Command (12 page)

They reached the western end of the rendezvous line: all that was necessary now was to run down the line of latitude until the squadron was sighted. At the foretop there was now a pair of lookouts and Bowden had two seamen at the main as signals party. They were leaving nothing to chance. “Th’ foretop lookouts, ahoy!” bellowed Kydd, “T’ keep y’ eyes open or I’ll . . . I’ll have ye!”

They shaped course eastwards along the line. With a height-of-eye of eighty feet at the main they would be able to spy the royals of a ship-of-the-line from a fifty-mile broad front in clear

4

Julian Stockwin

weather. In the quartering winds
Teazer
was at her best point of sailing and foamed along at speed.

By noon, however, they had nearly reached the mid-point of the thirty-mile line with Warren’s squadron not yet in sight. Kydd was aware of the momentous events taking place not so far to the south, the landings near Alexandria intended to wrest the whole of Egypt and the Levant from the French. But if the dispatches did not reach their intended recipient in time it left the whole seaward approaches wide open to Ganteaume.

Towards evening they finally reached the other end of the line with still no sighting. In the privacy of his cabin Kydd checked his orders yet again: the rendezvous was specified in two distinct places and could not be in error. Might there be in fact two locations as there were off Toulon, for close in and more distant? If so, it was never mentioned in orders. Had the squadron sailed on further beyond the end of the line due to navigational error? With the figuring of half a dozen ships to rely on, this was unlikely. Was their own navigation at fault? Had he missed the delivery of his charges through some ridiculous oversight?

Kydd chose to sail beyond the end of the line until dark before going about and returning. The night-recognition signals he had on hand only applied to Keith’s main fleet; he had none for Warren’s detached squadron. Tension increased as
Teazer
wore round and snugged down to double-reefed topsails, waiting for dawn.

Daybreak brought with it no welcome sight of sail, only the empty vastness of the sea. The westerly now headed them and Kydd could make progress only in long, uneven tacks each side of the line, a wearying sequence that had the brig going about twice in every watch with no assurance that they would intercept the squadron.

They reached the mid-point of the line: still no sign. They approached the western end of the line—ominously there was not a sail in sight anywhere. For Kydd, the elation and excitement of

Command

5

command had slowly ebbed into a stomach-churning morass of worry as he reviewed for the twentieth time what might have gone wrong.

He could heave to and wait for the squadron to return but if it was on station at some other place he would never meet up with it. But could he thrash backwards and forwards along the rendezvous line for ever? Time was running out.

At three in the morning, in the dimness of yet another sleepless night, Kydd resolved on action. He would leave the line and look for the squadron—the details would wait until morning. He fell sound asleep.

At first light he appeared on deck and sniffed the wind. “Put up y’r helm an’ steer sou’-sou’-east,” he told Dacres. They would head towards Egypt and the fighting: if the squadron was anywhere, the probability was that it would be there.

Full and bye,
Teazer
stretched south nobly. In three hours they were sighting sail, small fry and a possible frigate who did not seem inclined to make their acquaintance. In a few more hours, as the coast firmed ahead in a lazy blue-grey, more vessels showed against it—but no ship-of-the-line. When Kydd recognised an untidy straggle of buildings and a distinctive tower as Alexandria, he knew that the gamble had failed: the squadron was not there.

He ordered
Teazer
to put about, knowing that he could now be judged guilty of quitting his station without leave, a grave offence.

Kydd went to his cabin with a heavy heart and had barely sat down when there was a knock. “Captain, sir!” Martyn shrilled.

“Compliments from Mr Dacres and a vessel is sighted!”

Kydd hastened on deck: a small topsail cutter flying a blue ensign was leaning into the wind trying to close with them. “Heave to, Mr Dacres,” Kydd called, and waited while the sleek craft came up and exchanged private signals.

6

Julian Stockwin

“You’ve missed ’em!” shouted the young lieutenant-in-command as the vessel rounded to under their lee. “That is, the East Med squadron, if that’s who you’re after,” he added, shading his eyes against the sun. “What’s the news?”

Kydd bridled at the familiarity and answered shortly, “No news, L’tenant. What course did Sir John take when he left?”

“Why, to the rendezvous, I should think, sir,” said the lieutenant, remembering himself.

“North,” Kydd ordered.

Teazer
’s signal of dispatches aboard ensured her swift passage past officious scouting frigates within sight of the squadron, which was in tight formation and precisely on the line of the rendezvous.

“To place us t’ loo’ard o’ the flagship, Mr Bonnici,” Kydd told the master and went below to prepare, in obedience to the summons to place himself and his dispatches before the admiral immediately.

Teazer
’s cutter smacked into the water and the boat’s crew swarmed aboard. Kydd’s coxswain, Yates, sat at the tiller importantly, a beribboned hat with
Teazer
picked out in gold paint incongruously smart against his thick-set, hairy body.

“Stretch out, yer buggers!” he bawled. Kydd winced. This was not the coxswain he would have wished but the man was a veteran of both St Vincent and a blazing frigate action.

The whole squadron lay hove to, the flagship
Renown
at the centre. The boat rounded the noble stern of the battleship, all gilt and windows and with her name boldly emblazoned. Mildly curious faces looked down from her deck-line above.

Renown
’s boatswain himself set his silver call to piercing squeals to announce the arrival on board of the captain of a vessel of the Royal Navy, an honour that would have sent a delicious thrill through Kydd if it had come at any other time.

Command

7

In the admiral’s quarters the flag-lieutenant murmured an introduction and left Kydd with the admiral, who stared at him stonily, waiting.

“Ah, Commander Thomas Kydd, sloop
Teazer
with dispatches, sir.” Warren had a powerful air of intimidation and Kydd found his own back stiffening.

“From the commander-in-chief?” The admiral’s hard tone did nothing for Kydd’s composure.

“Er, no, sir, from Malta.”

“Malta! Who the devil thinks to worry me with dispatches from
there,
sir?”

“Gen’ral Pigot, sir—he says they’re urgent,” Kydd said, and handed over the satchel, which the admiral took quickly.

“These are dated more than a week ago,” said Warren sharply, looking up.

Kydd added in a small voice, “We thought t’ find you at the rendezvous, sir. We beat up ’n’ down the line for several days an’

then—an’ then, sir, I thought it best to—to leave station an’ look for you t’ the s’uth’ard, sir . . .” He tailed off.

Warren’s frosty stare hardened. “It took you that long to find I wasn’t there and go looking? Good God above!” He snorted. He still held the dispatches and riffled through them. “So what do we have here that’s so damned urgent it needs one of the King’s ships to tell me?”

“The French, Sir John—they’re out!” said Kydd, his voice strengthening, “Sailed fr’m Leghorn just this—”

“From Leghorn—yes, yes, I know that. Why do you think I’ve been away from the rendezvous? No other than chasing your Ganteaume.” His face tightened. “And this must mean, sir, you have sailed right through them on their way back! What do you have to say to that?”

Kydd gulped, he had ignored all sail sighted in his haste to reach the rendezvous. And with his precious dispatches shown

Julian Stockwin

to be not much more than gossip, he felt anything but a taut sea-captain with a vital mission. He flushed, but stubbornly held Warren’s eye.

Something in his manner made Warren pause. “Do I see a new-made commander before me, Mr Kydd?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Your first errand, I venture to say?”

“Sir.”

A tiny smile appeared. “Is all as you expected it to be?”

Kydd’s tensions eased a fraction. “It’s—different t’ what I expected, yes, sir.” It was difficult to know whether the admiral was making conversation or had an object in mind.

“Expect the worst, Mr Kydd, and then you’ll never be disappointed.” He looked pleased at his aphorism, adding, “And give the men not an inch. They’ll never thank you for it.”

“Have you any dispatches for Malta, sir?” Kydd asked.

“Malta? What conceivable interest would I have there? No, sir, carry on about your business and be thankful I’m not taking you under command.”

Teazer
put about and made off to the west, her commander standing alone on the quarterdeck. As soon as the ship was settled on her new course he went to his cabin.

Kydd realised that he was still a very new captain but a future of being a lap-dog at the beck and call of any senior to him was not how he saw a fighting ship should spend her time. He had broadsides and fighting seamen ready for his country’s service.

He had achieved the peak of his ambition: his own ship.

For a captain loneliness was inevitable, but he hadn’t realised how much he would feel it. It was something that came with the job, though, and he would have to get used to it. The only

“friend” he was in a position to contemplate was the single other officer, Dacres, but he could find little in common with the man.

Command

The seas coming on the bow produced an energetic dip and rise and an eagerness in the motion that Kydd could sense even this far aft. The willingness in his ship reached out to him and his moodiness eased. Looking around his cabin he felt a quickening of the spirit: he was captain of the ship, damn it, and he was a sad looby if he failed to make the most of it.

“Tysoe!” he bellowed—he must find a bell or something: without a marine sentry outside ready to pass the word this was the only way he could send for his servant.

Tysoe appeared quickly, only slightly aggrieved at the manner of the summons. “Sir?” he said quietly, now carrying himself nobly as befitted the manservant of the captain.

“I shall have some veal for m’ dinner—an’ open one of the pino biancos to go with it.”

“Certainly, sir. Could I be so bold as to remind you that your cabin stores include some pickled berberries that would accompany admirably?” The flecks of silver in the man’s bushy hair added maturity to his appearance and Kydd knew that he could expect Tysoe to function with distinction on any ship’s occasion.

“Yes, rouse ’em out, if y’ will.” Tysoe inclined his head and left, Kydd smiling at the way he kept his dignity while bracing against
Teazer
’s playful movements.

The papers on the desk, weighted with a half musket-ball, recalled him to duty. Captain’s Orders: now, just how did he want his ship run? For
Teazer
there were no precedents from a previous commander, no existing orders to copy and adopt, and Kydd had the chance to set out his own ideas.

“Instructions and Standing Orders for the General Government and Discipline of His Majesty’s Sloop
Teazer.
” The well-remembered heading now preceded his own orders: he must start with due obeisance to His Majesty in Council, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and so on—Peck could be relied on to chase up the wording.

0

Julian Stockwin

And the meat. Conduct of the watch-on-deck with particular attention to the logs; the rough log of the mate-of-the-watch with entries by others listing provisions and stores expended, returned or condemned and so on, to be later taken to the appropriate officer for signature. And only then would the master deign to gather up the threads and transcribe this officially into the ship’s log for Kydd’s approval.

The signal log: this would most certainly be used in evidence in any court-of-inquiry as would officers’ journals detailing the day’s events and any reckoning of their position; he would, of course, require that Dacres regularly submit his journal to him.

The bulk of the rest would be as much advice as regulation: if the officer-of-the-watch sighted a strange sail at night, water shoaling—all the hundred and one things that could suddenly slam in on the unwary. If there was no provision for guidance in a Captain’s Orders the negligent could plead ignorance. Kydd’s rich experiences gave him an advantage in foreseeing these situations.

There were whole sections on the duties of the first lieutenant, master, boatswain, even the petty officers. They would all be left in no doubt about their responsibilities, as far as Kydd was concerned.

And on to working the ship: silence fore and aft when major manoeuvres were being performed; the precise line of demarcation between the captain, master and officer-of-the-watch, and other general matters. He debated whether to include instructions for topmen aloft for their varying situations but decided against it, not least because it was turning into a wearisome task indeed.

Kydd was thankful for midday and his necessary appearance on deck at the noon sight, with its welcome vision of sun and sea. He left the others comparing their readings and returned to his cabin to find Tysoe standing solicitously with a cloth-encircled bottle and a steaming dish neatly set.

While the men congregated noisily at their mess-tables and the