Command (26 page)

1

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 north-west 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.

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“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 toward, 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.

Command

11

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.

“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
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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 grape-shot 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.

Command

13

“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 taff-rail 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
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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 grape-shot 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, femi-nine 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!”

Command

15

“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 re-pine. 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 pe-ruse. 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 states-man 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 contemplate 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
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dismissal, the dread of being cast up on an uncaring land, the—