound of helpless retching from beyond the door.

The south-westerly hauled round steadily, now with more than a little of the north in it until
Teazer
was stretching out on the larboard tack in a fine board deep into the eastern Mediterranean.

More close-hauled, the motion was steadier but the angle of the waves marching in on the quarter imparted a spirited twist to the top of each heave.

This rendered Dacres helpless with seasickness. Kydd left him to claw back his sea legs, trusting in his sense of duty to return to his responsibilities as soon as he was able. For a sailor it was different: seasickness was not recognised as a malady and any man found leaning over the side was considered to be shirking and failing his shipmates. A rope’s end was hard medicine, but who was to say that it was not a better way to force attention away from self-misery?

The morning wore on: it was approaching noon. “Mr Bowden!

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Where are y’r young gentlemen? The heavens wait f’r no man. I will see them on th’ quarterdeck one bell before noon or know the reason why, sir!” Kydd growled.

The two new midshipmen could not have been more different. Attard, the nominee of the dockyard, was slightly older at fifteen. Wary but self-possessed, he clearly knew his way about ships. The other, Martyn, was diffident and delicately built, with the features of an artist.

“Carry on, Mr Bowden,” Kydd said, but stayed to observe their instruction in the noon sight ceremony.

Martyn struggled with his brand new sextant. It was a challenge to any to wield an instrument in the lively motion of the brig and Kydd sympathised. Attard had a well-used piece that seemed too heavy but Bowden’s easy flourishes encouraged them both.

Kydd adopted a small-ship straddle, standing with legs well apart, feet planted firmly on the deck with a spring in the knee, then lifted his octant. He noticed Bowden’s imitation—he was learning quickly.

Local apparent noon came and went; Bowden and the young lads importantly noted their readings and retired for the calculations. Kydd delayed going below: the prospect from the quarterdeck was grand—taut new pale sails and freshly blacked rigging against the spotless deep-blue and white horses of the sea. With the brisk westerly tasting of salt,
Teazer
was showing every sign of being an outstanding sailer.

The four days to the rendezvous saw Dacres recover and
Teazer
become ever more shipshape. The boatswain twice had the brig hove to while the lee shrouds were taken up at the lanyards where the new cordage had stretched, and the marks tied to the braces to indicate the sharp-up position were moved in. And, as Kydd had surmised, a light forefoot made for a drier fo’c’sle but livelier

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3

motion. He was getting to know his tight-found little ship—and loving her the more.

At fifty miles north of Alexandria the fleet rendezvous was an easy enough navigational target, a line rather than a point, the latitude of thirty-one degrees forty-five minutes.

Kydd felt anxious at the thought of meeting an admiral for the first time as a commander. Sir John was known to be a stickler for the proprieties and probably had his powerful force arrayed in line ahead with all the panoply of a crack squadron at sea—

gun salutes of the right number, frigate scouts to whom a humble brig-sloop would tug the forelock and all manner of other touchy observances.

Yet
Teazer
was the bearer of dispatches—news—and for a short time she would be the centre of attention. As the rendezvous approached Kydd saw to it that her decks were scrubbed and holystoned to a pristine paleness, her brightwork gleaming and guns readied for salutes.

Before sailing from Malta, the dispatches had been placed into padlocked canvas bags weighted with grape-shot. Kydd took them out and placed them on his desk in anticipation of the instant summons he expected; his dress uniform and sword were ready in his cabin and his coxswain went off to prepare his boat’s crew.