Command (20 page)

It had been worth the try, but it did not furnish the real reason for an American presence so deep into the Mediterranean.

“Sir—may I know of y’r interest in these parts, if y’ do not think it impertinent t’ ask?”

“I do. Good day to you, sir.” He conducted Kydd back on deck.

Out in the sunlight Kydd blinked, aware of every eye on him. “Thank ye, sir, f’r your hospitality—it’s a very fine ship y’

commands.”

He passed a silent Decatur, sensed the burning eyes following him and was making to step over the side when someone grabbed his shoulder. He swung round and saw a grinning officer holding out his hand. “Be darned—and this must be Tom Kydd as was. A commander, no less!”

“Aye. An’ don’t I see Ned Gindler afore me?” It was half a world away from Connecticut but the same friendliness that had so cheered him as a new lieutenant again reached out to him.

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“Well met, Ned!” Kydd grinned. The deck remained silent and still about them. Kydd turned and crossed to Bainbridge again.

“Sir, it’s not in m’ power t’ return y’r kindness to all of ye in my little ship, but it would give me particular pleasure t’ welcome L’tenant Gindler aboard.”

“Thank you, Commander. Mr Gindler would be pleased to accept. Until sundown, Lootenant?”

Gindler lifted his glass to Kydd. “Well, I have to declare, she’s one trim lady—I guess she’s handy in stays?”

“She is that,” said Kydd, smugly. “A real flyer on the wind.

Not as you’d say spankin’ new, but she’ll get a lick o’ paint when we have time,” he added defensively.

“You must be very proud, Tom,” Gindler said softly, looking at Kydd with an enigmatic expression. “Captain of your own ship, and all.”

It brought Kydd up with a start: what were his present worries compared to what he had won for himself? “A noble thing it is indeed, Ned. Do ye know, I have more power than the King of England?” At Gindler’s quizzical look he added, “I may hale a man before me an’ have him flogged on the spot—by the law of the land this is somethin’ even His Majesty may not do.”

It brought laughter from the American but all Kydd found he could manage was a lop-sided smile. Gindler’s amusement receded. “My dear fellow—if you’ll pardon my remarking it, your demeanour is not to be expected of a grand panjandrum. No, sir!

Too much bowed by care and woe in all . . .”

Kydd’s smile turned to a grimace. “Aye, I will admit t’ it.” He stared through the pretty stern windows at the bright, sunlit sea outside. “I have m’ ship, this is true, but unless I can shine in its command I’ll have t’ yield to another. And there’s no glory t’ be found in small-ship work, all convoys ’n’ dispatches, so how am I to find it?” Gindler started to come in but Kydd went on bitterly,
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“We got word of a French corvette in these waters an’ I was sent to bring it t’ battle. My one chance—but the cruise is finished without so much of a smell o’ one.”

He looked up half hopefully. “Ye haven’t word of it at all, Ned?”

Gindler murmured noncommittally.

Kydd’s eyes fell. “Then, o’ course, you havin’ made y’r peace with the French you’ll be honour bound not t’ tell me even if ye knew.” Gindler continued to look at him wordlessly.

Tossing off his wine, Kydd changed his mood. “But here I sit, neglectin’ m’ guest! Tell me, Ned, have you hopes y’self for an advancement at all?”

Gindler’s face shadowed. “You may recall, friend, that our war is finished. We’re now neutrals not just in name. No war, we don’t need ships—or officers is the cry.”

“Did m’ eyes deceive? Is not
Essex
as fine a frigate as ever I saw?”

Looking uncomfortable Gindler replied, “Yes, but I have to say there are few more.” He hesitated, then went on, “We have a new president, m’ friend, a Thomas Jefferson. Now, in the past we’ve been handing over bags of gold to the Barbary pashas to keep from raiding our trading ships. Jefferson loathes this craven knuckling to pirates and hates even more what it’s costing us. We are here to do something about it.”

Kydd made to refill his glass, but he shook his head. “Have ye?”

“Not—yet.”

“You—”

“Some would say that Dale, our commodore, is a mite lacking in spirit. We surely put their noses out of joint at first, but all we’ve achieved is threats of war from all four pashas, who are put out by not getting their due tribute.”

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“So you’ll have y’r war.”

“Not so, I’m grieved to say it, for Congress has not declared war back. In the main, we’re to leave their ships in peace to go about their ‘lawful’ occasions of plundering our trade.” His face tightened.

“It has t’ come to war,” Kydd said warmly, “and then you’ll get y’r ship, Ned!”

Gindler said nothing, and at his dark look Kydd changed the subject. “The
Essex—
a stout enough frigate. Must be a fine thing t’ be an officer aboard.”

Gindler threw him a look of resigned exasperation. “Dear Tom, we’re a small young navy and everyone in it knows everyone else. Therefore preferment and seniority are a matter of characters, origins and hearsay.

“I speak only between we two, but under the strict and un-bending Cap’n Bainbridge—whose treatment of the enlisted hands is, well, shall we say less than enlightened?—I share the wardroom with our absurdly young first l’tenant, Stephen Decatur. Who is of burning zeal but given to duelling, a vice much indulged in by us, I fear. Therefore I’ll leave it to your imagining what it is to be one of such a company who do suffer our frustrations to such a degree . . .”

Kydd had never been in such a situation, but he could see what it meant to his friend and felt for him. “Ned, y’r New England trees in spring should be a famous sight, I believe. Do tell me, I c’n remember ’em now . . .”

“You’re in the right of it, friend. All along the—”

There was a hesitant knock at the door: it was Dacres. “Sir, I’m sorry to say, there’s some kind of—of altercation at the watering place. Midshipman Martyn seems unable to keep order in his men. Shall I—”

“No. Call away the jolly-boat, an’ I’m going ashore m’self.”

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“And if you have room . . .” said Gindler, smoothly. At Kydd’s look he added, “In the instance that I may be of service in the article of translations, as it were.”

The source of the altercation was easy enough to detect: the slippery runway for the casks up to the rock fissure from where the water sprang could take only one, either coming or going.

Boatswain’s mate Laffin stood astride it with fists at the ready, a sailor opposite him, a bull-sized black man, grinned savagely, and other Americans were bunching behind him.

“Moses! Step back now, d’ you hear?” Gindler shouted, from the boat. “You want to start another war?”

A harsh bass laugh came from the huge frame. “They wants

’un, I c’n oblige ’em, Mr Gindler.”

Kydd quickly crossed to Laffin. “What’s this, then?” he snapped.

“Cousin Jonathan—can’t take a joke, sir. Thinks mebbe they’re better’n us—”

There was a roar from the Americans and Kydd stepped between them, holding up his hands. If he could not pacify both sides, and quickly, there was every likelihood of a confrontation and repercussions at an international level.

“I’m surprised at ye, Laffin,” he began. The man looked at him sullenly. “Do ye not remember how we settle these matters in the fleet?” Laffin blinked without reply.

He turned to Gindler, whose eyes were warily on his men, now spreading out as if taking positions for a fight. “Sir.” He took off his cocked hat and flung it on the sand in front of Gindler. “I do challenge th’ United States Navy!” There was an audible gasp and he saw Gindler tense. “T’ find which is th’ better ship—fair

’n’ square—we challenge
Essex
to a contest o’ skill an’ strength.

A race o’ one mile, under oars.”

After a dumbfounded silence there were roars of agreement.

Gindler stepped forward, picked up Kydd’s hat and returned it

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to him with a bow, saying, in ringing tones, “On behalf of my fellow Americans, I accept your challenge, Mr Kydd.”

He turned to his men and said, “We can’t let ’em think that as a nation we do not know how to play fair. We’ll have the same number of men, of course, but—we exchange boats before we start.”

Kydd grinned. Clearly Gindler was no stranger to the stratagems common in fleet regattas. This would put paid to anything underhand.

The watering was completed at breakneck speed and a course laid out from under the bowsprit of
Essex
to a buoy half a mile along the coast.

The two boats were readied. In deference to the smaller craft that
Teazer
carried, her pinnace was run against
Essex
’s yawl, both pulling four oars. Much was made of the transfer of oarsmen from one to the other, particularly the remarkable sight of the sovereign flag of each nation proudly at the transom of another. Wry comments were passed concerning the workman-ship of their boats of the occasion, Teazers scorning the carvel build of the yawl while the Essexes sighed theatrically at the clencher-build of the pinnace, but the four oarsmen took their places readily enough, adjusting foot-stretchers and hefting the fifteen-foot sweeps.

Every boat that could swim lined the course, filled with hoarsely yelling spectators; the rest crowded the decks of their respective ships. On the fo’c’sle of
Essex
Kydd slowly raised a pistol. The shouting died away as the oarsmen spat on their hands: the crack of the pistol was lost in a sudden storm of cheering and they bent to their sweeps in a mighty, straining effort.

The boats leaped ahead, nothing between them. Bainbridge and his officers grouped together on the foredeck, solemnly observing progress—the first to return and pass under the bowsprit would be declared winner.

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It was a tight race; the shorter but quicker strokes of the Americans contrasted with the longer but deeper pulls of their opponents and they were round the buoy first—but on the run back the gap narrowed by inches until it became too close to call.

“America by a nose!” Decatur yelled, punching the air as the two craft shot under the line of bowsprit.

“Not so fast, Lootenant,” Bainbridge said, in a hard voice, among the deafening noise of cheering and argument.

“Sir, I know what I saw,” Decatur protested, moving to confront Bainbridge, “and it was not an English victory.”

With his eyes still on the lieutenant, Bainbridge said quietly,

“Mr Kydd, what do you say?”

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 . . .”

“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
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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 multi-faceted; 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.