Command (7 page)

“That’s very kind in ye, Mr Kydd, but as y’ knows, I don’t have m’ letters—”

“That’s as may be,” Kydd interrupted. “I doubt that’ll trouble a gunner who’s keen for his mates t’ be as fine as you. You’re rated gunner’s mate fr’m this moment.”

After he had dealt with the two others, memories washed over Kydd. Hard ones, full of violence and terror—but also those of the wonder and beauty of a voyage around the world, the fires of experience that had formed him as a seaman—and a world within a world that he had now left behind for ever.

Stirk had been a part of it from the beginning, until an open-boat voyage in the Caribbean had seen Kydd raised to master’s mate, his hammock no longer slung before the mast. But now there was the gold lace of an officer and the final majesty of command. How was he to face an old shipmate like Stirk? And how was Stirk going to regard
him?

“Well, sir? You’ve had two weeks—surely it don’t take for ever to fettle your little barky for sea duty!” Major General Pigot rumbled, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Take ’em away,” he told the hovering footman testily, and the breakfast dishes were swiftly removed.

“She’s not an English-built ship, sir,” Kydd tried to explain.

“We’ve had to make changes—an’ it’s not been so easy t’ find hands t’ man her this far from the fleet—”

“Tosh! Other Navy boats manage, why not you?” Before Kydd could reply he continued, “Is it because you’re a new-minted captain, b’ chance?”

Kydd stiffened, but held himself in check. This was the Officer Commanding Troops and Military Representative of His Britannic Majesty in Malta. In the delicacies of line-of-command the Malta Service to which Kydd had been detached was a civil affair, including requirements for naval action, but when there were matters requiring a military presence, the general would be consulted. However, Kydd’s authority as a commander was from Admiral Keith and the Mediterranean Fleet—but his orders directed him to act under the advice of the Malta authority . . . “I shall have
Teazer
ready f’r sea within the week, General.”

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“Good.” He looked at Kydd keenly. “Understand, Captain, we’ve got no standing naval forces. Since the frigate left, we’ve been pestered by vermin—small fry—that are taking the opportunity to make hay among our trade an’ this is a serious matter, I’ll have ye know! Sooner you can get your ship at sea, show o’ force sort of thing, sooner they gets the message. End of the week?”

“Sir.”

Ready or not, they had to put to sea for trials. They had yet to ship guns and his ship’s company, a third under complement, was an unknown quantity. Kydd had lost count of the number of vouchers, receipts and demands he had signed for Ellicott as stores had come aboard in a fitful stream—for all he knew he might have signed himself into perdition.

And when he was finally able to get away from the paperwork it was to find Dacres in argument with the boatswain concerning the best way to warp the vessel the mile over to the ordnance wharf while seamen lolled around idly and his new gunner stood defensively on the foredeck, arms folded.

How
was he going to find the men to bring his ship to seaworthiness—and, even more importantly, to battle-worthiness?

Kydd’s happiness was being drowned in a sea of worries.

“Sir.” Bowden touched his hat and waited.

“Er, yes?” Kydd answered, distracted.

“I’ve been talking with the master. He makes a suggestion that I think, sir, you should hear.”

“Oh?”

“We had a long talk about Malta. He is, er, rather open and told me about how things are ashore. They’ve suffered grievously in the two years the French were here, near to starving—and all because of them. Sir, what he is saying is that there are many hungry Maltese seamen who would seize any chance to get to sea—and pay back the French.”

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“Ask him t’ see me, Mr Bowden.” It was nothing less than a miracle. Foreigners could be found in every Royal Navy warship so this was no bar to the Maltese joining and being engaged directly in the defence of their islands. Trade would give point to their loyalty.

Bowden gave a discreet cough. “Sir—a word?”

“What is it?” Kydd said impatiently.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware that the Maltese, sir . . . They’re reputed to be the Pope’s staunchest sons.”

“Popish?” When promoted lieutenant, Kydd had sworn to ab-jure Stuart claims to the throne and the Catholic religion. “If I don’t see ’em at it, I’ll never know,” he answered briskly. He hailed the master. “Mr Bonnici. How many hands could ye scrape together—prime hands, mark you?”

“Perhaps one, possible two . . . t’ousand.”

Kydd grinned. “Then I’ll take thirty at once, d’ ye hear? When can you get ’em aboard?”

“When ye needs them, sir. But . . .”

“Yes?”

“Sir, these men have not th’ experience with the Navy I have.

Sir, do not expec’ them to . . . to spik English.”

A watch-on-deck who could not understand orders? Having to mime everything to be done? But nothing was going to stop him now: if they were intelligent, the common usages of the sea would draw them together. “Then they’ll have t’ learn. Any who can’t stand a watch on account o’ not understanding orders in one month goes back ashore directly, an’ we find someone who can.”

He rounded on the first lieutenant. “So! Mr Dacres, why are we not yet at th’ ordnance wharf?”

Beautiful! Kydd admired the deadly black six-pounders on their neat little carriages ranging down the deck edge—eight to a side,

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and two smaller, demurely crouched in his great cabin as chase guns. And all unused, originally from the arsenal of the knights of Malta. Gun parties were bringing the cannon to the right state of gleaming with canvas, brickdust and the assiduous application of a sovereign mixture of blacking, Mr Duckitt’s own recipe.

“Mr Purchet!” The boatswain looked aft warily. “I’ll see sails bent on th’ fore—we’ll start with the fore course, testing th’ gear as we go.” The pace was quickening: Kydd wanted to see sail aloft, even if it was not in earnest. While still at anchor the fore yard would be braced round side on to the light morning breeze and the sail loosed. All the gear—buntlines and slablines, halliards and braces—could thus be proved without hazard.

And the men also. The two-masted brig would be handier in stays than any ship-rigged vessel and their resources of men were far greater than any merchant brig. But when fighting for their lives in action there could be no idle hands.

Evening light stealing in brought activity to a close, and Kydd felt he had some measure of his men. Purchet was too free with his rope’s end and Laffin had followed his example with relish.

He could not check the boatswain in front of the men but he would see him privately.

He was fortunate in his topmen—they seemed at home on
Teazer
’s yards and handled sail well; there was a pleasing rivalry developing between fore- and mainmast, which also implied an undeclared interest in the officers—Dacres at the main and Bowden at the fore. Kydd noted that Dacres went below for a speaking trumpet while Bowden urged on his men in a manly bawl.

The Maltese had come as promised, diverting to a degree for
Teazer
’s company. Bare-footed, each with a colourful sash and a long floppy cap from within which they found tobacco, papers and personal oddments, they were small but of a wiry build and had darting dark eyes.

Bonnici stood at Kydd’s side as he inspected them. Their origins
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were the mercantile marine of Malta, now with their livelihood reduced to nothing. “They may not wear a sash, Mr Bonnici, an’

they vittle with our men,” Kydd ordered.

He turned to Dacres. “Would you be s’ good as to see me in my cabin with y’r workings, Mr Dacres? I mean to try
Teazer
at sea very soon.” Before they could, the ship’s company would have to be detailed off to cover all the chief manoeuvres: unmooring ship, reefing sail, putting about—it was a complex job but essential if there were to be skilled hands in the right place to get it done.

This was a task for a ship’s first lieutenant; in
Teazer,
her only other officer.

Kydd saw that Dacres had made a fair start. Each man would have a place in either the larboard or starboard watch, which was further subdivided into the first and second part. With the men assigned to their part-of-ship it was possible to specify, for instance, that in the manoeuvre of setting sail it would be the main topmen of the first part of the starboard watch assisted by topmen of the second of larboard that would perform this particular action.

Every man had an entry in the muster book that specified his rate and entitlements and there was a mess number that told at which of the snug tables of six friends he could be found at mealtimes. A hammock mark was the man’s indication where his hammock should be slung and all was keyed together in a careful and consistent structure.

But it was only that—a structure: the quality and balance of the men comprising it would determine its success. Kydd inspected the paper lists: unknown names, numbers, duties. Would it hang together?

“Mr Peck will assist ye in drawing up y’r watch an’ station bill. We leave the quarter bill for later.” The fighting stations in it would be relatively straightforward to bring to organisation.

“May I know when we shall have your orders, sir?”

Dacres was entitled to ask for written Captain’s Orders, but

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they would have to wait. “Later. How are th’ people settling in?”

“In fine—fractious. They seem to have no idea of the difficulties we are under at this time, sir, and will persist in coming to me with their petty vexations. Daniel Hawkins had the effrontery to claim allowance against local victuals used in place of the scale of salted provisions, the rogue.”

A seaman’s horizons were necessarily limited: if he saw that the safe, secure round of his daily routines was in disarray it was fundamentally unsettling. Sea routine would see to that, but Kydd knew that here an unwritten bargain was at risk: that of an officer’s duty to provide for his men in return for their loyalty. Again, the comfort of settled routine at sea would take care of this. Hawkins was trying an old trick; there would be many more such.

Dacres was keeping his distance from the men, not understanding them, distrustful. Kydd did not let this dampen his spirits.

“But on th’ whole a splendid day,” he said to his first lieutenant.

“Do ye care to join me f’r dinner, sir?”

It was the first time Kydd had entertained; his great cabin was not yet to his satisfaction because he had had no time ashore and diminishing means to pay for the necessary adornments that would give it individuality. As a result it now possessed a Spartan plainness.

He felt Tysoe’s unspoken disapproval as he ladled the soup from a white china mess-kid acting as a tureen into plain wardroom dishes, and noticed his steward’s raised eyebrows at the sailcloth table runner, but he did not care. Here he was king and owed excuses to no one.

Dacres sat opposite, his face a study in composure. He said nothing after the preliminary pleasantries; it was the custom of the service never to address the captain directly, politely waiting until spoken to.

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“The ship all ahoo like this,” Kydd grunted, “how we shall get t’ sea this age I can’t conceive.”

“Order and tranquillity will be pleasant enough when they come,” Dacres agreed carefully, and finished his soup.

It was quite a different experience from the warm conviviality of the wardroom that Kydd had been used to, the to and fro of opinions, prejudices, desires. “Do ye come from a seafaring family, Mr Dacres?” he asked.

“That I do, sir,” he replied, loosening. “You may have heard of my uncle, Admiral Peyton, now in the Downs, and perhaps Captain Edward Duncan who has hopes of the position of deputy controller at the Admiralty. We pride ourselves that we have provided sea officers for England since the first Charles and . . .”

He tailed off stiffly at Kydd’s polite boredom.

“Tell me of y’r sea service, Mr Dacres.”

“Well, sir, I entered
Pompee
as a youngster in 1793—we took her at Toulon, if you recall—and served in the Channel Fleet until ’ninety-five.”

“So you were at th’ Glorious First o’ June?”

“To my great regret, no. We were in for a repair. I—I did suffer indignity at the mutiny of ’ninety-seven. Were you drawn into that evil affair at all, sir?”

Kydd had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore Mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades’ fate. He drew a breath. “It was a bad occasion f’r us all. Have ye service in the Mediterranean?”

“Not until my commission into
Minotaur,
Captain Louis, a year ago.”
Minotaur
was a 74, part of Admiral Keith’s fleet and on blockade duty.

“So all big-ship service. How do you feel about
Teazer?
” It

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had probably been a shock to experience the tight confines of a small vessel: the closeness of the men, the lack of privacy and the sheer diminutiveness of everything aboard.

Dacres paused. “Small, I grant you, but I look to keen service in her. I have heard your own service has been rather eventful?”

he said, with a touch of defiance.