Command (5 page)

He had no lieutenant, no master or master’s mate. They were all appointed by commission or warrant and therefore there was nothing he could do.

He returned on deck to hear raised voices from a boat coming alongside. “To come aboard,” Kydd ordered, hiding a smile. It was the dignified black face of Tysoe, his servant, and by the appearance of things he had not wasted his time while he had been waiting in the frigate. He was jealously guarding two pieces of furniture, which looked much like an officer’s cot and some kind of campaign-drawer set.

Tysoe was clearly determined to take charge below: the furniture was wrestled through and into the captain’s bedplace to much clucking and keen glances, and a firm promise from Kydd to invest in the very near future in cabin appointments more in keeping with his position.

It did bring up the question of his other domestics. He would have to find a steward, not so much for serving at table but to be responsible for Kydd’s own stores, which would be separate from the rest, and in this small vessel also to act as the purser’s assistant in issuing provisions. And he would need a coxswain to take charge of his barge and stand by him when required.

Order was coming out of chaos: the boatswain was sending below the men who had sorted themselves into messes, and getting a semblance of balance of petty officers and seamen ready for assignment to watches.

Kydd tried not to look too hard at the men: these were the

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seamen who would work the ship and serve the guns for him.

The success of his command—even the life of his ship—would be in their hands. He spotted Bowden talking with one of the
Tenacious
hands he had arranged to be sent from the frigate and crossed the deck. “Thank ye, Mr Bowden, that was well done.

Please to—”

His attention was diverted as a boat came alongside and an officer swung on to the main deck and made his way over.

“Commander Kydd, sir?” he said evenly, removing his hat.

“It is.”

“Then might I present myself, sir? Lieutenant Dacres, come to join.”

A peep of lace showed at his cuffs; Kydd saw that the uniform was faultlessly cut. “Ye’re expected, sir,” he said shortly. “As y’

can see, the ship is now in commission.”

“Ah—yes, sir, so I have heard. I was unavoidably detained by General Pigot. A social occasion, you’ll understand.”

Kydd ignored the clumsy attempt to impress. “Mr Dacres, I want this vessel at sea within the week. You’ll stay aboard an’

hold y’self in readiness for any task that I might require.” He paused, then continued, “I shall see you in my cabin in fifteen minutes.” A guilty thrill rushed through him at the sudden worried look this produced and he turned away quickly in case it betrayed him.

The interview was short: Dacres’s experience, he had heard, was confined entirely to ships-of-the-line as both midshipman and lieutenant, but if his easy acquaintance with those in high places was to be believed then his time in
Teazer
was no more than necessary experience before his own command in due course.

“Start with the watch ’n’ station bill, Mr Dacres. I’ve rated the petty officers—see to the rest if y’ please. When we have th’

outline of both watches, we’ll shift to harbour routine. Tell the cook hard tack at noon, but I’d like t’ see a square meal f’r all
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hands at supper.” He stood. “Come, come, Mr Dacres, we’ve a lot t’ do!”

By noon, stores were coming in at a handsome rate. Even while finishing touches were being applied, the boatswain’s store was being stocked with pitch and resinous tar and hung about with cordage and blocks, and the carpenter fussed over all manner of copper nails, roves, augers and other arcane implements of his craft.

Countless fathoms of line were laid out on deck: they would be brought to the task of clothing
Teazer
’s masts with shrouds and stays to form, first, the taut standing rigging to brace her masts and, second, the operating machinery of the ship, the running rigging that controlled the yards and sails.

Kydd stood watching, pleased to see individual groups begin to apply themselves under their petty officers.

He turned and went below to his great cabin, now with a small sideboard and a twin-leafed table being vigorously polished. There would be other pieces he could probably cozen out of the dockyard but that could wait. What he wanted to do now required privacy and he shooed everyone out. He unlocked his valise, extracted his orders and sat down to read them properly—

in all the activity he had barely had time to skim through the contents.

The preliminaries were mainly concerned with proper obedience to his various superiors. His duties would consist in the main of the conveyance of dispatches and important passengers, with the escorting of smaller convoys. The protection of trade was to be given the highest priority and he was to maintain his best endeavours to annoy the enemy by any means that lay in his power. And after these paragraphs was a direction that, as circumstances might arise from time to time, he was to render such services as requested to the civil government of Malta.

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These orders, the first for a captain that he had seen, were broad but clear. His eyes went down the page, taking in the remainder. The concluding part, he noticed with satisfaction, dealt sternly with his duty to “take, burn, sink and destroy” such of the King’s enemies who had the temerity to cross his bows and the whole concluded with the forbidding “Hereof you may not fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril.” Keith’s unmistakable sharp, angular signature followed the date.

Kydd sat back. It was all so general—but, then, these orders were not there to tell him how to be a captain or how to conduct his ship but only what was expected of him and his little bark. It was entirely his own responsibility how he carried it out, but so many regulations and orders hedged it about . . .

He laid down the papers. After the Articles of War, in the hier-archy of orders and discipline, were the “Fighting Instructions.”

These were familiar enough to Kydd in detailing how the commander-in-chief desired his battles to be fought, specifically his signals, but were applicable only to the great fleets. Directly relevant were the weighty “Regulations and Instructions Relating to His Majesty’s Service at Sea, Established by His Majesty in Council.” These dictated the manner of the conduct of his command, covering details as diverse as how salt beef was to be cut up to the stowage of rum, many of which dated back to the hundred years after Sir Francis Drake.

Finally, one set of orders was considered so all-important that as an officer he had had recourse to them as to no other—in fact, they were considered so vital that in
Tenacious
they had been sewn into canvas and hung on a hook under the half-deck for urgent use by the quarterdeck. But it was no use trying to find them for they did not yet exist. These were the Captain’s Orders: the final authority on how the ship was to be run—everything from liberty entitlements to the proper way to salute the quarterdeck. Usually they were inherited from the previous captain and
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adopted more or less unchanged: Kydd was faced with the task of creating them from scratch as the final arbiter of conduct for every man aboard
Teazer.

Restless, he rose and went on deck. If
Teazer
was to be an effective warship of His Majesty, there was so much to do.

The next days saw satisfying progress. A milestone was passed when yards were crossed—now his ship had a lofty grace that was both fetching and purposeful. More standing rigging began to appear. Within her hull less spectacular matters were in hand: tables were fitted for messes, neat stowage for mess traps against the ship’s side above each.

The cabins aft were varnished and outfitted: tiny, but snugly appointed, they were on each side of the main hatchway companion, while further forward the master and boatswain on one side, the surgeon and purser on the other completed the officers’

accommodation.

The purser went ashore once more, this time with “necessary money” provided by the Admiralty. Among his tasks was the purchase of lanthorn candles sufficient for the entire ship, the seamen making do with a “purser’s moon,” a rush dip in an iron saucer.

Teazer
received her allowance from the boat pond: a twenty-four-foot cutter, a twenty-two-foot pinnace and a jolly-boat.

They were hoisted aboard on each quarter of the ship by davits, stout timbers that stood out over the sea and allowed the boats to be plucked directly from the water instead of the usual laborious arrangement with tackles from the yardarms.

The standing rigging went forward apace, taut and trim; the shrouds, stays and gammoning were stretched along and sailors then began to tar down with the rich, resinous, dark-brown Stockholm tar whose fragrance always spoke to Kydd of the sea and ships.

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The end was not far off. Following Kydd’s stated preference, the outside hull was “bright-sided.” Above the waterline the side was scraped back and payed with rosin, the distillation of turpentine. When cured it would give a yacht-like brightness. It cost him dear from his own pocket but he was determined—and soon the gilders were at work with gold leaf about the pretty stern-quarters. Surveying their work from a boat, he longed to feel
Teazer
’s lively deck in the open sea and test her mettle against the winds, but he would have to contain himself a little longer.

Nearby,
Stag
was preparing to return to Gibraltar. The Blue Peter rose at her masthead; she would be gone from Malta within twenty-four hours. But her captain had not forgotten and a charmingly worded invitation arrived for Kydd to dine with him that evening.

“Give you joy of your command, sir!” It was a heady moment for Kydd. After he had been rowed out to the frigate, arrayed in his best uniform with its gold lace, then piped aboard in his own right as a full commander of a sloop of the Royal Navy, he had been greeted by the waiting Captain Winthrop, who took him below to his great cabin—just two captains for dinner.

“Thank ye, sir!” Kydd raised his glass. In his euphoria the twinkling gold from the lamps playing round its rim seemed a magical circlet of happiness. “You’re away t’ sea tomorrow?”

“Gibraltar through the Adriatic. But then, I fear, more service off Toulon,” said Winthrop, with a smile.

The wide expanse of
Stag
’s mullioned windows opened on a view of the Maltese evening that was in turns mysterious and electric. In the future this would be
Teazer
’s home and Kydd’s elation mounted. “It could be interestin’ service here, I’m thinking,” he said casually.

Winthrop uncovered the dish the steward had brought. “Do try this baked lampuka. Local fare, but I dare to say it would be
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applauded in any company.” He helped Kydd to some succulent strips and continued, in the same tone, “
Interesting.
That’s quite the word I would have chosen myself.”

Kydd was anxious not to appear naïve and kept silent.

Winthrop moved on smoothly: “Tell me, how is your fitting out progressing? Every morning I stand amazed at how your trim little brig is showing her plumage and stretching her wings. Quite your little peacock, I fancy.”

Glowing with pleasure, Kydd answered, “Aye, sir, she’s a fine enough craft. A little full in the run but long-floored and with a clean entrance. She’ll do.”

“I’m sure she will,” said Winthrop, strongly. “And her people?

Are you satisfied?”

“I’ve some prime hands fr’m
Tenacious,
sir, an’ others come from the fleet—I count m’self lucky they’re sent for th’ Malta Service at this time.”

Winthrop’s smile widened. “Should you ask Sir John you may receive a different opinion. Most would believe the men to have been destined for him.” Such a core of skilled seamen was almost certainly intended for the commander of the Eastern Mediterranean squadron of battleships continually at sea to thwart French moves east of Italy.

“I lack a sailing master,” Kydd said, changing the subject as quickly as he could. “M’ gunner’s on his way, I’m told, but still there’s no word on a master.”

Winthrop’s expression turned grave. “Then, in course, you are unable to sail. No doubt you are not relishing a month or so at a buoy waiting while the omission is rectified?”

Kydd gave a bleak smile.

Some years past, the rank of “Master and Commander” had been discarded in recognition of the fact that navigation had become too specialised for fighting captains, and now, for all sloops

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and above, a professional master, certificated by Trinity House, was required.

Winthrop considered for a moment. “There is a course you may wish to consider. In the customs house I met a gentleman who has been a master with us before. Stayed here when we evacuated the Mediterranean as something or other in the mer-chantry. The French seizing Malta must have put paid to that.

He may be amenable at this time to an offer as acting master, the commander-in-chief to confirm. There can’t be many masters at large in this end of the Med.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m indeed grateful for y’r suggestion.”

“He is Maltese, of course.”

“He c’n be a Chinaman for all I care if he gets me t’ sea,” said Kydd, with relish. Impulsively, he went on, “Sir—can I ask—

what is it ye sees will make life
interesting
in these waters?”

Winthrop leaned back, delicately touching his lips with his napkin. “As I remember it, for a brig-sloop your corsair will be an annoyance—Mahometans from the Barbary coast seeing it their holy duty to prey on the Christian, and you’ll find privateers enough in the Sicily Channel to vex any convoy escort . . .