Command

CHAPTER 5

SET-FACED, IN FULL-DRESS AND SWORD, Kydd boarded his cutter for the pull across the busy stretch of Grand Harbour to Porta della Marina gate. His report for Pigot had cost him hours of word-grinding and now would be put to the test.

"Toss y'r oars, God rot it!" his coxswain grated at the boat's crew. Kydd noticed signs of resentment at Yates's manner but all his focus was on the imminent meeting. He sat rigidly in the sternsheets rehearsing his words as the boat stroked across to the stone steps below the ramparts of Valletta.

"Oars—I'll split yore ear, y' bugger, you feather like that agen! " Yates swore at the stroke oar. As bidden, the man ceased rowing but sat sullenly at his oar.

"I'll thank ye t' be more civil, Yates, while I'm in th' boat," Kydd muttered, then addressed himself to the task of stepping out with his cocked hat, sword and frock coat unmarked.

He was met by General Pigot's aide. "Good voyage, Captain?" he asked smoothly. "His Excellency will see you shortly." Was Pigot now taking the airs of a governor? Kydd wondered wryly.

He did not have to wait long but the man seemed preoccupied. "An' good morning to you, Captain," he said, rummaging on his desk. "Blast it," he muttered. "Was here before, dammit." He glanced up. "An' what can I do for you, Mr Kydd?"

"Ah, here is my report on th' voyage just concluded, sir."

"Oh? What kind o' passage was it, then?" he said politely, as he put it down in front of him and went back to his rummaging.

"Er, we found Admiral Warren, sir, but he already had word o' Ganteaume sailing."

"Good. Our soldiers are very exposed at the landing, need 'em to be well protected. Anythin' else?"

Kydd gulped. "We fell in with a merchantman being set upon by a pirate. I went in chase but—but he got away."

"Tut tut—can't be helped. Did you see Ganteaume at all? Blasted man seems to be everywhere these days."

"I didn't. No, sir."

"Well, that's that. You'll be on your way, then?"

This was like no other naval operational discussion he knew of: what about the strategics of tasking his ship, an appraisal of intelligence, some kind of indication of future planning? What should he do now? "Er, sir, I'm a little hazy about what m' duties are, an' those of m' ship. We have no senior officers until th' fleet is here—er, do y' have orders concerning me at all, sir?"

"Orders?" Pigot frowned. "From me? Does seem you have an odd notion of what we're doin' here." He pursed his lips. "We—that is, the British—freed Malta from the Frenchies but this doesn't mean t' say that Malta is now ours."

"Er, then whose—"

"In course, we have t' give it back. To your knights—the Knights of St John who've been here since afore King Henry's day. Meantimes we keep Malta in trust for 'em."

"Are they returning to claim, sir?" Kydd asked.

"Ah—there we have a problem."

"Sir?"

"The last Grand Master died in exile when he an' the other knights were driven out by the French and the others elected a new—then asked the Tsar of Russia for a home an' protection.

He gave it—and now the Grand Master who wants t' claim Malta is a Russian. So do you fancy a sovereign Russian territory astride the centre of the Mediterranean? Strongest fortress outside Gibraltar? Hostile t' England? Neither do I, sir!"

"And so—"

"And so we stay until we're told t' hand 'em over an' do nothing precipitate like."

Kydd was beginning to see why there was such a lack of order in this place and no formal naval presence. Money would not be wasted on works that would have to be given up at any point. "Then you have no instructions for me, sir?" he persisted.

Pigot said gruffly, "Sir, I'm not one of your admirals as knows the sea. I recommend you find someone who does and take your orders from him."

Kydd rose. "Thank you for y'r time, sir."

It was all most irregular, Kydd pondered in the boat on the way back to his ship. If Pigot did not want him, who did? If he reported to the distant commander-in-chief off Toulon for clarification that would take weeks. By the letter of his orders he should attach himself to the "Malta Service"—if anyone could be termed senior officer of such an operational force he was obliged to accept that it was none other than himself.

No King's ship was at liberty to do as she pleased: if he took to the high seas on his own account it was piracy—even the act of going to sea required orders of some kind, if only to cover the routine expenditure of stores accountable against the object of the voyage. By rights he should remain at moorings until he received specific orders for the employment of his ship.

Could he endure swinging about a buoy for long weeks— months? Was it even morally right to do so while others fought? No, that was intolerable.

He could think of one solution: he would issue orders to himself. Orders for the prosecution of the war in these waters: chasing down pirates, spying out for the French, other warlike moves—and, where unavoidable, carrying dispatches. It would, of course, be prudent to have them counter-signed. He brightened at the thought of his own war without a senior to interfere. A satisfied smile spread as he ordered his coxswain to turn about and return. This time he would go to the Grand Palace and see the civil commissioner on quite a different matter.

Cameron seemed mildly curious to see him. "Anything I can do, Cap'n?" he said cheerfully.

"Indeed, sir, there is," began Kydd, importantly. "I have been placed in command o' the Malta Naval Service, an' I beg you will acquaint me with your chief concerns that they might be taken into account in our planning."

"Malta Naval Service?" Cameron murmured absently.

"Aye, sir. The man-o'-war Teazer is returned from sea trials, as ye know . . ."

"Well, now, an' I do have my worries as well you c'n understand." He leaned back and regarded Kydd curiously. "An' the chief one, o' course, is trade protection, destroying th' pests that infest these seas. We're particularly vexed by privateers in the Sicily Channel—that's your passage between Sicily and the Barbary coast. Quite upset the trade from the west. And then there's always troubles around the Greek islands, Ligurians and similar."

"A serious matter, sir." That would be an aggressive war patrol to the west, then, showing the flag and spreading the dismaying news among the vermin of the sea that a Royal Navy warship was now to be reckoned with in their hunting grounds.

"But of most importance at the moment is the need to support our trade in the Adriatic." Cameron rubbed his jaw speculatively. "What with the Italian ports in French hands directly across the water, it leaves only the Balkans in the whole eastern Mediterranean open to our cotton exports. You'd be doing us a great service should you be able t' offer us any protection in that area."

"O' course, sir." A fast strike north into the unsuspecting Ionians—he would have as much action as he could wish for in the near future.

"Excellent. Splendid." Cameron leaned back in his chair. "I shall immediately issue a public notice to that effect."

He got up from his chair and came round to Kydd. "This is fine news, and ye must know will give much heart to the people, sir. " Kydd mumbled an embarrassed acknowledgement. "It only needs us to agree the date when the convoy sails, then, Captain."

"Convoy?" Kydd blurted.

"Yes, of course. And let me tell you, when they hear that it will be escorted b' one of Nelson's victorious sea officers, why, they'll be fighting each other to be part o' such a one!"

Outside Grand Harbour a tight cloud of sails massed. Of every conceivable shape and size, exotic and homely, all were united in the common objective of making it safely to Ragusa in the republic of Dubrovnik on the Balkan coast.

Any sight more different from the stern discipline of an Atlantic convoy would be difficult to conjure—no divisional pennants, masthead wefts, numbered columns or even identity vanes. Instead, in the five days left to him, a harassed Kydd had everyone he could find scribbling away at Convoy Instructions for the mass of ships.

All that could be expected was the bare minimum: private recognition signals and one or two for manoeuvring. The formation of the convoy was to be simply a giant advancing square with the escort to windward. It was the best he could do.

A single gun from Teazer's fo'c'sle set the whole mass in motion, an enthusiastic scrambling of sail to fit within the square defined by the four marker ships Kydd had chosen and which bore the distinctive Republic of Dubrovnik flag above the British. Kydd's strict orders were that any vessel that strayed from this square for any reason, impatience or laggardliness, would no longer be considered under protection.

It was crazy—by count about twenty-seven merchant ships and a single escort—but Kydd was determined to see it through. "Take us t' wind'ard, Mr Bonnici," he said hoarsely. "I'll have th' ship ready t' drop down on any who make a false move against us."

Teazer eased into position on the weather side of the square and trimmed canvas to stay with the slow-moving crowd of sail. Kydd remained on deck until he was sure the convoy was on its way, then turned to the officer-of-the-watch and said, "I'm going below, Mr Dacres. Call me if ye think there's anything amiss."

He climbed into his cot without undressing.

There was no incident for three days: the convoy was getting used to sailing together, a singular thing for merchantmen who had no real conception of using the set of the sails to spill wind in order to match speed to that of others.

The square was still more or less together, but now they were approaching the choke point of the Strait of Otranto where it was almost possible to see the coasts of Italy and Albania at the same time, and where any predators could be expected.

As the morning light displaced the darkness of night on the fourth day, at the narrowest part of the strait with a rugged blue coast distantly to starboard, company was spotted. A pair of small but speedy vessels paced together some way off to leeward of the convoy. Their lazy progress, just out of gun range, was that of sharks cruising round a school of frightened fish.

Kydd lowered his telescope and turned to Bonnici. "It's a xebec I recognise, but what's th' other?" It was more substantially built than the low, fine-lined xebec, and on the very much smaller lateen mizzen a tiny but complete square sail topped the mast.

"They both Algerines," Bonnici said quietly, as though they could be overheard.

For Barbary pirates ranging far from their desert lair this larger vessel would hold their stores and booty while the smaller xebec could swarm aboard their selected victim. At eight guns a side, though, it would not do to dismiss the larger too lightly.

"The large, he a barca—do not confuse wi' the Spanish one," Bonnici added, carefully studying it with the glass.

Those of the convoy nearest shied away from the threat, huddling closer. If any of the deep-laden merchantmen ran a-foul of another they would be instant prey—Kydd could not risk leaving the others and they would be on their own. He tried not to think of the fate in store for any small merchant crew overwhelmed by Barbary pirates.

The evil pair, however, did not appear in any hurry as they glided along with the convoy, no doubt picking out victims.

Kydd was confident Teazer could win against either of them and probably both, but this was not in question. The safety of his convoy was. He could not leave his precious windward position for the sake of a few weak sailers and race down on the pirates through the convoy to rout them, then be faced with a long beat back against the wind to save the rest.

The raiders would probably take one or two hapless ships on the fringes and then fall back, knowing Kydd could not pursue.

"Mr Dacres—Mr Bowden, I have a service for ye. Now, mark m' words, an' let there be no mistake . . ."

The two Algerines made their move not much more than an hour later straight at the heart of the convoy. Wheeling about, the two vessels leaned into the wind. Unknown pennons streamed from the tip of their lateen yards as they readied for the onslaught.

Instantly a complex hoist soared up from Teazer's signal halliards, then another. The pirates slashed onwards, but from one of the convoy's front marker ships then from a rear one answering signals streamed out. Large battle ensigns broke out bravely on both ships and they threw over their helm to lay a course directly for the Algerines.

The "trap" was well sprung and it did not take the attackers long to realise their danger. With a brig-of-war bearing down on them directly and several obviously disguised warships closing in fast on both flanks they were not going to stay and dispute. They turned about abruptly and fled.

Teazer recovered her signal teams from the marker ships and resumed her vigil. Climbing back aboard, Lieutenant Dacres smiled uncharacteristically. "Such a to-do, you'd never have believed it—I had to draw my sword on the craven villains to get them to conform! "

The rector of the Republic of Dubrovnik himself came aboard with the thanks of the merchant community when the convoy was delivered safely, but Kydd needed to press on. After an uneventful return passage, the massive crenellations of Malta were a welcome sight. He wished that Renzi was there to admire the ancient town with its long city wall and stonework mellowed by the centuries. He was probably still in Tenacious, first lieutenant of an old and weary ship with a vindictive captain. And on endless blockade.

Teazer found her berth again in Dockyard Creek and Kydd gave leave to all the Maltese hands. With certain employment in difficult times they could be relied on to return and their absence released space for the rest.

The muster book had to be sent to Gibraltar and proved before pay could be authorised, and even then it might be months in arrears. The British sailors would have only what they had kept from their previous ship but Jack Tar would never be renowned for frugal habits. Not for nothing was it said, "They earn money like horses and spend it like asses." Kydd resolved to try for an advance from the clerk of the cheque in the dockyard.

The shipwrights and riggers tut-tutted over the amount of extra rigging, blocks, pendants, clew garnets and the rest involved in spreading a main-yard but it was the appearance of young Attard, brimming over with self-confidence and full of salty yarns about his experiences, that most eased the process, and Teazer prepared for her new sail, the langard mainsail.

It was more difficult in the matter of carronades. It was not a weapon much seen in Mediterranean arsenals and in the peculiar circumstances of Malta the Board of Ordnance did not figure at all.

No carronades but still, Kydd accepted, six-pounders were not to be despised; Teazer's sixteen long sixes were normally more than enough to settle an argument with a privateer, and even if they were to find carronades it would mean re-equipping with special slides in place of the usual wheeled gun-carriage.

Kydd returned to his ship; there would be some delay while these improvements were put in train and he had time on his hands. "Mr Dacres."

His lieutenant came across the quarterdeck from where he had been watching the movements of the exotic little craft about the great harbour.

Kydd removed his cocked hat and smiled. "I have a mind t' step ashore and see a little o' Malta. I thought to hire a carriage, save m' legs a hard beat t' windward. I wonder if ye'd care t' join me f'r the day?"

"I would like that, sir," he replied, but then added, "But without we have a pilot with Italian or the Maltese lingo, I fear we would be at a stand."

"O' course. Then as this is a problem o' navigation, who better than our master t' plot the course?"

The sun was warm to the skin and had a benign cast that set the mood for Kydd. For the first time in weeks he could let tranquillity take hold. In the sternsheets of the cutter he relaxed against the backboard and grinned at Dacres in the sheer escapism of the moment, but Dacres only smiled back politely.

"Mr Bonnici," Kydd asked, "I'm intrigued t' know—who was it built this mighty place? Seems t' me that it's the strongest citadel in all Europe."

"Well, sir," Bonnici said, "ye have to understan' that in the time of your Queen Elizabet' we were attack by the Turk, an' suffer a long and cruel siege. We win, but the knights say they never suffer such again, an' build Valletta—only fifteen year and finished! " he said proudly.

Kydd picked up the "your" and wondered at Bonnici's loyalty, but remembered his years of service to the Royal Navy. "They did a fine job, right enough. An' since then, Mr Bonnici, has any dared t' invade Malta?" In the magnificence of Grand Harbour the island seemed one extended fortress and quite impregnable.

"None, sir," said Bonnici, simply. "The French were let here b' treachery, no fight." He stopped and added, "Ah, none saving th' English—only one time Malta taken, an' that was you, last year against the French."

"I rather fancy you're glad to see the back of them," Dacres murmured.

"Yes!" Bonnici spat with the first emotion Kydd had seen him display. "They come as robber, bandit—take fr'm our church an' the people. We hunger, starve, our trade finish. They say they come as liberatore, to throw out th' knights, but really they wan' to take, seize."

Kydd let him subside then asked, "Where are th' knights now, then?"

"The Gran' Master and most o' the knights go to Russia an' wait to return," he finished abruptly.

"You don't want 'em back?"

"For me—no, sir, they are no good f'r Malta."

"But if they are Maltese—y' knows, of th' noble orders—"

"They are not, sir. They come in th' year 1530. Ver' old, but they given Malta by others."

"So you were before . . . ?"

"No, sir. The Normans were here before, the Count Roger."

"And before then, you?"

"No, sir. Before them the Arab, an' before them the Greeks."

"I see."

"Before them th' east Roman, an' the empire, they call it Melita."

"And—"

"The Carthaginian before, stay seven hundred years. An' before them . . ."

"Er, yes?"

"Before them many say we are giants—at Tarxien, in the country, are strange an' magic dwelling of stones, even th' wisest cannot tell of them . . ."

The boat approached the landing place on the flanks of the fortress city and Yates stood for the final approach. "Hold water larb'd, give way starb'd—Jones, y' fawney bastard, ye're nothing but a mumpin' packet rat. Do I 'ave ter show y' how?"

The trio climbed a short way up some broad steps before a water fountain with a statue of Neptune. "We call this th' Nix Mangiare Stairs, on account of the beggars have nothing t' eat. This is their cry," Bonnici said, then went ahead for a carriage.

"The cales," he said. In the four-seater Kydd and Dacres sat facing forward with Bonnici opposite. They set off, with the driver walking, bridle in hand, and wound up into the city proper. People streamed past, most ignoring them; the women, many in hooded black silk capes, were all prettily adorned with rings, bracelets and silver shoe-buckles and stepped out proudly, while the men affected either dress that would go unremarked in Oxford Street or colourful country garb of trousers and a long sash.

As he took in the sights Kydd realised he had been more than a little distracted before. They began with the five-hundred-year-old Grand Master's Palace, now occupied by Cameron and his administration. The interior of the Cathedral of St John took Kydd's breath away. A riot of gilded tracery, with a blue-stone altar before a life-size religious group in marble, it reeked of a past age of splendour and devotion.

"Th' Manoel theatre—it's lower down, an' some say th' oldest in Europe." It was not large but well appointed.

Then followed sightseeing of the mighty walls, and the public gardens in Floriana outside the massive gates offering views without end of surrounding bays and inlets with their fortifications.

Over a simple meal Bonnici finished their education: the ancient capital, Mdina, was apparently a perfect medieval walled city, complete with drawbridge and castle. At nearby Rabat there were catacombs and noble buildings, while on the coast the alluring Blue Grotto waited to bewitch unwary seafarers. And if it were at all possible the little port of Marsaxlokk and the enchanting Dingli cliffs should not be missed, to say nothing of Zurrieq and Kirkop, Qrendi and Mqabba. Proudly he described in detail the bravery of the Maltese sailors when the apostle Paul was wrecked in a bay up this very coast after meeting with a gregale, a fierce local storm, on his way to Rome.

Kydd was sorry when the day ended and they made their way down to the marina and their boat.

"Sir—for you." Bowden was waiting at the gangway and passed across a note. It was sealed inside an expensive card and addressed impeccably to himself as "The Captain, His Britannic Majesty's Ship Teazer ." Kydd took it down quickly to his cabin away from curious gazes.

"Well, damme!" he muttered. It was an invitation: but this was no ordinary social occasion. Phrases like ". . . sensible of the obligation owing to Commander Kydd upon his late meeting with the Barbary pirates . . ." and ". . . we, merchants of Malta in the Adriatic trade, do wish to render plain our deepest appreciation . . ." left no doubt of its drift.

There was to be a presentation of silver to the brave captain who had defied the sea-robbers so cunningly, and this was to be made by the distinguished English merchant Mr Roderick Mason in the presence of Chevalier Antonio Mancini, fifth Baron Baldassare.

"Tysoe!" Kydd roared. "D' ye think m' best red 'n' green with th' lace will serve for a baron?" He held out the invitation with the merest trace of smugness.

" Oh, sir, my opinion is . . ."

"Spit it out, man!"

"Then sir, if you'll permit me . . ."

"Yes or no, y' villain!"

Tysoe's eye held a glimmer of complacency as he continued suavely, "Sir must be aware that he cuts a fine figure—in uniform blues, and most especially in full-dress. The guests will be expecting you to appear in the character of a sea officer and we don't wish to disappoint, do we, sir?"

He was met by torchlight and conveyed in a carriage to a well-proportioned building with an impressive entrance. Standing waiting were several elderly gentlemen of apparent wealth—silk stockings and lace, ostrich-fringed hats, gold-tipped canes, and jewels on their shoe-buckles.

Kydd felt his relative youth but took assurance from the splendour of his full-dress uniform with the substantial gold of the epaulette, cuffs and lapels against the discreet dark-blue and white of the rest. He took off his gold-laced hat and waited politely.

"Captain, so happy you were able to come." A dignified man greeted him with a quick bow. "Mason, Roderick Mason, at your service." His shrewd grey eyes appraised Kydd.

They went in together to an enclosed inner courtyard crowded with people. The murmur of voices stopped as they appeared. "Gentlemen, might I present HMS Teazer's gallant commander? Captain Thomas Kydd!"

There was a spatter of genteel applause, and he bowed civilly to right and left. A footman appeared at his side with wine in a tall crystal glass. He accepted it and turned to Mason. "S' good of ye t' invite me, sir."

"Our honour entirely, Captain. Shall we proceed?"

The room was not large and was warm with the glitter of candles on a long table. Mason ushered Kydd to its head where a jovial man in scarlet stood up to meet them. "Sir, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd?" He turned slightly. "Chevalier the Baron Baldassare."

"Y'r servant, sir," Kydd replied, with a workmanlike bow, and allowed himself to be seated between the two, trying to remember the graces taught so patiently by his noble-born friend Renzi. Turning to the chevalier he opened, "Rousin' weather we're having, this time o' the year, or do ye prefer it the cooler?"

The dinner passed most pleasantly. Lingering looks were cast his way by the ladies, and valiant attempts made to engage him in conversation over the energetic sawing of a string trio. Mason leaned closer. "I must allow, sir, it was a fine service you performed for us. Have you any conception of the value, for instance, of a single Ragusa-bound brigantine in currants?"

Kydd shook his head.

"It would probably amaze you to learn that the ship—if tolerably new—would be of the order of some migliaia of scudi. If we then add in the desideratum for insurance and other expenditures on the vessel, the capital outlay on the cargo and loss of expected profit, then the depredations of these vermin stand as an impossible burden on any merchant and therefore deleterious to the trade of Malta as a whole."

Kydd nodded and added quietly, "An' not t' mention y'r sailors slaughtered by the Moor, Mr Mason."

Finally the cloth was drawn and the chevalier stood up; fine words were said, then Mason took the chair. "My lord, the distinguished ladies and the gentlemen of Malta here gathered, we are come this night to do honour to the Royal Navy—and in particular the brave Commander Kydd who . . ."

Pink with embarrassment Kydd sat through it, only relieved that he had not let down his ship or her company.

"And so I give you Captain Thomas Kydd!"

He stood and a footman entered bearing a tray. On it were two articles of handsome silver, which Mason lifted up and presented to him. He accepted them graciously.

When he turned to address the guests, he was ill-prepared for the storm of applause and cries of support that echoed about the room. It was all he could do to stutter something about stern duty, the trade of Great Britain and the new prosperity of Malta, but it seemed to suffice and he sat down.

"Well spoken, sir," said Mason, and the rest of the evening passed in an agreeable blur of sociability.

"Mr Bonnici, if ye has the time, I'd like t' speak with you in m' cabin." The master followed and sat, politely attending. "I've promised Commissioner Cameron a war cruise, let the Frenchy know we're about, an' I'm exercised to know as t' where we should go to annoy them the most."

Bonnici's brow furrowed. "Sir, wi' respect, this is not a thing for I, a sailing master," he replied slowly.

Operational matters were for the commissioned officers and Kydd knew that, strictly, it was improper to approach him. "I understand, Mr Bonnici," he said, "yet you'll hold better acquaintance than we with th' waters in the eastern Mediterranean, I fancy. It is y'r opinion only that I'm seeking—the decisions are mine."

"Er, it is my difficulty, sir. If some—gentlemen in Malta hear I tell you where t' go for taking the private ships . . . it may be they think I do this for other reason." Bonnici's family were all in Malta and in their closed community would bear any suspicion if it seemed questionably coincidental that they had appeared suddenly on the scene. Kydd would have to make his own guesses.

"I see. On another matter entirely, may I have y'r opinion? Should Teazer go south-about to th' Sicily Channel this time o' the year? Do you think this a . . . wise course?"

Back on deck, Kydd checked again the progress with the new main course. Purchet seemed to have it all in hand. The main-hatch was off and stores were coming aboard; Teazer could keep the seas for several months, if necessary, but water was the limiting factor. He watched the seamen hoist the big barrels aboard— the Maltese were doing well, laying into their tasks with a will, their clothing now far more in keeping with a British man-o'-war. It was all deeply satisfying: it would be Teazer's first true independent cruise, something that every captain of a man-o'-war yearned for.

But what was particularly pleasing to Kydd was the new mainsail. It had cost some keen thinking to figure how to spread a sail, complete with all its gear, on the biggest yard in the ship where none was before. Even a stout chess-tree needed to be fashioned and bolted on the ship's side forward to take the tack of the new sail out to windward when close-hauled, exactly the same as could be seen in a ship-of-the-line.

Teazer was settling into her routine and, to Kydd's critical eye, was showing every evidence of contentment. He knew the signs: easy laughter from seamen as they worked together, good-natured rivalries out on the yardarm, the willing acceptance of orders where surly looks would be the first sign of discontents.

He knew that he himself was on trial: he was expecting the men to follow him into peril of their lives but they would not do this unless he had first won their trust, their respect. He had reached the first stage, a wary deference, which he could tell from their direct gaze but ready responses. There were ways sailors had of conveying their feelings—he would instantly recognise silent contempt, but he had seen nothing of it.

There was a tentative knock at his open cabin door; Kydd could see Bowden and some others.

"My apologies at the intrusion, sir, but these men have something on their mind and they'd be obliged if you'd hear them."

Kydd looked sharply at him. "What's this, Mr Bowden? Do ye not know—"

"Sir, I think you should hear them."

There was something in his tone that made Kydd pause. He looked at the foretopman standing next to Bowden. "What is it, Hansen?"

He was a reliable hand, not given to trivialities. "Sir, if y' pleases, we got a worry we think ye should know of," he said quietly.

His eyes slid away to the others for support as he talked and Kydd felt the first stirring of unease. Deputations as such were punishable under the Articles of War and they were taking a big risk in bringing it before him like this. "Well?" he growled.

"Sir. Could be we'll be voyagin' quite a ways soon," Hansen mumbled.

Behind him another, older, hand said, more forcefully, "Aye, an' this means we have t' be ready."

"F'r rats!" added a third.

"What th' devil is this all about, Mr Bowden?"

"Er, I think they mean to say that Teazer being a new-built ship, she doesn't have yet a full crew on board. They tell me they're very concerned that our stores and provisions are as yet still unprotected . . ."

Kydd was beginning to see where it was all leading and eased into a smile.

". . . therefore, sir, they're requesting you take aboard a—a ship's cat."

"Ah. Well, that is, I may have omitted t' bring the complement completely up to strength in this particular. I see I must send a hand ashore to press a suitable cat—" There was a shuffling, eyes were cast down. Kydd saw and went on "—that is unless a volunteer c'n be found, o' course," and waited.

Glances were exchanged and then the seamed old sailmaker, Clegg, was pushed forward. Nearly hidden in his horny hands was a scrap of fur from which two beady black eyes fixed themselves solemnly on Kydd.

Kydd's eyebrows rose. "Seems a hard thing t' put such a morsel up against a prime ship's rat, I believe." At the sullen silence this brought he hastened to add, "But, o' course, he being new t' the sea he'll have a chance to show something of himself later." After the ripple of relieved murmurs faded, he snapped, "Volunteer, this day rated ordinary seaman." Grins appeared and Kydd continued, "Er, what name goes in th' muster list?"

Clegg gave a slow smile and, in his whispery voice, said softly, "It's t' be Sprits'l, sir, on account we being a brig we don't have such a one, an' now we does."

* * *

Kydd spread out the best chart they had of the area, a copy of a French one, and pondered. The Sicily Channel was the only pass between the east and west of the Mediterranean, discounting the tiny Strait of Messina. Through this hundred-mile-wide passage streamed the tide of vessels heading for the rich trading ports of the Levant, among them neutrals with contraband, and French trying to slip past to supply their hard-pressed army in Egypt. But with a hundred-miles width of open sea, what would be their likely track?

It was important to make the right choice. How long would it be before a senior officer arrived to put a stop to his independence? He emerged restlessly on deck and caught the flash of sails as a cutter rounded the point into the inlet.

"She's our'n!" Work on deck ceased as every man gazed out at the new arrival come prettily to her mooring.

"Mr Purchet, get th' men back to work this instant!" Kydd snapped. A few minutes later an officer got into a boat, which stroked across to Teazer.

The visitor was of a certain age, with shrewd eyes and a strong manner. Removing his hat he said, "L'tenant Fernly, in command Mayfly cutter." It was naval courtesy for an arriving junior to call upon the ranking officer and this was due Kydd as a full commander.

"Shall we step below, L'tenant?" Kydd said. In his great cabin glasses were brought and respects exchanged.Mayfly was with Army dispatches and material from Gibraltar for General Pigot, with a side voyage to Alexandria in prospect later.

"An' you, sir?" Fernly asked politely.

"I shall be puttin' t' sea shortly on a cruise, but not before I have time to beg y' will take dinner with me," Kydd said.

"That's right kind in you, sir," Fernly answered, easing into a smile. "I don't often find m'self able t' sit at table with a new face, as you'd understand, sir."

* * *

Kydd certainly did understand. He warmed to the prospect of a convivial evening and, with a light heart, he set Tysoe to his preparations. The gunroom decided to hold an evening of their own, and as the sun dipped in the west the first seamen from Mayfly arrived to claim their age-old right to ship-visiting while in port.

"You're right welcome," Kydd said warmly, holding out his hand as Fernly came aboard again. Forward, lanthorns were being triced up in the fore shrouds and groups of men below were gathering in noisy groups until the first hornpipes began. Later it would be sentimental songs at the foremast and well-tried yarns to capture and enthrall.

It was a good sign, and with the length of the ship separating them it would not be a trial for them in the great cabin. The table was laid; Tysoe had contrived another easy chair to complement Kydd's own and the two naval officers sat at the stern windows, taking their fill of the fine evening view of Malta.

The candles cast a mellow gold about the cabin and set Kydd's new pieces of silver a-glitter. The local Maltese wine, chirghentina, was cool and delicious, and Kydd felt a spreading benevolence to the world take hold. "Ye would oblige me extremely, sir, if we might talk free, as it were," he said, hoping the officer's courtesy would give way to the forthright character he suspected lay beneath.

"By all means," Fernly replied, perhaps picking up on Kydd's mood. "It's a damnably lonely profession, in all." He set down his empty glass, which Tysoe noiselessly refilled. "May I ask ye a question?"

Kydd looked up, surprised.

"Forgive me if I'm adrift in m' reckoning, but y' have the look o' the fo'c'sle about ye."

"Aye, this is true," Kydd admitted. He saw no reason to hide it.

"Then c'n we raise a glass together—we're both come aft th'

hard way." There was brittle defiance in his tone.

Cautiously, Kydd raised his glass in agreement. "T' us." It was rare for a King's officer to have crossed the great divide from the fo'c'sle to the quarterdeck and Kydd had come across few of the breed. "Do ye not find it an advantage in command?" To Kydd, it was of considerable benefit to be able to know the mind of the seamen in his charge, to understand the motivations and simple but direct elements of respect that so often differed from those of the quarterdeck.

"Of course. I flatter m'self that I'm at least two steps ahead of the lazy buggers. Let 'em dare t' try any o' their slivey tricks in my watch, is what I say." Fernly grinned mirthlessly and pushed out his glass to Tysoe.

Kydd did not reply. He knew of hard-horse tarpaulin captains who used their familiarity with the seamen to make life difficult for them. He was also aware that there was an ocean of difference for the foremast hand between obedience and respect, which the older man seemed to have forgotten.

Fernly seemed to sense Kydd's feeling and changed the topic. "Can't say I've seen Teazer in Malta before. A trim craft, very handsome . . ."

Kydd thawed. "Goes like a witch in anythin' like a quarterin' blow, an' I'm going after more b' crossing a main-yard in place of the cro'jack. Rattlin' fine work b' y'r Maltese shipwrights."

"You mount fours or sixes?"

"Six-pounders, an' hoping t' find carronades. Couldn't help but notice—Mayfly's clencher-built, not s' common as who would say. I was in a cutter in the Caribbean, Seaflower b' name, an' she was lap-straked as well."

"Caribbean? I was there in Wessex frigate in 'ninety-four."

"Were ye really? I remember . . ."

The talk livened agreeably at the subject of old ships. Fernly had been an able seaman with the good fortune to have impressed a captain sufficiently that he had been plucked from the fo'c'sle and placed on the quarterdeck as a mature midshipman. This had led to promotion in due course, but the later demise of the captain had left him without interest at high level and he had not been noticed.

Dinner was served, the conversation turning now to landfalls and seaports across the seven seas; between them they had seen so much of a world unknown and unexplored to the generation just past.

As justice was being done to a cunning Buttered Meringue La Pompadour, Fernly cocked his head and listened, holding up his hand. The strains of a violin and sounds of merriment from the main deck had stopped and there was a sudden quiet.

Then, faintly on the night breeze, from forward came a familiar air:

We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors;

We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas

Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old Eng-a-land

From Ushant to Scilly 'tis thirty-five leagues . . .

"That's m' quartermaster," Fernly said softly, "an' a right songster indeed."

Kydd looked at Fernly. "Spanish Ladies," he blurted happily.

Fernly returned the look with impish glee, mouthing the words while waving a glass in the air and Kydd responded in a creditable baritone, his own glass spilling as he beat time. Soon Fernly came in with a fair tenor.

The old sea-song finished and, faces flushed, they moved back to the easy chairs. "Rare time," Kydd said, easing his waistband.

"It's a sad profession, without it has compensations," Fernly agreed, helping himself to Madeira. Tysoe had cleared decks without either man noticing and a baize cloth now bore a neat cluster of decanters.

Kydd sighed deeply. His gaze slipped down to the glittering gold of the epaulette on his coat, which was now draped over the back of his chair. He looked up and his expression became wistful. "I own that I've been a copper-bottomed, thorough-going lucky wight. Here am I, a Guildford wigmaker, topping it th' mandarin as commander, writing m'self orders f'r a cruise. Who would've smoked it?"

He stopped. "Ah—that is not t' say . . ." In the fuddle of wine, words failed him. His guest was still only a lieutenant and a silver-haired one at that, with only a tiny cutter to show for his years at sea. And a lieutenant-in-command could not possibly compare with a commander of a sloop.

Fernly lifted his glass and, closing one eye, squinted at the table candle through it. "Y' told me before as I was t' talk free. Should I?" He spoke as though to himself.

"Fill an' stand on, I beg," Kydd said warmly.

Still staring at his glass Fernly continued in the same tone: "You're senior in rank, an' I in years. Gives you a different slant on things, y' must believe." His voice strengthened. "Only f'r the friendship I bear ye for the night's company do I speak out, you understand."

"Just so," Kydd said neutrally.

"You're new made t' commander, this is plain."

"Why Keith gave me th' step I still don't understand."

"Nor will you ever. My guess is, he had others waitin' that by movin' the one into a sloop the other would protest. You were to hand and got th' berth—but if half th' reason was fortune, the other half must be y'r shinin' past. That must still the tongues o' those who would object."

Kydd leaned forward and refilled his glass. "But you—"

"Do I hear a dash o' pity on my account? Pray don't trouble y'self, sir. I'm content with m' lot because I'm a philosophical. I'm a tarpaulin an' know it—I never hoisted aboard y'r polite ways, I had no one t' teach me. My pride is in good deepwater seamanship an' prime sailing."

Looking steadily at Kydd he continued, "I'll be straight—I've been in the sea service long enough t' take inboard some hard facts, which I'll share with ye.

"The first: y' speaks of a cruise you means to take. That's a brave thing t' do when y'r Articles of War—I mean th' thirteenth— says much about any who, an' if I remember th' words aright, hangs back fr'm 'pursuing the chase of any enemy, pirate or rebel,' which chasin' prizes instead must surely be."

He sipped his wine, regarding Kydd calmly. "An' the seventeenth—pain o' death or other, should ye fail in protecting trade, which is goin' after the privateers and similar and not lookin' after th' merchant jacks." He paused, then added, "Y'r flag officer likes prize-money shares but likes better zeal agin the enemy—just ask His Nibs, Adm'ral Nelson!"

Kydd coloured. "I know the Articles well enough," he muttered.

Fernly went on remorselessly: "Still an' all, I've knowledge that the eastern Med squadron will be returning here shortly f'r their regular repair 'n' store, which will be fatal to your enterprise in any case." So much for his independence, Kydd thought resentfully, but waited for the older man to say his piece.

"Then shall we speak o' your situation." Fernly glanced meaningfully about the cabin and added, "You must feel content with y'r lot."

Kydd nodded.

"Then consider this: it's not th' best but the worst thing f'r an officer, being away on y'r own like you are. In the sea service you'll agree the only way t' get promotion is to be noticed. Some fine action, with a butcher's bill to follow, sort o' thing you're well acquainted with, I believe. Now, what chance have ye got t' be noticed in a small ship that you're frightened of the smallest frigate? You're out o' sight, no one knows y' exist. You do well, an' you're accounted a reliable, safe pair o' hands, which will suit their lordships fine t' keep you so for ever."

It was galling but there was no arguing with it. Fernly leaned over and made a show of smoothing the hang of Kydd's coat with its lustrous gold lace, continuing mildly, "I give ye joy on y'r promotion—I hope it brings satisfaction."

Kydd kept mute. Clearly Fernly was about to make some point.

"A commander? I once saw service in a flagship. A real caution, some of th' things you'd see." He twirled his glass by the stem as he considered Kydd, a lop-sided smile in place.

"The Commander-in-Chief—a lot o' things he has t' worry over. Enemy fleet, state o' the ships, spies 'n' such, but y' know what troubles him most? How t' satisfy those he owes an obligation by way of a place. Relatives o' his, of others, even th' highest in the land, all clamouring f'r preferment.

"So, he removes a favoured l'tenant into a brig as commander. He's now out o' sight an' mind at the other end o' the Med for, say, a year, two. Then someone's nephew gets uppity, has t' be quieted with a ship. What then? It's sad enough, but th' first has had his chance for distinction and must give way to another. As simple as that, m' friend."

Fernly's expression held sorrow and Kydd felt the warmth of the wine and fellowship fall away.

"It gets worse. Our first commander, what is he t' do without he has a ship? If he was a lieutenant—like m'self—we can see him entered back into a ship-of-the-line, second l'tenant or some such. But a commander . . . There's above a hundred commanders more'n there are King's ships I've been told, so what's his fate? A commander may not undo his promotion; and so we see that while th' country fights f'r its life, our brave officer cannot be found employment—an' must retire fr'm the sea.

"Mr Kydd," Fernly said softly, "I do believe you're under notice. T' make yourself remarked upon—or perhaps learn how to grow turnips . . ."

CHAPTER 6

KYDD GLOWERED AT THE PAPERWORK on his desk, his dark mood sinking fast into depression. It had been a cruel let-down, the intrusion of hard reality into the euphoria of first command. It was not as if he was unaware of the things Fernly had said—every naval officer knew something of the situation—it was more the cold realisation that, like the diagnosis of a disease, it now applied inescapably to him.

He picked up a scrawled sheet, trying to fix his thoughts on stations for fire-fighting, but his eyes glazed. There was no way he could concentrate. The cruise would have to be cancelled: he could not risk being away without real orders when the squadron arrived back in port. His so-brief days of roving free were over. Teazer's fate would revert again to fetch and carry, convoy escort, dispatches—he would be the menial of any who cared to make use of his little ship, with never a chance at true battle and glory.

Yet the worst part was that he could see now that if he failed to distinguish himself in Teazer his longed-for elevation would ironically ensure that he must abruptly leave the sea, and without appeal.

One thing was certain, though: a report to the admiral had to be rendered. He had been putting it off as long as he could but there would be no time to spare after he had arrived. Kydd sighed and took a fresh sheet of paper—and a dozen sharp needles clamped themselves to his stockinged leg. As he shot to his feet, banging his head on an overhead deck beam, his eyes flicked down.

There was a terrified squeak and a pair of imploring black eyes looked up into his. Kydd opened his mouth to roar for Tysoe but stopped; he bent and picked up the warm little body, which lay trustingly in his cupped hands. "Ye're nothing but a tiger, young Sprits'l," he found himself cooing. A tiny pink tongue gave a tentative lick at one finger and Kydd's heart was lost to the little creature. It had been years before, but he had not forgotten the ship's cat of the old Duke William that had shared his first night in the Navy.

The kitten let go and scampered across the deck, then disappeared under a side table, its face reappearing mischievously. Kydd smiled: if this little creature could not only brave the unknown world but turn it into a place of fun and play, who was he to complain at his lot? His depression began to lift and he turned back to his report.

Attard, midshipman of the watch, knocked timidly at the door. "S-sorry to disturb, sir, but, er, have you—"

"Under the table yonder—an' I'll thank ye t' keep it forward," Kydd growled, hiding a grin.

It was amazing how such a tiny life had brought proportion to his own. Now he could turn his mind to a more constructive course. His independence was about to be checked—but then was not this at heart a falsity anyway? An admiral had seniors; even the great Nelson must take orders from above. Nelson— now there was his example: to do his duty to the utmost and when the big chance came to seize it full-heartedly and without hesitation. And, meanwhile, he would try to be like little Sprits'l, taking joyously all that life had to offer of the moment . . .

"Never mind that," Admiral Warren said, slapping Kydd's report down on the desk, "I haven't the time. Tell me what you've been doing with yourself."

"Well, sir," Kydd began carefully, "in th' absence of direction fr'm a senior officer I conceived it m' duty to fit out th' ship immediately by any means. Being ready in all respects I proceeded to sea."

He paused—this was the delicate part. "I came up with a corsair plunderin' a merchant ship an' tried to catch him but as a xebec he went about close to th' wind and—and I lost him."

The admiral's granite expression did not change. "It happens. Go on," he rasped.

"Er, at the suggestion of Mr Cameron I took a convoy t' Ragusa and fell in with two Algerines. They left without joining action on seein' my hostile motions."

Warren's eyebrows rose, but he didn't pursue it further. "Well, then—you have your senior now and it is to be admitted that your presence here is not unwelcome." Kydd smothered a sigh of relief and tried to look eager. "While my fleet repairs and stores, it would be of service to me should you look into the south for word of Ganteaume. Even as I've been searching for him in the north, he may have been at large in the Gulf, refitting.

"You shall have orders for a reconnaissance along the coast east of Tripoli. I don't have to tell you, if Ganteaume is sighted you will spare nothing and nobody to bring me the news. If at the end of ten days there is no word, then your voyage will not be wasted as you shall be able to render me your appreciation of the situation in those parts."

"Aye aye, sir!" Kydd said crisply.

Warren glowered. "And if you're under the impression this scouting voyage is an excuse for prize-taking, let me disabuse you, sir. You're performing this vital task because I can't spare the frigates. Understand?"

"Mr Purchet! Those forrard backstays are a disgrace," Kydd said savagely, as he stepped back aboard. "And why is not th' rattlin' complete on the main shrouds?" He didn't wait for an answer and plunged below.

He had no charts of the Barbary coast. No carronades. There had been only a brief discussion with the flag-lieutenant concerning intelligence, which seemed contradictory and nothing much beyond conjecture: the British were newcomers to the Levant, which had been mainly a French trading preserve before, and it showed. Any charts that might be available were copies of captured enemy ones, of varying age and quality, and provisioning was only to be had at either Malta or by barter with the Moors of north Africa.

There was no word of Ganteaume or his fleet—they might be at large anywhere except in the north where Warren had just been with his squadron. His orders called for a search to the south-east from Tripoli deep into the Gulf of Sirte, presumably returning along the north-trending coast. Any one of the indentations in the lonely desert coast might harbour the powerful enemy squadron; when he came upon them it was in the lap of the gods if the wind was fair for a rapid retirement or whether he would find himself set upon by fast frigates intent on his destruction to preserve the secret of their presence.

There was no possibility of action and glory in this kind of work, no credit for fleeing a superior enemy and simply returning with the news—but every chance of oblivion if he came back with nothing.

Kydd screwed up his attempt at orders in the case of fire on board and flung it into the corner. He snatched up another paper and tried to concentrate on planning the voyage: stores, of course, charts. Where could they water? Their sea endurance would probably not extend to the near thousand-mile round trip. What were the inshore wind and current conditions? He had been in a frigate that had touched ground at the other end of the Mediterranean and it had been a terrifying experience. Was Bonnici up to the hair-raising coast-hugging of this voyage? Was he?

They slipped and put to sea early in the morning, shaping course directly south the several hundred miles to Tripoli, the winds fair for a fast passage. Teazer leaned into it with a will, but her commander stood unmoving on his quarterdeck, staring ahead in a black mood. Dacres reported sea watches set and Kydd grunted an ill-humoured acknowledgement.

He noticed that several men were the worse for wear after a final run ashore before they sailed: if they fumbled a manoeuvre he would see there was a reckoning.

A line of men on their knees with holystones were working their way aft across the deck, kept well supplied with water from a bucket-man and sand from the petty officer in charge. As they approached, Kydd caught furtive glances—was he going to yield the deck to the lowly seamen or stand his ground? A stubbornness born of his mood kept him rooted to the spot. The men came near. Then, without looking up, awkwardly tried to work round his unmoving shoes. He kept his position, staring forward fixedly as the line passed by. Close to Kydd and well within his hearing, Daniel Hawkins said, in a raised voice to the man on his left, "Be gob, an' does we have t' top it the heathen slave an' all?"

Kydd stiffened in surprise.

"Silence, damn y'r hide!" Purchet's outraged bellow came from behind him. "I heard that, y' villain! Y'r own captain you'd chouse, y' rascal!" The boatswain came up to Kydd. "I'll see him afore Mr Dacres for ye, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Purchet, but—" Kydd said, then stopped. Any interference would be seen as weakness, an allowing of disrespect to his person and situation. His authority would begin to unravel as of that moment.

With grim inevitability the little drama expanded. The sullen sailor was hauled off and, within minutes, Dacres had solemnly reported that he had confined a member of Teazer's crew to irons, to appear before Kydd at his pleasure.

There was no point in delaying the inevitable: half an hour before the noon grog issue the ship's company was mustered. For appearance's sake, Kydd required his warrant officers and midshipmen to fall in behind where he would stand, facing the mass of seamen. An improvised lectern was set up and when officers and men were all present Dacres went below to report.

Composing his expression to one of solemn judgement Kydd emerged on to the upper deck. The seamen were mustered in a mass forward with the small number of minor officers aft.

Kydd strode purposefully to the lectern. "Carry on, Mr Dacres," he intoned, with as much gravity as he could muster.

"Sir. At two bells this forenoon Daniel Hawkins, ordinary seaman, was heard to utter words of calumny and disrespect to the person of you, sir, his lawful commander, in contravention of Article the Twenty-third of the Articles of War."

"Witnesses?" Kydd said sharply. "Mr Purchet?"

"Sir," began the boatswain, with ill-concealed relish, and repeated the accusation.

"Thank you. Is there any t' speak for him?"

"Sir." Bowden stepped forward manfully. "Hawkins is in my division, sir, and I have never found reason to remonstrate with him." It was carefully phrased, the absence of positive qualities revealing.

Kydd turned to Hawkins. "Have ye anything t' say?" Hawkins stood loosely, with an expression of boredom. He lifted his eyes to Kydd's. There was nothing in them that could be read. Then he shrugged.

"Articles o' War, if y' please."

"Orf hats!" Purchet roared. Heads were bared with a single rustle of movement.

Peck came forward and read from the frayed leatherbound booklet. "If any person in the fleet . . ." his voice was flat and reedy and almost certainly not heard at the back ". . . uses reproachful or provoking speeches . . ." Kydd watched the men carefully for any sign of unrest behind the glazed expressions and shuffling feet ". . . upon being convicted thereof shall suffer such punishment . . . and a court-martial shall impose."

"On hats!" bawled Purchet. The rustle of movement stopped quickly: it was of deep interest to all to hear how their captain would punish.

"Ye can have a court-martial if y' desires it." This would mean remaining in irons until they returned to Malta.

"No, sir," Hawkins said evenly.

"Very well. I find ye in contempt of good order an' naval discipline an' you shall take your punishment this very day." It was a good opportunity to address the assembled ship's company sternly but Kydd could not find it in himself. He waited for a heartbeat then drew himself up. "Six lashes!"

There was a wave of murmuring but it could have been worse. Kydd stood back from the lectern and thrust his hands behind his back. "Strip!"

"Carpenter's mate," growled Purchet, looking about. A grating was removed and, in the absence of a half-deck, it was triced up to the main shrouds. The boatswain's mate took up his ready position with a cat-o'-nine-tails.

In a deathly silence, broken only by the low hissing of the ship's wake, Hawkins's thumbs were secured above his head with spun yarn. His head flat on the gratings, he fixed Kydd's eye, then deliberately looked the other way and tensed.

Feeling a sick emptiness inside Kydd croaked, "Do y'r duty, boatswain's mate."

There was no mercy in Laffin's low, sweeping strokes: aboard Teazer there were no marine drummers to heighten the tension with furious volleying, only the swish and harsh smack of the lash, as powerful as the kick of a horse. Apart from a first muffled grunt, Hawkins made no sound, and when sentence was complete and he was cut down, he made play of picking up his shirt and jauntily throwing it on his shoulder, over livid purple and red-seeping weals.

Kydd nodded at Purchet's enquiring glance and the boatswain pealed out his call. "Carry on, the hands." The assembly turned forward and dissolved into a babble of talk as they streamed below for the grog issue. Not wishing to meet anyone's eye, Kydd left the deck to take refuge in his cabin.

The whole affair had been his fault. The black depression riding on his back was no excuse; childish petulance, unworthy of a real captain, had precipitated the incident.

Kydd's table was spread for the midday meal, a ragoo of kidneys gently steaming and a cold collation tempting, but he was in no mood to enjoy it. Tysoe entered noiselessly and began pouring a sea-cooled white wine. "Thank 'ee, Tysoe, but ye can carry on, if y' please—leave the wine."

He drank deeply in the silence of the great cabin, the gentle sway of the little ship sending bright dapples of sunlight from the stern windows prettily back and forth. This usually brought a welling of contentment, but not now.

More wine. He told himself that his mood was probably the consequence of being too euphoric at his sudden life change, that he had been due a dose of reality, but that was no remedy. He splashed the last of the wine into his glass.

Hawkins was forward, separated only by a few dozen feet, and while he himself sat with his wine, the sailor, probably surrounded by his shipmates offering rough consolation and a gulp of grog, was in great pain—all of Kydd's doing.

There was no getting away from it: he had failed. "Tysoe!" he called loudly. His servant appeared suspiciously promptly. "An' I'll have another—open me a red for th' kidneys."

What was happening to the new-born spirit of comradeship and pride in the ship that he was trying to cultivate? If he was not careful, it would fly apart.

The red wine had the coolness of the wine-store about it; a tiny smile twisted his lip. He had caught out Tysoe for once that he had not a carefully nurtured room-temperature bottle ready to serve. This steadied him: being a captain involved far more than the exercise of absolute power. Insight into human nature, the wise foreseeing of threat and neglect, the assiduous assimilation and control of the mass of detail that was the smooth running of a ship-of-war—these were the skills that had to be acquired, not the indulgence of personal vexations.

But he had no one to talk to, to reflect things back into a measure of proportion. He slammed the glass down and got to his feet. Renzi was no more. He had to find his own salvation—and he would, damn it!

The coast of Barbary was much the same as he had seen it before: low, desolate, mile after mile of scrubby sand and little else. The untidy jumble of Tripoli lay to starboard as Teazer's helm went over and she began her quest for the enemy.

As every headland approached it had to be assumed that on the other side was the dread sight of ships-of-the-line at anchor, ranging frigates cruising in pairs suddenly sighting Teazer. What then?

The winds were briskly from the north-west, as expected, and could not have been fairer for their run along the coast but would be in their teeth in the case of a desperate flight back to Malta. And with offshore sandbanks and unknown currents it would need fine seamanship indeed to get through.

Bonnici had a general knowledge of the coast and a number of well-thumbed charts, but was withdrawn and apprehensive: for him this was the lair of the Barbary corsair, who had plagued his people for centuries.

Headland after point, cape after promontory, gulfs, bays, coves—for days, the never-ending low, anonymous line of sandy coast. It was tense, wearying work, which tried the nerves and endurance of men in the confines of the little ship. They stopped several of the ever-present coastal feluccas, not much larger than ship's boats, but there was never a word of any French ships.

Each night Teazer stood out to sea and at first light closed with the coast, scrupulously taking up the search where she had left off. Provisions began to fail; one of the three remaining water casks proved foul. If they replenished at any one of the straggling settlements they would find victuals and water well enough, but at the cost of both revealing their presence and later bringing down on themselves a full quarantine in Malta for touching at a Barbary port.

Kydd's spirit hardened. He knew his manner had stiffened at the worry and care that had entered his soul. He was now unsmiling and abrupt; few dared open conversation with him and talk died when he approached. If this was the price to be paid to be a captain, then so be it.

A garrulous Sicilian trader had no word of any French fleet in the vicinity but had heard rumours of a lone cruiser to the north. Discounting this, it seemed increasingly obvious to Kydd that there was no substantial French presence: if they were to fall on the British reinforcements they would be best advised to conceal themselves more to the far north until they were ready, then make a sally in force. Either that or lurk to the west of Sicily and attack the transport at source.

Obedient to his orders Kydd kept Teazer ever eastward until they reached the deepest extent of the Gulf of Sirte, still with no sign of Ganteaume. And then it was time to return.

With a worsening state of provisions and water now three upon four, Teazer lay over on the larboard tack as close on the wind as she could and left the desolate desert land astern. She made good time to thirty-five degrees north, then went about for the second leg to Malta.

In the empty expanse of the eastern Mediterranean it was odd for the masthead lookout to hail the deck and stranger still for him to be in some confusion about what had been sighted.

"Get up there an' report what you see," Kydd told Bowden, who swung himself smartly into the shrouds clutching a telescope and joined the lookout.

"A boat, sir," his report came down. "I think in distress."

This far from land the constant south-easterly current in these parts would be sweeping it further and further into the lonely vastness. Teazer 's bow turned towards it and they drew nearer. There was a small mast but no sail spread and the five aboard lay in postures of exhaustion.

One in the bow had sufficient strength to take a line and they drew the boat alongside. Sailors from Teazer dropped into it to bring up the pathetic creatures waving feebly with thin cries. From the quarterdeck Kydd watched them helped aboard, guessing from the rising jabber of his Maltese sailors that they were probably survivors from a local craft caught in a storm.

It was odd, however, that there had been no undue movement in the barometer lately that Kydd had noticed and also puzzling that the boat was of western European style. He glanced up at the sails flogging in their brails—the wind was backing more to the west and he was anxious to be on his way before he was headed for Malta.

"Get a move on, Mr Dacres!" he bawled.

"Go forward an' tell 'em to take th' rest inboard," he snapped to Martyn, standing meekly at his side. "And make the boat fast under our stern—an' main quick, dammit!" he threw after the youngster.

Kydd stood motionless. More mouths to feed, water to guzzle when they themselves were so short . . . Was his heart hardening so much that he was begrudging this of shipwrecked sailors? He did not want to answer the question.

Sail was loosed and braced round, and Teazer resumed her course homewards. Kydd knew he could leave the details of caring for the passengers to the good-hearted seamen, who in all probability would give them the shirts from their own backs.

"Sir, I talked wi' them an' I think you mus' know."

"Yes, Mr Bonnici." Kydd's interest quickened. They had seen Ganteaume afar off, perhaps? Or even . . .

"Th' French, sir. It was the French did this t' them!" Bonnici's eyes glittered.

"And?"

"Not ships-o'-the-line. A ship—corvette. To save prize crew they cast adrift all th' prisoner!"

"They were taken by a National ship? When? What was his name?" This was very different: a unit of the French Navy loose on the sea lanes. He would not be going back with nothing. Warren could not afford any interference with shipping in the approaches to Alexandria and would quickly dispatch a frigate to deal with it.

"Sir, his name La Fouine, ship-rig wi' eight-pounders, an' fast." He added, "They were took three day ago."

Kydd gave a wry smile. The corvette would be well clear of the area and could be anywhere. But he had something to tell.

* * *

"T' twenty degrees east, sir, conformable to y'r orders."

"And nothing—not even a whisper?" Warren said testily, his gouty foot was supported discreetly by a cushion under the table.

"Nothing, sir."

"You spoke with merchantmen, of course."

"Yes, sir. No word of Ganteaume anywhere in this part o' the Mediterranean."

Warren glowered at Kydd.

"Sir, we picked up a boatload o' survivors on returning. They say they were taken by a French National ship—a corvette, sir," Kydd added hastily, seeing Warren's sudden jerk of interest. "And this two or three days ago."

"So he's on the high seas somewhere to the east at last report," Warren mused. "Nothing for a battle squadron to concern themselves with. But if he gets among our transports . . ."

The usual corvette was bigger than an English ship-sloop but smaller than a frigate; with extended quarterdeck and bulwarks well built up, they had been called by some "petty-frigates."

"Do ye know his name?" he rumbled, leaning forward.

"Sir—it's La Fouine."

"Ha!"

"You know him, sir?"

"Never heard of him in my life. Your French not up to it, I see?" Warren's grim face eased into a thin smile.

"Er, it means some sort o' bird?" Kydd hazarded. His lessons with Renzi had been workmanlike and to the point, but it sounded a bit like—

"It does. What we might call a stone marten." His look of amusement increased. "And were ye not a gentleman in France and were addressed so, it might be comprehended as 'weasel-face,'" he added, with a sudden fruity cackle.

Kydd tried to crack his face into a comradely chuckle but the proximity of a rear admiral of the Mediterranean Fleet was too much for him and the smile sagged weakly.

Warren looked speculatively at Kydd. "Can I take it, sir, that you're at leisure as of your return to Malta?"

"Sir," Kydd stuttered.

"Then you shall have orders that I believe will keep you tolerably employed. I desire that you will seek out and destroy this corvette, should he have the temerity to sail east or south of Sicily." Warren peered at Kydd to see the effect of his words. "I will not have frigates absented from my squadron before Ganteaume, yet I cannot tolerate such a one astride the approaches to Egypt. Can ye do it?"

"Thank you, Mr Bonnici—spread 'em out, if y' please." Kydd's great cabin seemed small with three in it; himself one side of his table, Dacres and now Bonnici on the other, scrutinising the charts.

"Now I want y' best thinking. If La Fouine is here," Kydd indicated the broad area to the south and east of Sicily, "then where should we start?" Focus on a single war-like object had done wonders for his spirits. If anything was going to bring him to notice it would be a successful action against a true French man-o'-war.

"It would be of great assistance were we to discover his mission, sir," Dacres said diffidently. "Is he a common prize-taker, or does he seek to distress the lines of supply to our army? The one, he will desire to place himself at the point of most shipping, the Sicily Channel to the west; the other, he will keep well to the east at the seat of the fighting. Which is it to be?"

"Well said, Mr Dacres," Kydd replied. "And we must assume that as Admiral Warren is fresh come from th' north, we will not find La Fouine thereabouts." He rubbed his chin and pondered.

"There is besides one thing other t' consider—how does he keep the seas for long without he has a friendly port at his back t' keep him victualled an' in powder an' such?"

"They have a treaty with Sicily but I doubt they would operate from there—I have heard Taranto has been visited by them," Dacres offered.

"Aye, could be, but this is a mort distant fr'm both the Sicily Channel and the fighting. If it were me, I'd like t' find somewhere between the both—but there's none I can see. Mr Bonnici?"

"Not f'r me saying, sir, but has he sail back to France?"

Kydd bristled. "No, he hasn't—we'll find him sure enough!" If he could not, this chance of distinction was gone for ever. He looked from one to the other but each avoided his gaze, and stared down at the chart. This was hardly Nelson's band of brothers before a battle, he brooded; but was he not the captain with the full power, and responsibility, to make decisions?

"Very well, this is what we'll do." He collected his thoughts. "Er, th' most important is our landings. We start there, say, thirty degrees east, an' then track west. Because we've a head wind we'll have t' proceed tack b' tack—but this is no matter, for it obliges us to crisscross the shipping lanes, which in course we must do until we've raised Sicily again.

"A hard flog, gentlemen, but it's the only way I can see we'll lay him by th' tail."

Empty seas. Seas with every kind of vessel imaginable. The dreary north African coast yet again. Once, a British convoy straggling in a cloud of sail. It went on for long days, then weeks of hard sea-time with never a whisper of a rumour of their quarry.

Kydd was tormented with thoughts that his decision was a failure, that the corvette had turned back after seizing its prize and was now in Marseille. But surely there would be no point in the Frenchman turning out its prisoners to save on prize crew unless it intended further predation?

And was he correct to insist on flogging back against the weather, instead of making a judgement on where the corvette must pass and wait comfortably until it did?

They turned south, deep into the lee shores of the Gulf of Sirte and the hunting grounds of the pirate corsairs of Tripoli and Tunis. They beat against the north-westerlies and suffered the withering heat and blinding dust of the sirocco. Still there was no sign.

Scoured by sea salt and dust storm Teazer was no longer new. Her bright sides had faded and her lovely white figurehead had lost its gold, now defiantly weather-beaten. There were also signs of hard usage—ropes turned end for end when they became too hairy at the nip, smart canvas now a bleached grey and everywhere a subtle rounding of sharp corners, a shading of colours about a shape.

However, Kydd saw only a growing maturity, a sea-tried ship to which he could trust his life. But this was war and there would come a time when she must be pitted in merciless battle against another, bigger and stronger than she was. Kydd steeled himself against the thought of what an enemy broadside would do. But if Teazer could not find and then overcome her opponent it would mean the end for him.

Kydd kept the Barbary city of Tripoli well under his lee as they passed: the British were in amity with the rapacious pasha, but within the distant stone ramparts of the city there were reputed to be Christian slaves in miserable squalor.

They rode out a storm from the north-west, the seas punching their bows with short, savage blows, the spindrift in whipping, horizontal sheets that left the eyes salt-sore and swollen.

When they closed the coast again, the boatswain and Dacres approached Kydd. "Sir, I'm truly sorry to have to tell you that Mr Purchet advises that the last water cask in the hold is foul," Dacres reported.

"Aye, sir, beggin' y'r pardon, but this'n means we shall have t' return . .."

Now he would have to head back with nothing to show for his voyage; it was unlikely that he would be given another chance, which, of course, probably meant that it was a return to dispatches and convoys, then a quiet relieving of command and forced retirement from the sea.

"Sir," the master began.

"Mr Bonnici?" Kydd replied, aware of the irony that this man whom he himself had taken on would continue to remain at sea professionally while he—

"We c'n get water," the master continued softly.

"Where?" To call at any port on the Barbary coast would be to condemn Teazer and her company to the insupportable tedium of a Malta quarantine.

"Sir, all they who sail th' Mediterranean know where is water. Not at the port—no, on th' shore, in the rock." His shrewd eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Go on!"

"Near Zuwarah. Another five leagues, no more."

Cautiously, Teazer shortened sail as the little bay opened up. Miles from any settlement that Kydd had noticed, there was a ragged point of land with a small beach, ending in an untidy jumble of rocks and a tight cluster of tall date palms. Not far beyond was another point, which provided the opposite enfolding arm of a calm haven.

"What's the depth o' water?"

"Good holding in seven fathom, jus' four cable off."

While watering they would be vulnerable, but the bay was set back and out of the way of casual coastal transits. The prize of perhaps another week at sea was too good to pass up.

"We'll do it!"

With a leadsman chanting the depths they ghosted in and anchored—with chancy desert winds inshore, Kydd took the precaution of laying out a kedge first and Teazer came slowly to rest.

The hold was opened. As quickly as possible, the planking of the mess deck was taken up and the hatchways thrown back to allow tackles between the two masts to be rigged to sway the big casks up and into the cutter for the pull to shore.

Dacres returned from a quick exploration. "Water indeed, sir! Comes out from between the rocks in that cliff." Heaven only knew how water was present in such quantities in rocks of the desert, but Kydd was not in the mood to question; the sooner they were under way again the better. He paced impatiently up and down, then retreated to his cabin.

He stared out of the stern windows at the watering party ashore: with an exotic earth beneath the feet they might be difficult to control. Perhaps he should have sent Dacres instead of midshipman, but he knew he could not grudge them a light-hearted seizing of the moment.

A sudden shout of alarm pierced his thoughts. Confused thumping of feet sounded and, as he stood up, the door burst open. Attard was wide-eyed. "Mr Dacres's compliments—sir, there's a frigate! A thumper! He says—"

Kydd knocked him aside in his rush on deck. It was the nightmare he had feared—Ganteaume! They were neatly trapped in the little bay as if by special arrangement. And there it was, frighten-ingly close in, and manoeuvring to close off their escape.

"That's not Ganteaume—that's one of ours!" Dacres exclaimed, with relief.

"One o' Warren's frigates?"

"No, it ain't, sir," Purchet said heavily. "Can't say as I know 'oo he is—but one thing's f'r sure, he's not ours."

Kydd ignored Dacres's anxious look and snatched his telescope. He did not recognise the vessel either. Big, very big. In a sudden rush of hope he searched the mizzen rigging, the image dancing with the thump of his heart, until he found what he was looking for. "Thank God," he breathed. "Stars 'n' stripes," he said, in a louder tone, snapping the glass shut decisively.

"Stars and what, sir?" Dacres asked hesitantly.

"They're Americans," Kydd said happily. "The United States Navy!"

"The United States?"

"Yes, Mr Dacres. They have a regular-goin' navy now, I'll have ye know." It was not the time to explain that two years or so before he had been aboard the first war cruise of the newly created United States Navy.

What was puzzling was that their concern, as far as he knew, was in the defence of the seaboard of the United States and their interests no further distant than the Caribbean. Why were they in the eastern Mediterranean?

Then another thought struck: he had not heard that the quasiwar was over, the undeclared war that had broken out between the United States and an over-confident France over the latter's arrogant interpretation of the rights of neutrals and the subsequent taking of American prizes. Could they be here as a consequence of quasi-war operations?

"Clear away th' pinnace and muster a boat's crew. I'm t' call on the Americans, I believe, Mr Dacres."

It soon seemed clear that their manoeuvring was an evolution to allow them to remain, probably for watering, and while he watched, sail was struck smartly while their anchor dropped. Kydd made sure that Teazer's ensign flew high and free and put off for the American. She had a no-nonsense, purposeful air, spoiled for Kydd's English eye by the bold figurehead of a Red Indian chief and a rounded fo'c'sle instead of the squared-off one to be seen in a King's ship.

As they approached, he saw activity on her decks. At first he feared his gesture of respect had been misconstrued: in his experience the young navy could be prickly and defensive, but then again there could be no mistaking his own purpose, with boat ensign a-flutter and his own figure aft. Then he saw they were assembling a side party to pipe him aboard.

The boatswain's call sounded, clear and piercing, as Kydd came up the steps, his best cocked hat with its single dash of gold clapped firmly on as he mounted. At the top he stopped and deliberately removed his hat to the flag in the mizzen, then turned to the waiting officer. "Commander Kydd, Royal Navy," he said gravely, "of His Britannic Majesty's ship Teazer."

The officer, young and intense with a high forehead and dark eyes, straightened. "Lootenant Decatur, United States Navy frigate Essex." He did not offer to shake hands, instead bowed stiffly and stepped aside to make way for his captain coming out on deck.

Kydd bowed and allowed himself to be introduced. "Cap'n Bainbridge. Welcome aboard, Commander. Might I offer you some refreshment?"

The pinnace lay off; Bowden could be trusted to keep his boat's crew in order and be ready for the signal to return. "That's kind in ye, Captain," Kydd said politely.

The great cabin was plainly furnished but clean, with a sense of newness and the scent of North American pine. "Ye have me at a disadvantage, sir," Kydd said carefully, over some wine. "We were at our watering, as you can see." If there was going to be any friction then it would be this: access to the single water source.

"Our intention also, Commander." Bainbridge was an impressive figure, over six feet tall and with a striking fore-knot in his plentiful hair. "I've a ready respect for your service, Mr Kydd, and that's no secret. Why don't you take your fill of the water and we'll stand by until you're done?"

"That's handsome in ye, sir, but I know th' spring an' there's enough f'r us all. We'll take it together, cask b' cask."

"A good notion. We'll do that," Bainbridge said genially, and got to his feet.

"Sir," Kydd said earnestly, "I was in th' United States when y'r quasi-war with France started. It strikes me there's grounds here f'r—who should say?—mutual assistance against th' aggressor?"

Bainbridge's eyes went opaque. "Commander, the quasi-war is now concluded."

"Ah. So—"

"The treaty of 1778 is no more. We are neutrals, sir, and will faithfully abide by our obligations. I will wish you good day, sir."

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.

"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, "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."

"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 unbending 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."

"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 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 workmanship 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.

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 . . ."