Command

CHAPTER 2

KYDD STUMBLED FROM CAMERON'S OFFICE in a haze, clutching his pack of orders. He went to put it into his dispatch case but his eyes strayed down to the superscription: Captain, HM Sloop Teazer. It was so improbable—but it was true!

The boat's crew would be waiting patiently for his return but the moment was too precious, too overwhelming, and he needed to regain his composure before he faced them. He took a deep breath and marched off down the main street as though on important business.

There was no denying that he had been lucky beyond imagining. His promotion would be subject to Admiralty confirmation, but the actions of a commander-in-chief of the stature of Keith would not be unduly questioned. He wondered why he had been elevated before the many young officers of the Fleet clamouring for recognition—and why his advancement had been notified in this unusual manner, carried as dispatches. But, then, why question it? He was now indisputably Commander Kydd, captain of His Majesty's brig-sloop Teazer and the luckiest man alive!

A tear pricked; it would not take much to set him to weeping with the joy of it all. Passers-by looked at him curiously but he didn't care. Warm thoughts of arriving home in Guildford to boundless admiration were followed by images of mounting his own ship's side to the piping of the boatswain's call. A surge of pure happiness threatened to unman him. He stopped and blinked into a shop window.

Pulling himself together, he turned and made his way down to the quayside. The fortress-like Grand Harbour had now taken on a dramatic splendour: a great port with vessels from all the countries of the Levant and further, it would be a glorious and challenging place to begin his first command.

The boat shoved off. Kydd's thoughts turned to Renzi: how would his friend take him now they were separated by a chasm as big as any they had crossed together? Renzi was not as seized with ambition as he, and took satisfaction in his own way from the ever-changing perspectives that a sea life provided—they would talk for a space of the metaphysics of being a child of fortune, perhaps, or . . . But Renzi was firmly of the past and Kydd had to accept that now he was on his own.

The thought took hold, and at his sudden bleak expression the midshipman gripped his tiller in apprehension. "Sir?" he said anxiously. They came up with the anchored frigate that had been Kydd's recent home and the bowman looked aft questioningly.

"Going aboard," Kydd called. There was his baggage to be roused out and landed and—above all—his new ship to be claimed, in proper style. His pulse beat with excitement as he stepped on deck. Should he proclaim his impossible elevation? He fought down the impulse and tried to reason coolly. But there was only one course that his hot spirits would allow. He would go to his ship that very hour.

That would not be so easy: to all the world he was still a lieutenant, and until he had the uniform and appearance of a commander it would be an impertinence to appear in his new vessel. Might there be a naval tailor and outfitter on the island after only six months in English hands?

The demand to take up the command before it faded into a dream was now impossible to deny. And in any case, he reasoned, he would need a place to lay his head that he could call his own. But what were the procedures for invading the territory of a hundred men and assuming a feudal lordship that demanded their unquestioning obedience? It all seemed so wildly incredible—except for the solid reality of the precious words of his commission now nestled against his chest.

Kydd brushed aside the idle questions of the frigate's officers taking their fill of the scene ashore and strode for the cabin spaces. The marine on duty outside the captain's cabin indicated it was occupied and Kydd rapped firmly on the door. "Come." The tone was even.

"Sir, please forgive m' gall in calling on ye at this time, an' you would infinitely oblige me should you . . ."

It was only after a firm promise to dinner in the very near future that Commander Kydd left the cabin, this time with a borrowed epaulette firmly in place on his left shoulder, denoting his new rank, and a gold-laced cocked hat athwart.

As he emerged on deck, conversations died away. There was a faint "Good God!" Kydd turned to look coldly at the lieutenant, who hurriedly raised his hat, quickly followed by the others. It would give them something to talk about in the wardroom that night.

"If y' please, pass the word for Midshipman Bowden." Kydd's head was brimming with plans, and he would need an accomplice in what followed.

Brushing aside the wide-eyed youngster's stammering recognition he snapped, "So, you've volunteered for the Malta Service, Mr Bowden? Then I'm to inform ye that as of today y'r a young gentleman aboard Teazer sloop, fittin' out in the dockyard." He would attend to the paperwork later.

"Y-yes, sir. And—and you're—"

"I am her captain, Mr Bowden."

* * *

The frigate's barge threaded through the busy harbour. Although eager to make out which of the vessels would be his, Kydd held himself upright and unsmiling.

"Oars." The midshipman coxswain brought the boat alongside the quay and Kydd disembarked. Seamen landed his baggage and the coxswain asked respectfully if they should lie off.

"No, thank ye," Kydd replied. "I shan't need you again. An' my compliments to y'r captain for the fine passage t' Malta."

It was done, and no turning back. "Mr Bowden, kindly watch over the baggage." With a firm step, Kydd went into the offices next to a triple archway marking the entrance to a small boat-slip and yard. After service in a Caribbean dockyard he knew better than to bluster his way forward. "Good morning, sir," he offered, to the suspicious functionary who met him. "An' I have an appointment with th' commissioner, if y' please."

"Mr Burdock? I do not recall—"

"Thursday at ten?" Kydd took out his watch and peered at it. "I do beg pardon if I'm wrong in th' details but—"

"At ten? Then if you'll step this way, sir."

The commissioner looked up, distracted. "Who's this?" he muttered at his clerk.

Before the man could open his mouth Kydd intervened smoothly: "Ah, Mr Burdock. It's so kind in ye to see me so soon—Admiral Keith did assure me of y'r good offices . . ."

"In . . . ?"

"In the matter of clearing a berth for y'r important inbound vessel expected directly for repair an' refit, o' course."

"The master attendant hasn't seen fit to inform me of such a one."

Kydd frowned. "Damn quill-pushers! But then again, could be that, given her captain is . . . who he is, an' the ship so well known . . ."

"Who—"

"Admiral Keith needs t' ensure discretion, you understand," Kydd said, looking around distrustfully. "This is why he's sent me to ensure a clear berth before . . . Well, the brig Teazer was mentioned as being near complete."

"Impossible—she's not fit for sea in any wise!"

"Oh, why so, sir?" said Kydd, innocently.

"Teazer? She's not even in commission." It was becoming clearer: repair jobs on his books would bring in a far more satisfactory flow of cash if turned over quickly than long-drawn-out completion work; a vessel in commission had immediate recourse to the purse-strings of the fleet's commander-in-chief and therefore cash on the nail to disburse to demanding contractors.

"Why, sir, we can remedy this. I've been particularly asked by th' admiral to commission and man the brig—I had been expec-tin' to spend some time first in seeing th' sights but if it would oblige . . ."

"That's handsome enough said, sir," said the commissioner, his manner easing. "When do you . . . ?"

"If you should point out th' vessel concerned, I shall take it in hand immediately, sir."

Outside, the midshipman rose to his feet. "There she is, Mr Bowden," Kydd said, with the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice. He gestured to a two-masted vessel at a buoy several hundred yards further up the harbour. "Do ye go and warn the ship's company that I shall be boarding presently."

"The brig, sir?"

"Never so, Mr Bowden," Kydd said, with much satisfaction. "A brig she may've been, but she has a commander, not a l'tenant, as her captain, and must be accounted a sloop—she is now a brig-sloop, sir, not your common brig-o'-war."

Out of sight of his ship, Kydd paced along slowly, imagining the scurrying aboard as news spread of the imminent arrival of the new captain. Exaltation and excitement seized him: there would never be another moment like this.

It seemed an age before a punt arrived at the landing place. "Couldn't find else," mumbled a dockyard worker, inexpertly hanging on to a bollard. Another stood awkwardly at his sculls.

"Where's the ship's boat?" Kydd wanted to know. There had to be at the least a pinnace, cutter or gig in that class of ship.

"Ah, well, now, there's a bit o' trouble wi' that there—"

"And my boat's crew, damn it?"

The second threw his scull oar clattering into the bottom of the boat. "D' ye want t' go to the barky or not, cock?"

Kydd swallowed his anger. "I'll go," he said. If he did not, then who knew when he might be able to later? He couldn't wait around so conspicuously on the waterfront—and he was damned if he'd be cheated out of his big moment. Trying to act in as dignified a manner as possible, he stepped into the flat-bottomed craft.

"Shovin' off, Mick," the first said, and gave a mighty poke at the stonework, hoping to topple Kydd, but Kydd had foreseen the move and stood braced resolutely as the punt slid out towards the brig.

It would take more than the antics of these two dockyard mateys to affect Kydd's spirits. His eyes took in the vessel's lines hungrily as they neared her: a trim, bare-masted craft with an accentuated sheer and the sweetest miniature stern gallery. His heart went out to her—she was riding high in the water, her empty gun-ports and lack of any real rigging giving her a curiously expectant look. At the bow her white figurehead was a dainty maiden with streaming hair, and even before they had come up with her Kydd knew he was in love.

He straightened importantly. There were few crew visible on deck, but the punt was lower than Teazer's modest freeboard. His heart thudded, then steadied.

The punt spun about and approached. Bowden's anxious face appeared at the deck edge, then disappeared again; a pilot ladder slithered down just forward of the main-chains and dangled over the side. Normally a ship's boat would have the height to allow a simple transfer to the brig's deck but there was nothing for it. Cheated of his moment of grandly stepping aboard, Kydd grabbed the writhing ladder and heaved himself up with both hands.

A single boatswain's call trilled uncertainly as Kydd appeared, to find only a shame-faced Bowden plying the whistle, with three shuffling dockyard men he had obviously rounded up for the occasion. The salute pealed into silence and Kydd removed his hat, taken aback. "No ship's company, sir," Bowden whispered apologetically.

"We commission," Kydd growled and strode to the centre of the quarterdeck, pulling out a parchment document and declaring in ringing tones to the empty deck that the latest addition to His Majesty's Navy was the brig-sloop Teazer, which was now officially under his own command.

He turned to Bowden and, glancing up at the bare, truncated masts, slipped him a roll of white silk. "Be sure an' this gets aloft now." It was a commissioning pennant and would fly at Teazer's mainmasthead day and night from this time on.

Bowden did his best; without upper masts there was only the mortise of the main topmast cap but soon all ashore with eyes to see could behold a borrowed frigate's long pennant floating bravely from the stumpy mainmast of HMS Teazer. She was now in commission.

Kydd looked up for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he dropped his gaze to the deck: he was about to face the biggest challenge of his life. "Mr Bowden, return to th' frigate and present my duty t' the captain and it would be a convenience should he sign off on my hands into Teazer. "

"Y-your hands, sir?"

"O' course!" Kydd said sternly, "Sent fr'm the commander-inchief for duty in the Malta Service, by which he means ourselves and who other?" With reasonable luck, they could take their pick if they moved fast and have them entered before the proper authority came to claim them.

"Aye aye, sir. Er, how many shall I return with?"

A brig-sloop of this size would need somewhere between eighty and a hundred men. "I'll take all the Tenaciouses, which are not so many, so say fifty more—as long as there's prime hands among 'em."

Kydd knew he was being optimistic, but there had been genuine warmth in the frigate captain's congratulations that would probably translate to sympathy. And with men Teazer would come alive—boats could be manned, work parties mustered and the rhythm of sea life begun. His spirits rose. "Oh, and be so good as t' give my compliments to th' commissioner's office and I should be pleased were they t' send word to m' standing officers that they're required aboard directly." Every vessel had certain warrant officers standing by them, even out of commission, and no doubt they would be enjoying a peaceful time of it in some snug shoreside hideaway while the dockyard pressed on at its leisurely pace.

Bowden left in the punt and Kydd was on his own with just a pair of curious caulkers on the upper deck. Apart from the dismal thunks of a maul forward, the ship was an echoing cavern with little sign of life.

Now was the perfect time to make his acquaintance of the lovely creature. Teazer was a galley-built craft, one continuous deck running fore and aft, but then he noticed a singular thing— the even line of bulwarks ended in the after part all decked over. Closer to, he saw that in fact the top of a cabin was flush with the line of the bulwarks, which would make it only about chest-high inside. He pushed open the door gingerly—and nearly fell down the several steps that led to the cabin spaces, comfortably let into the deck a further few feet.

This was his home—despite the powerful smell of turpentine, paint and raw wood shavings. He saw that he was standing in a diminutive but perfectly formed lobby; the door on his right was to the coach, his bedplace and private quarters. The door ahead was to the great cabin—the whole twenty-foot width of the vessel. Illuminated by the decorous stern windows he had seen from outside, it was a princely space, vaster by far than any he had lived in before.

He went to the mullioned windows and opened one: the miniature stern gallery was a charming pretence but just as pretty for that. All in basic white, it would soon see some gold leaf, even if he had to pay for it himself. His steps echoed oddly on the wooden deck—he looked down and saw a snug-fitting trap-door, almost certainly his private store-room.

The coach was little longer than an officer's cot: washbasin and drawers would fill the width, but it was palatial compared with what he had been used to. He left the cabin spaces for the quarterdeck and marvelled at the cunning of the Maltese shipwrights, who had contrived the comfort of the airy cabin while keeping all along the flush deck clear for working sail.

He went forward to a hatchway and descended into an expanse of bare deck. This was the only true deck the brig possessed, above him the open air, below him the hold. It was empty, stretching from the galley and store-rooms forward to what must be the wardroom and officers' cabins aft. Now it was gloomy and stank of linseed oil and paint: there was little ventilation— all cannon would be mounted on the upper deck and therefore there were no gun-ports to open. At sea, this would be home to eighty men or more and the contrast with his own appointments could not have been greater.

He stood for a moment, dealing with a surge of memory relating to his own time as a seaman. A stab of feeling for those faraway days of hard simplicity but warm friendships crowded into his mind. It would be the same here in Teazer's mess deck but he would never know of it. He had come so far . . . Would fortune demand a pay-back?

Voices drifted down through the hatch gratings: this might be the first members of Teazer's company. Kydd bounded up the fore hatchway to the upper deck. A short man in spectacles and a shabby blue coat abruptly ended his conversation with one of the caulkers. "Do I see the captain of Teazer?" he said carefully.

"You do. I am Commander Kydd."

The man removed his hat and bowed slightly. "Ellicott, Samuel Ellicott. Your purser, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Ellicott. We're only just in commission, as you see . . ." The man seemed nervous and Kydd added, "I would wish ye well of y'r appointment aboard us, Mr Ellicott."

"Mr Kydd—sir. I have to ask you a question. This is vital, sir, and could well rebound on both of us at a time now distant."

"Very well, Mr Ellicott."

"When I heard that you'd—taken it upon yourself to commission Teazer like you did, I knew I had to come post-haste. Sir, have you signed any papers?"

"I have not, Mr Ellicott."

The man eased visibly. "Fitting out a King's ship new commissioned is not the place for a tyro, if you understand me, sir."

"Although this is my first command, Mr Ellicott, it is not m' first ship. However, it's kind of ye to offer y'r suggestions. I do believe we have a mort o' work to do—the people will be coming aboard tomorrow an' we should stand ready t' receive 'em. So we set up the paperwork first. Just f'r now, I shall use m' great cabin as our headquarters. Then we start setting out our requirements for the dockyard. No doubt they wants it on a form o' sorts."

A thought struck him. "Do ye know of any who'd be desirous of a berth as captain's clerk? Someone who knows Navy ways, c'n scratch away at a speed, discreet in his speech . . ."

"There may be . . . but he is now retired," Ellicott said. "A few guineas by way of earnest-money should gain his interest. Was captain's clerk in Meleaguer thirty-two at Toulon in 'ninety-three, as I remember. Shall I . . . ?"

"Desire him t' present himself this day or sooner and I shall look very favourably on his findin' a berth in Teazer. " There were a number of Admiralty placements by warrant to which a captain was obliged to accede: the boatswain, gunner, carpenter and others. For the rest, Kydd was free to appoint whom he chose. "Shall we find a stick or two f'r a table and begin?"

The prospective captain's clerk, Mr Peck, arrived with commendable promptness, a dry, shrewd-eyed man of years who had clearly seen much. Together, he and the purser fussed away and came up with a list of essentials—which began with opening the muster book, in which the details for victualling and wages of every seaman of Teazer 's company would be entered.

Then it was the establishment of ship's documents, letter-books, vouchers, lists of allowances—it seemed impossible that any man could comprehend their number, let alone their purpose, and Kydd was happy to leave them to it.

Shortly, another of his standing officers puffed aboard. "Purchet, boatswain, sir," he said. The man had a lazy eye, which made it appear that he was squinting.

"I'd hoped t' see you aboard before now, Mr Purchet," Kydd said mildly. "We've much t' do afore we put to sea."

"Aye, sir," Purchet said heavily, glancing up at the bare masts. "An' I hope you ain't thinkin' o' them false-hearted set o' rascals in the dockyard."

"They'll bear a hand, I'm sure, but we'll be setting the ship up ourselves. It's a small dockyard I'll grant, but I'll have fifty prime seamen for ye directly."

Purchet's eyebrows shot up.

The carpenter arrived and was soon complaining of his lack of stores. Time was slipping by: Kydd needed to prime the dockyard to begin releasing Teazer's stores and equipment forthwith. If he failed, the men could not be accommodated on board or entered on the ship's books and he would quickly lose them to other ships. "Mr Ellicott, be s' good as to accompany me to th' dockyard and advise."

It transpired that the senior naval officer of the dockyard was neither a sea officer nor very senior. Owing allegiance directly to the Navy Board, Burdock's immediate superior was no closer than Gibraltar, which gave him a certain room for manoeuvre in his dealings. However, even with veiled threats, it still cost Kydd a dismaying pile of silver, all from his own pocket, to generate any sense of urgency in the case. That, and the promise to set the son of a "good friend" on his quarterdeck as midshipman.

It had been a day of furious activity and Kydd found himself dog tired. They had made a good start, but in the absence of proper accommodation and with no ship's cook he could not in all conscience require anyone to remain on board for the night. Reluctantly he told them all to go ashore and return early the next morning.

The calm evening spread out its peace, the impressive stone ramparts speckled with light. Nearby vessels showed soft gold light in their stern windows; some had deck lights strung.

Teazer was in darkness and he was left alone on board—but, then, nothing could have been more congenial. Kydd paced slowly along the deserted decks, seeing, in his mind's eye, cannon run out through gun-ports where now there were empty spaces, a satisfying lacing of rigging against the bare spars standing black against the stars, men on the foredeck enjoying the dog-watches.

He stumbled in the gloom, his fatigue returning in waves, and, just as it had been for him on his very first night in a man-o'-war, there was no place to lay his head. A caulker's ground-cloth and his own unopened valise would be his bed—but it would be in the captain's cabin—his cabin! He grinned inanely in the darkness and a sudden thought struck.

Kydd found a lanthorn and carried it into the great cabin. The clerk had laid out the books of account, logs, journals and other necessary instruments in systematic piles, each new, some with slips of paper, scrawled notes, others with Teazer's name boldly inscribed. He began searching, and it was not long before he found what he was after. He lifted it reverently up to the carpenter's table that did duty for a desk.

Finding an ink-well and quill he opened the book, smoothed its pages and, in the dim lanthorn-light, he penned the first entry in the ship's log.

"Winds SSE, Clear Weather, at single anchor. Hoisted a Pennant on board His Majesty's Brig-Sloop Teazer by Virtue of a Commission from Admiral Keith . . . on the Malta Service . . ." Duty done, he claimed his bed.

In the morning, the decks were wet following a light shower. Kydd called his standing officers to conference in the great cabin, the clerk at his notes. The cook finally arrived: a bushy-browed half-Italian, whose voluble explanations were cut short by Kydd: he wanted to feed fifty-odd hungry seamen whatever it took—he had just received a message that he should prepare to receive the body of men called for.

The seamen would come with their sea-bags but no hammocks or bedding; those must be supplied. And without doubt there would be some who had, by accident or carelessness, been left with no spare clothing; a slop chest would need to be opened. More largesse, it seemed, would secure an early release of stores.

The ship must aim towards self-sufficiency as soon as possible. Water, firewood for the galley, provisions, grog, its complement of ensigns, pennants, all proper devices. But this was only the first stage—mere existence. Then would come the main act: fitting out the ship for sea, using the skills of the seamen.

"They're alongside!" spluttered Purchet, as a confused bumping was felt through the ship's side, but it was not the hands, only the stores lighters from the yard being poled out as promised.

There was barely time for Kydd to apportion his best estimate of tasks by priority when the first launch was sighted. A small table was set up abaft the mainmast and Kydd took his place, his clerk to one side to note his decisions.

"Mr Purchet, any man desirous o' the rate of petty officer make himself known t' ye. Those I'll see first."

The men came over the bulwark with their sea-bags and bundles, and were ushered forward indignantly by the boatswain. Kydd wondered whether he should make a rousing address but realised he would have to repeat himself when others came aboard.

The first prospective petty officers came to the table: hard, skilled men, but wary as they spoke to Kydd. He immediately accepted those who had served in the rate before—he would have the measure of them later.

Laffin, a boatswain's mate in Tenacious, showed no sign of recognition and stood four-square, gazing at a point above Kydd, even when spoken to. Purchet was entitled to one mate, he would do. Another, Poulden: Kydd recalled his fine seamanship and reliability, and rated him quartermaster. The man responded with a broad smile. One further was made quartermaster's mate.

The first wave of aspirants had no sooner been dealt with than a second boat arrived with more. Kydd attended to them, then stood up and hailed the boatswain: "Mr Purchet!" he called loudly. "I'll be dealing with th' rest later. But I'll have ye know that I want all these men t' have the chance to choose their own watch 'n' mess. As long as we has the same numbers in both watches they're free t' choose."

There was an immediate stir: it was routine that men joining were assigned by ship's need and had little chance to stay with their friends. Wide grins spread and a happy babble arose. Kydd was pleased: it was a little enough thing, but it would mean much to those whose freedoms were normally so few.

Kydd returned to his cabin to take stock. Each class of vessel had its establishment—its allowance of guns, personnel, stores entitlement: he had prepared his scheme of complement against this and needed to see how the numbers were proceeding. He was only too aware that he was taking outrageous liberties in his manning but he was relying on the fact that without there being a proper naval presence—the dockyard did not count—bold and resourceful moves would pay handsomely now, with explanations saved for later.

The most conspicuous gap in his list was that of his only officer, a lieutenant. He knew only his name—Dacres, and a Peregrine Dacres no less. He was said to be in Malta but had not left word of his whereabouts.

There was also the lack of a sailing master, and he had heard of no one yet appointed. Kydd's allowance of two midshipmen was now filled with Bowden and the commissioner's nominee, and most of the key petty officers were in place, with a surgeon expected soon.

But where could a master's mate be found in so distant a post as Malta? It was a vital question because the master's mate in a brig would stand watch opposite the lieutenant and without one Kydd would have no alternative but to direct the master to take over or stand watches himself.

For the others he would make shift but Teazer's final standing officer, the gunner, was still on his way from Gibraltar. Apparently a green, just-certificated warrant officer, he had probably been shuffled to out-of-the-way Malta where he could do little harm as he learned. Kydd bit his lip: skill at arms was the deciding factor in any combat and a strong figure at the head of the gunnery crew was an asset.

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

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

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

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

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

Kydd tried not to look too hard at the men: these were the seamen who would work the ship and serve the guns for him. The success of his command—even the life of his ship—would be in their hands. He spotted Bowden talking with one of the Tenacious hands he had arranged to be sent from the frigate and crossed the deck. "Thank ye, Mr Bowden, that was well done. Please to—"

His attention was diverted as a boat came alongside and an officer swung on to the main deck and made his way over. "Commander Kydd, sir?" he said evenly, removing his hat.

"It is."

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

A peep of lace showed at his cuffs; Kydd saw that the uniform was faultlessly cut. "Ye're expected, sir," he said shortly. "As y' can see, the ship is now in commission."

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

Kydd ignored the clumsy attempt to impress. "Mr Dacres, I want this vessel at sea within the week. You'll stay aboard an' hold y'self in readiness for any task that I might require." He paused, then continued, "I shall see you in my cabin in fifteen minutes." A guilty thrill rushed through him at the sudden worried look this produced and he turned away quickly in case it betrayed him.

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

"Start with the watch 'n' station bill, Mr Dacres. I've rated the petty officers—see to the rest if y' please. When we have th' outline of both watches, we'll shift to harbour routine. Tell the cook hard tack at noon, but I'd like t' see a square meal f'r all hands at supper." He stood. "Come, come, Mr Dacres, we've a lot t' do!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teazer received her allowance from the boat pond: a twenty-four-foot cutter, a twenty-two-foot pinnace and a jolly-boat. They were hoisted aboard on each quarter of the ship by davits, stout timbers that stood out over the sea and allowed the boats to be plucked directly from the water instead of the usual laborious arrangement with tackles from the yardarms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kydd was anxious not to appear naïve and kept silent. Winthrop moved on smoothly: "Tell me, how is your fitting out progressing? Every morning I stand amazed at how your trim little brig is showing her plumage and stretching her wings. Quite your little peacock, I fancy."

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

"I'm sure she will," said Winthrop, strongly. "And her people? Are you satisfied?"

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

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

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

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

Kydd gave a bleak smile.

Some years past, the rank of "Master and Commander" had been discarded in recognition of the fact that navigation had become too specialised for fighting captains, and now, for all sloops and above, a professional master, certificated by Trinity House, was required.

Winthrop considered for a moment. "There is a course you may wish to consider. In the customs house I met a gentleman who has been a master with us before. Stayed here when we evacuated the Mediterranean as something or other in the mer-chantry. The French seizing Malta must have put paid to that. He may be amenable at this time to an offer as acting master, the commander-in-chief to confirm. There can't be many masters at large in this end of the Med."

"Thank you, sir, I'm indeed grateful for y'r suggestion."

"He is Maltese, of course."

"He c'n be a Chinaman for all I care if he gets me t' sea," said Kydd, with relish. Impulsively, he went on, "Sir—can I ask— what is it ye sees will make life interesting in these waters?"

Winthrop leaned back, delicately touching his lips with his napkin. "As I remember it, for a brig-sloop your corsair will be an annoyance—Mahometans from the Barbary coast seeing it their holy duty to prey on the Christian, and you'll find privateers enough in the Sicily Channel to vex any convoy escort . . . but do believe that where you'll find it the hardest beat to wind'd is with our 'allies.'

"Did you know there is a strong Russian garrison in Corfu? You should—since Tsar Paul made common cause with the French they must certainly be accounted unfriendly, even though he is recently murdered and succeeded by Alexander. Yet we find that our most caressed friend, Turkey, is at sea this very hour in a combined fleet with the Russians under Kadir Bejja and Ushakov. If you come across them, do you clear away your saluting guns, or go to quarters?"

Kydd held his silence.

"And since the French hold Taranto, and Sicily is lost to us, what do you say to a Palermo merchantman bringing a lading of Marseilles dried fish to Malta? To be safeguarded or—a prize?"

Kydd flushed and changed the subject. "What of th' French at sea, do y' think? I dare t' say they have their cruisers out?" In the excitement of taking possession and command of his ship, with all its unexpectedness, he had not given much consideration to other aspects of command. There was no question, in such a situation as mentioned, that the decision was his, and his alone. And he knew he was unprepared.

Winthrop gave an understanding smile. "The French? There will be quantities of Marseille rovers about, but what are they to stand before a regular-going English man-o'-war?" He politely refilled Kydd's glass. "You will be more concerned for the trade of Malta. These islands are poor and barren. The inhabitants must live by trade. Should their vessels be set upon by your corsair then it will be more than the merchant who must starve. You will hear from those in high places, I believe, were this to occur . . ."

"Yes, sir, this I can grasp," Kydd said quickly. It was all very well for a post-captain to discourse lazily on what must seem simple enough affairs to him, but Kydd had been a captain only for a matter of days. There was a damn sight more to learn than he had first thought, and here in faraway Malta he would have no friends to ease the way for him.

At Kydd's grimace Winthrop picked up his glass. "But I neglect my guest. Here, sir, I give you joy of your step—let us wet your swab in a bumper."

There was so much fellow feeling in his expression that Kydd could not help but glance down at the gold of his single epaulette as he lifted his glass. "I'd never have thought it, ever," he said, pride overcoming his embarrassment.

Winthrop's smile stayed. "You will never forget this moment. I remember when . . . But that was long ago. Your good health, Mr Kydd, and may the fortunes of war favour you always."

Kydd glowed. After the toast he refilled their glasses and looked through the windows at a small, dark shape at rest within Dockyard Creek. "To Teazer —taut, trim and true, the loveliest creature that ever swam."

"His Britannic Majesty's Sloop-of-War Teazer," agreed Winthrop, "Tiger of the seas!"

The moment could not have held more for Kydd—but then, piercing through the haze of happiness, came a stab of grief: the recognition that he would probably never again know Renzi's friendship aboard a ship.

"Th-thank you, sir, that was nobly said," he said, recovering.

"Then I shall not delay you. No doubt we shall meet again— this war seems destined to go on for ever."

"Aye, sir. And the best o' fortune for y'rself, if I might say it."

Winthrop moved to the door and gave orders for Kydd's boat. "Oh, yes, there is one matter that would oblige me, should you see fit," he said casually.

"Anything, sir," Kydd replied, with warmth.

"Well, it does cross my mind that, at this time, I, having a superfluity of young gentlemen aboard Stag, conceivably one might profitably ship with you, if you understand me?"

There could only be one response: "O' course, sir. Glad to be of service." He was only too aware that he already had his permitted complement of two midshipmen and that he could not afford to offend the dockyard at this time. It would seem he would have to part with Bowden. A sad betrayal of the lad's loyalty.

"Splendid. Then I shall require our youngster to shift his berth to you without delay. Fare you well, Mr Kydd."

Tysoe entered quietly with Kydd's breakfast of coffee and rolls. It was still a very strange thing to dine alone but at the least it gave time for thought.

He had no idea how he would explain to Bowden his sudden dismissal. No doubt in time he would find another ship, but the company would be strangers. And he would miss the young man's intelligence and trustworthiness: a midshipman was a rated petty officer and had duties elastic enough to prove more than useful in many situations. But he had no place for a third midshipman.

The irony was that he was nearly a third short of complement, most of them ordinary and able seamen, admittedly, but vital for all that. He could get to sea, possibly, with what he had, but he could not fight a battle nor provide a prize crew. And with an absent gunner and a problematic sailing master there were reasons aplenty for vexation.

And where would there be a master's mate in this part of the world? Unless there was, he would be obliged to stand watches which—It was obvious! Why hadn't he thought of it before? "Mr Bowden!" he bellowed from his door—there were no marines to keep sentry-go outside his cabin. "Pass the word f'r Mr Midshipman Bowden!"

"Do excuse my rig, sir," the youngster said, in alarm, "I thought I had better—"

"No matter, Mr Bowden. I have news for ye. As of this day you shall be acting master's mate. How do ye reckon on that?"

For a moment Bowden's eyes widened; then a boyish smile provided the answer.

Acting master's mate—Kydd didn't even know if he had the power to do this: a full master's mate required an Admiralty warrant. However, he was relying on the commander-in-chief to confirm his actions from his understanding of the situation facing Kydd.

"Y'r first duty, take the jolly-boat to th' customs house—I've an important message for a gentleman there . . ."

Teazer was rapidly assuming her final appearance: yards black against varnished masts, the very ends tipped in white to show up to men working out on the yardarm at night. On deck, the inside of the bulwarks was rousing scarlet against the tar-black of the standing rigging and the natural hempen pale of the working lines. The deck was not yet to a pristine salt-white finish but this would come, and with a lick of blue and gold on their figurehead the ship was handsome indeed.

Within two hours Mr Bonnici came aboard. A short, well-kept gentleman, he made heavy going of heaving himself across the bulwarks before presenting himself, puffing with exertion and supported by an ebony cane. In the plain black of a sailing master and wearing a three-cornered hat of a past age, he beamed at Kydd from a genially lined face.

"Sir, er, do I understand that you've served as master with us before?" Kydd asked, somewhat dismayed by the man's age. Could his old bones take service in a small but pugnacious man-o'-war?

Bonnici swept down in an elaborate bow, rising with an even wider smile. "In my time I had th' honour o' knowing Adm'ral Howe, sir."

"Admiral Howe, indeed!"

"As who should say—while I was master in Romulus I often 'mark this gentleman on his flagship quarterdeck a-pacing as we close wi' the enemy before Genoa, stuns'l abroad an—"

"And since then?"

Bonnici drew himself up, dignified. "An' since then, sir, consequen' upon the Royal Navy quit of the Mediterranean, I have been advisin' of the merchants abou' their shipping. You will know, sir, how difficult we have been wi' the French capture Malta, no one eat, our families—"

"Thank you, Mr Bonnici. Now, do ye have evidence o' this, Navy Board certificates of sea service possibly?" If the man could prove his service in a frigate Kydd would think about it, for without any master at all he was going nowhere.

"Sir."

Kydd took the papers. "These seem t' be in order, Mr Bonnici. Now, what do y' think o' Teazer? Do ye fancy a post as master in a brig after service in a frigate?"

Bonnici seemed to sense that the tide had turned and began to relax. However, Kydd still had doubts.

"Ah, well, sir, you names her Teazer, but she's Malta-built o' the Zammit yard, over yonder," he said. "For the sea service of the knights, o' course." He swept a glance along the line of deck. "Clean lines, some would say fuller in th' run but our shipwrights know our sea, which is short an' high. Sound timbers—Kyrenian, fr'm the Arsenale an' well seasoned these last two year—"

"That's as may be," Kydd said, with rising hope. "An' I'd like your judgement on Teazer's sailing qualities."

"Fast. Faster than y'r ship-rigged sloop, handy in stays—say ten, ten 'n' a half knots on a bowline—"

Kydd made up his mind. "I c'n offer you an acting appointment only, Mr Bonnici . . ."

Teazer's new master bowed once more, his manner reminding Kydd of his father's old-fashioned ways before a customer. He rose, and Kydd detected barely concealed relief. "I'm at your service this hour, Captain."

Their final suit of sails was due aboard shortly and Bonnici would need time to make professional acquaintance of his new ship. "Then I'll let ye get t' know y'r new master's mate. Mr Bowden! "

Kydd took one last appreciative look at the busy scene on deck, then went below. His pulse quickened: the moment had come to plan sea trials—HMS Teazer putting to sea for the first time! The last major items in her fitting out were waiting at the ordnance wharf—her guns—and then the tons of gunpowder would be brought out in lighters under a red flag that would finally make her the lethal fighting machine she had to be, as long as she could find her gunner.

Ellicott and Peck scratched away at Kydd's desk in the great cabin: every last item of stores brought aboard had to be entered in the ship's books and accounted for. Kydd took a seat in the middle and began on the pile of papers awaiting signature.

Dacres appeared. "Our gunner has arrived on board, sir," he said neutrally. "Baggage to follow."

At last! "Very well. Ask him t' present himself to me, if y' please."

The purser and clerk left the cabin, leaving Kydd alone behind the desk. He assumed a suitably grave expression.

"Come!" he said importantly, to a knock at the door.

There was a shuffling outside and a small, wiry man of indeterminate age entered. "Mr Duckitt, sir, Helby Duckitt," he said apologetically, his hat held defensively in his hands.

"I had thought t' see you before now, Mr Duckitt," Kydd said reprovingly.

"Aye, sir. We was delayed, see, the Gibraltar convoy havin' no escort and—"

"Can't be helped," Kydd said, eyeing his worn, shabby coat. "You've just got y'r warrant as gunner, I understand."

"Yes, sir."

"Then we'll get y'r gear aboard an' talk further at another time. Thank ye, Mr Duckitt, an' I mean to make y'r time in Teazer an active one," he finished meaningfully.

"Sir, by y' leave."

"Yes?"

"I thought it proper t' accept a share o' some hands in Gibraltar standin' idle. They was shipwrecked an' looking f'r a ship, as we might say. Three on 'em, good men all. Do ye want t' see 'em now?"

"Hmm." Kydd was taken with the man's craftiness in reporting for duty with a sweetener. "D' ye think there's a petty officer among 'em?"

"I'll tell 'em t' step inside, sir." Duckitt touched his forehead respectfully before leaving.

The first of the shipwrecked men padded in. Taken utterly by surprise, Kydd saw standing before him a man he had admired even from his first few days as a pressed man in the old Duke William, a mariner he had fought beside as a common seaman in the wild single frigate action that had preceded his famous voyage round the world and who had been such a figure in his adventures in the Caribbean.

"Be damned t' it—Toby Stirk!" blurted Kydd in delight, rising. "It's been s' long—let's see, Seaflower, th' Caribbean . . ." If anything, Stirk had hardened further: a leathery toughness now matched a ferocity that was almost visceral. "How are ye, cully?" Kydd said, unconsciously slipping back into foremast lingo.

Stirk hesitated, delight vying with shock at the meeting. Then impulsively he grasped Kydd's outstretched hand. "Right oragious t' see you, Tom." The well-remembered rasp had deepened with time. "Ah—that's t' say, sir." His face crinkled with pleasure.

Kydd resumed his seat. "I'm right glad t' see you, er, Mr Stirk. Y' have m' word on that," he added firmly. If Stirk, a gun captain of years and the hardest man Kydd knew, was to ship in Teazer, the temper of the whole gundeck would be transformed. "An' very glad to have ye aboard Teazer," he said carefully. "Can I ask, what was y'r rate in your last ship?" It was said as kindly as he could.

"Quarter gunner, sir," Stirk said easily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the young quartermaster's mate he had known to be a commander rating him for service in his own ship.

"I'd like ye to be gunner's mate—if I c'n square it with Mr Duckitt," Kydd said warmly. This was by no means a given: it was the gunner's prerogative to choose his mates. It would, however, go with Kydd's most significant recommendation and would put Stirk as the most senior petty officer gunner and the only one carried in Teazer.

"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?

CHAPTER 3

"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."

"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 sea-worthiness—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."

"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 abjure 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, 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 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 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.

"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 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.

"I was fortunate enough t' be at both Camperdown and the Nile," Kydd said, "and a quiet time in th' North American station." Dacres had never smelt gun-smoke in battle and would probably learn more in Teazer over a few months than from years in a ship-of-the-line. He changed the subject. "How are our Maltese hands taking t' our ways, do ye think? I have m' hopes of 'em—they look prime sailormen, seem to find 'emselves at home."

"I have my concerns that they may not understand orders in stress of weather, sir. Do you not think—"

"Seamen that're well led will never let ye down, Mr Dacres. They'll catch on soon enough. We're to be working closely t'gether in the future an' you'll find—"

A knock on the door and a muffled "Captain, sir," from outside interrupted him. It was the midshipman of the watch. "Mr Purchet's compliments and he'd like to see Mr Dacres on deck when convenient."

Kydd rose. "I won't keep ye, Mr Dacres. I've no doubt we'll have another opportunity to dine together presently." He took his seat again: the man was so utterly different, in almost every way, so at variance with his own experiences. Nevertheless it was vital he got a measure of him. As with the rest of Teazer 's company, time would tell.

"God rot it, what're you about, Mr Bowden?" roared the boatswain, stumping his way forward. The fore yard lay at a grotesque angle, and before he could reach the scene there was a savage tearing and twanging as the fore topsail split from bottom to top. The big spar dropped jerkily to the caps of the foremast. Beneath, men scattered hastily. Purchet stood stock still, gobbling with rage. Dacres hurried up from the mainmast; he and Bowden looked back aft to Kydd, their faces pale.

Kydd had been watching the dry-exercises of the sail gear and stepped forward quickly. "Set y'r clew garnets taut—haul in on y'r topsail clewline. Get that larb'd fore course tack 'n' sheet right in!" he bawled. This would hold the yard up while a jury lift was rigged. For some reason the lower yard lift on one side, taking most of the weight of the heavy spar, had given way and the inevitable had happened. The only saving grace was that there were no men on the yardarm and they were still safely at anchor. Possibly the cordage had rotted in the storehouse. Incidents like this might happen again; the sooner faults were bowled out the better. "Mr Purchet!" he ordered. "See what it is an' report t' me."

Kydd was afire with eagerness to see Teazer at sea, cutting a feather in that deep blue expanse and off to the glories that would assuredly be hers. But he could not risk it with an untried ship and crew. He jammed his hands into his pockets and paced up and down.

By early afternoon they had succeeded in loosing and furling sail on both masts without incident; each yard had been braced up sharp on each tack, halliards and slablines, martnets and leechlines, all had been hauled and veered, run through their various operating ranges.

Stations had been stepped through also, for wearing, tacking, setting and striking sail, and Kydd dared hope that the moment when Teazer was set free for her true purpose was drawing close.

"Noon tomorrow, I do believe, Mr Dacres!" he called, when it became clear at last that the ship's company was pulling together as one.

* * *

The following morning there was something in the air: an undercurrent of anticipation, tension, excitement. Exercises now had meaning and significance—the age-old exhilaration felt when a ship was making ready for sea, preparing for that final moment when the land and its distractions were cast aside and the ship and the souls she bore within her entered Neptune's realm.

Kydd felt in his heart that they were ready: men were familiar with their stations, drill at the sails was now acceptable, gear had been tested. He had some anxieties: the master was elderly and his navigational skill was still unknown, and the Maltese seamen appeared capable but would they remain steady under fire?

Yet more than any other worry he had one crucial concern. Would he measure up? Or was there to be this day a blunder that would set all Malta laughing? Or, worse, a casting of Teazer ashore in a helpless wreck . . . "Mr Dacres, if th' hold is stowed, I believe we shall hazard a short cruise t' try the vessel. Pipe the hands to unmoor ship in one hour, if you will."

The die was cast. Watching the preparations for sea, Kydd tried to appear impassive. He sniffed the wind: a playful southerly with a hint of east. They were going to be let off easily in their first venture to sea, just a matter of slipping from the mooring buoy and at the right moment loosing sail to take up on the wind on the larboard tack and shape course for the open sea.

It should be straightforward enough, but Grand Harbour was dotted with sail and no place to be aimlessly straying about. The sooner they opened deep sea the better.

Kydd heard the squealing of blocks as the boats were hoisted and saw the decks being readied fore and aft: braces, sheets, tacks, halliards—these were laid along clear for running; the helm was put right over on each side to prove the tiller lines, and all the other familiar tasks, large and small, that were essential before proceeding to sea, were completed.

Activity lessened. Then, finally, the shriek of Purchet's call, quickly followed by Laffin's, told Teazer that every man aboard should take station leaving harbour. There was the sound of a rush of feet, which gradually died away into silence. Dacres was in position at the foot of the mainmast, Bowden at the foremast, groups of men ready at the pin-rails looking warily aft. From right forward the knot of men on the foredeck at the moorings straightened and looked back expectantly.

Kydd's pulse raced. "I have th' ship, Mr Bonnici," he said, formally, to the master next to him. If there was to be any mistake it would be his alone. "Lay aloft t' make sail, the topmen!" he roared. Men swarmed swiftly at his command.

He had already decided to move out under topsails alone, with staysails and jibs and the big mainsail—on Teazer, the large fore and aft sail abaft the mainmast. "Lay out an' loose!" he bawled, and the topmen moved out along the yards, casting off the gaskets that held up the sails tightly. "Stand by—let fall!"

It was a heart-stopping time: while sail cascaded down from fore and main they had to slip the mooring cable at just the right time to catch the wind and release the vessel for a surging start in the right direction. "Man tops'l sheets 'n' halliards," he bellowed to those on deck. "An' clap on t' the braces!" A last glance aloft and alow, then: "Let go!"

The crowning moment! The slip rope slithered free through the mooring buoy ring and Teazer was now legally at sea!

"Sheet home: brace up, y' sluggards!" Kydd roared, fighting to keep the exhilaration from his voice. Teazer 's bow even as he watched was paying off to leeward, her bowsprit sliding past the long line of ramparts across the water. "Haul taut!" There was a perceptible heel as her canvas caught and the headsails were hardened in. He snatched a glance over the side. They were making way: Teazer was outward bound!

A ponderous merchantman began a turn dead ahead and Kydd's heart skipped a beat. "Two points t' starb'd," he snapped at the helm. This was taking them perilously close to the castellated point under their lee but he guessed that the shore would be steep to there and a quick glance at Bonnici ressured him that this was so.

Teazer picked up speed as they passed to leeward of the ungainly merchantman and before he knew it they were clear of the point. The brig had a fine, uncluttered view forward and Kydd shaped course seaward with increasing confidence.

Excitement rose in him as the swell from the open sea caused the first regular heaving and the deck became alive under his feet. On either side grim fortresses guarding the entrance slipped past until the coast fell away and Teazer —his very own ship—felt the salt spray on her cheeks and knew for the first time the eternal freedom of the ocean.

She was a sea-witch! Her lines were perfect—her willing urge as she breasted the waves, and eagerness in tacking about, would have melted the heart of the most calloused old tar. Kydd's happiness overflowed as, reluctantly, they returned to moorings in the last of the light.

But there were things that must be done. He had learned much of Teazer 's ways—every ship was an individual, with character and appeal so different from another. As with a new-married couple, it was a time to explore and discover, to understand and take joy, and Kydd knew that impatience had no place in this.

There was not so much to do: the lead of a stay here, the turning of a deadeye there, redoubled work with holystone and paintbrush. His mind was busy: the ship's tasks included, among other things, the protection of trade and it would be expected that he begin showing the flag at some point, the ideal excuse for an undemanding cruise to shake down the ship's company.

* * *

Kydd found time to go in search of cabin stores: it was unthinkable for a captain to go "bare navy"—ship's rations only—for there would be occasions when he must entertain visitors. It seemed, however, that "table money" for the purpose of official entertainment was the prerogative of a flag officer alone, and therefore he must provide for himself. Fortunately he had been careful with his prize-money won previously, knowing that prospects of more were chancy at best.

He was no epicure and had no firm idea of the scale of purchases necessary, but he knew one who did. The jolly-boat was sent back for Tysoe, who had been previously in the employ of a distinguished post-captain. It was an expensive but illuminating afternoon, which left Kydd wondering whether the cherries in brandy and a keg of anchovies were absolutely necessary on top of the currant jelly and alarming amount of pickles; Kydd hoped fervently that the wine in caseloads would not turn in the increasing heat of early summer, but he trusted Tysoe.

Kydd took the opportunity as well to find some articles of decoration: the bare cabin was stiff and unfriendly—it needed something of himself. Diffidently he selected one or two miniatures and a rather handsome, only slightly foxed picture of an English rustic scene. These, with a few table ornaments and cloths, made a striking improvement—the silver would have to wait: his substance was reducing at a dismaying rate. Later, if he had time, he would do something about his tableware. If only his sister Cecilia were on hand . . .

There was no one of naval consequence to notice the little brig-of-war as she slipped her moorings and made for the open sea. No one to discern the bursting pride of her commander, who stood four-square on her quarterdeck in his finest uniform, her brand-new pennant snapping in the breeze, her men grave and silent at their stations as they sailed past the bastions of the last fortress of Malta, outward bound on her first war voyage.

Kydd remained standing, unwilling to break the spell: around him the ship moved to sea watches, the special sea-duty men standing down as those on regular watch closed up for their duty and others went below until the turn of the watch. The boatswain checked the tautness of rigging around the deck while the ting-tinging of the bell forward brought up the other watch, the shouts of a petty officer testily mustering his crew sounding above the swash and thump of their progress—it was all so familiar but, at this moment, so infinitely precious.

"Mr Bonnici," Kydd called, to the figure in the old-fashioned three-cornered hat standing mute and still, staring forward.

The master turned slowly, the shrewd eyes unseeing. "Sir?"

"I, er—" It was not important. They both had their remembrances and he left the man to his. "No matter. Please—carry on."

This was what it was to have succeeded! To have reached the impossible summit before which paled every other experience the world had to offer. He, Thomas Kydd of Guildford, of all men, was now captain of a ship-of-war and monarch of all he surveyed.

A deep, shuddering sigh came from his very depths. His eyes took in the sweet curve of the deck-line as it swept forward to the sturdy bow, the pretty bobbing of the fore spars in the following seas and the delicate tracery of rigging against the bright sky—and the moment burned itself into his soul.

In a trance of reverence his eyes roamed the deck—his deck. Within Teazer's being were over eighty souls, whose lives were in his charge, to command as he desired. And each was bound to obey him, whatever he uttered and without question, for now all without exception were in subjection below him and none aboard could challenge his slightest order. It was a heady feeling:

if he took it into his mind to carry Teazer to the North Pole every man must follow and endeavour to take the vessel there; in the very next moment, should he desire, he could bellow the orders that would clear the lower decks and muster every man aboard before him, awaiting his next words, and not one dare ask why.

The incredible thought built in his mind as his ship sailed deeper into the sea. Controlling his expression, he turned to Dacres and snapped, "Two points t' starboard!"

"Two points—aye aye, sir," Dacres said anxiously, and turned on the quartermaster. "Ah, nor'-east b' north."

The quartermaster came to an alert and growled at the man on the wheel, "Helm up—steer nor'-east b' north." While the helmsman spun the wheel and glanced warily up at the leech of the foresail the quartermaster snatched out the slate of course details from the binnacle and scrawled the new heading. Returning it he took out the traverse board and inspected it. At the next bell the line of pegs from its centre would duly reflect the change. He glanced down at the compass again, squinting at the card lazily swimming past the lubber's line until it slowed and stopped. "Steady on course nor'-east b' north, sir."

"Sir, on course nor'-east b' north," Dacres reported respectfully, nodding to the expectant mate-of-the-watch who hurried forward, bawling for the watch-on-deck. There would now be work at the braces, tacks and sheets to set the sails trimmed round to the new course before the watch could settle down.

"Very well," Kydd said, in a bored tone but fighting desperately to control a fit of the giggles at the sight of the serious faces of the men around him under the eye of their new captain, who, no doubt, had a serious reason for his order. He had laid a course to raise Cape Passero and this indulgence would throw them off, but perhaps he should wait a decent interval before he resumed the old one.

* * *

They had made good time and landfall would be soon, an easy leg from Malta north-east to the tip of Sicily across the Malta Channel, with a second leg into the open Mediterranean to the east before completing the triangle back to port. But it was also a voyage in a state of war: at any time predatory sail could heave above the horizon.

The log was hove once more: their speed was gratifyingly constant and allowing for the prevailing current would give a precise time of landfall. In this straightforward exercise Kydd had no doubt of his own skills and now felt Bonnici was capable also. But the time arrived and there was no far-off misty grey smear of land dead ahead.

"We'll give it another hour on this course, Mr Bonnici," Kydd said. He had gone over in his mind the simple calculations and could find no fault. Even his little dog-leg on a whim had been taken into account and—

"Laaaand hoooo! Land two—three points t' weather!" the lookout at the main royal masthead hailed excitedly, pointing over the larboard bow.

"Luff up an' touch her," Kydd ordered. Although this land could not yet be seen from the deck, on the line of bearing reported, the cape would not be reached on this tack. Yet it was the cape. How was it possible?

Going about, Teazer laid her bowsprit toward the undistinguished promontory, which Kydd easily recognised. Already he had his suspicions. "Lay me south o' the Portopaio roads," he told Bonnici.

Obediently Teazer made her way to another headland a mile or two from Cape Passero, rounding to a mile distant from the scrubby, nondescript cliffs. It was a well-known point of navigation—Kydd had passed this way before as part of Nelson's fleet—and the exact bearing of the tip of the one on the other was known. However, the bearing by Teazer 's compass had strayed a considerable way easterly, much more than could be accounted for by local variation. The instrument could no longer be trusted, neither it nor the secondary one.

There were obvious culprits and men at the conn were searched for iron implements. Nothing. Kydd questioned whether he should have taken more care over the compasses before going to sea. Some held that not only the earth varied in its faithfulness in revealing magnetic north but that the ship's ironwork had a part to play in deceiving the mariner, but how this could be dealt with they did not say.

There were only two explanations for the delay in their landfall: that Sicily had changed its position, or that their measure of distance run was incorrect. And as the latter was more likely and was taken by one means alone, the log, it was this that had to be at fault.

"Mr Purchet, I'll have the log-line faked out an' measure the knots, if y' please." Speed was arrived at by casting astern a weighted triangular piece of wood, the log-ship, that was carried astern as the ship sailed on. The line flew off from a reel held overhead and at the end of a thirty-second period it was "nipped" to see how far it had gone out, indicated by the number of knots in the line that had been run off. As the ratio of thirty seconds was to an hour (really twenty-eight, to allow for reaction times) so the length of line was for one knot—at forty-seven feet and three inches.

The carpenter's folding rule was wielded industriously. And, without exception, the knots fell close enough to their appointed place.

Kydd stood back, trying to think it through.

"Sir—the glass?" suggested Bowden.

It was unlikely: the twenty-eight-second sand-glass was a common enough object and the grains were specially parched to prevent clogging. "Go below an' check it against the chronometer," Kydd ordered doubtfully.

While this was done he set Teazer about and they headed safely off shore in darkening seas; during the night he and Bonnici would take careful astronomical observations. Compasses were inaccurate at the best of times but it was possible that when they had adjusted theirs in Malta harbour they had been within range of the influence of iron on the seabed, perhaps an old cannon.

Bowden returned. "No question about it, sir. This is a thirty-three-second glass," he said, trying to hide the smugness in his voice.

Kydd looked accusingly at Bonnici, who reddened. "Er, a Venetian hour-glass it mus' be, sir," the master mumbled. "We take fr'm the Arsenale when we store th' ship."

But it was nothing that could not be put right, thought Kydd, with relief, thankful that the heavens had been restored to their rightful place and his ship sped on unharmed into the warm night.

Free from the routine of night watch-keeping, Kydd could take no advantage of the luxury of an all-night-in: excitement and anticipation coursed through him making sleep impossible. Then came memories: that lonely, exhausted night as a press-gang victim, new on board; the first time he had stood watch as a green and terrified officer-of-the-watch—and the bitter time following when he had felt he could never belong in the company of gentlemen. And now he was past it all and elevated above every one of them. Restless and unsleeping, he longed for morning.

At long last he heard the muffled thump of feet on deck and lay back, seeing in his mind's eye the activity of hands turned out and irritable petty officers urging them on to meet the break of day at quarters. He remained for a few minutes longer in his cot, aware that voices in the after end of the ship were respectfully subdued in deference to his august being.

As the early light strengthened he came on deck. Only his word of a clear horizon would be sufficient to allow the men to be stood down from quarters and go about their day. He acknowledged Dacres's salute and gave the word, savouring the instant activity it produced while he breathed deeply of the zest of a sea dawn.

Reluctantly he went for his breakfast, to be eaten in solitary splendour. He took his time, knowing that his presence would be unwelcome in the scurry of striking down hammocks, lashing them tightly and sending them up to the nettings, the domestics of the evening mess deck now to assume a martial readiness.

A discreet knock: it was the carpenter, duly reporting inches only of water showing in the well. Then came Dacres, with a question about employment for the hands in the forenoon. The rhythms of the morning took hold without him and he was free to attend to his own concerns.

Later he ventured on deck; Dacres moved to leeward of the quarterdeck, as was the custom. Kydd, keyed up with feeling, acknowledged him politely, then began strolling down the deck.

The effect was instant: on either side men fell silent and stiffened, ceasing their work to straighten and touch their hats. He ducked under the main staysail and the men on the other side, tailing on to a jib sheet, lost their hauling cadence and came to an untidy stop. The petty officer in charge looked at Kydd warily, clearly at a loss.

It was no good. Kydd knew full well what was happening: there had to be some pressing reason why the captain, next down from God, should march the length of the vessel to see them—it could only mean trouble. He had to face the fact that, as captain, he was not at liberty to wander about his own ship as he pleased.

Every movement, intentional or careless, had significance for the men, who would now be watching him as the creatures of the jungle regarded the pacing lion.

"Carry on," he told the petty officer, and made his way back to the quarterdeck. The next time he wanted to stretch his legs and enjoy the sights forward on his pretty ship he would need to make some excuse to have the master or carpenter with him.

On impulse, Kydd crossed to the boatswain. "Mr Purchet. I'm not comfortable with th' play we're seeing in the main topmast cross-tree, th' t'gallant mast in the cap."

"I'll take a look, sir," Purchet said, glancing up.

"No, thank 'ee," Kydd said quickly. "I've a mind t' see myself."

He handed his hat and coat to an astonished Dacres and swung easily into the rigging, mounting with the fluid agility of the top-man he had been those years ago. He climbed around the futtock shrouds, ignoring the startled looks of two seamen working in the maintop, and on up to the cross-trees.

The lookout could not believe the evidence of his own eyes and stared at Kydd as he heaved himself up and on to the trestle-tree. Kydd hung on in the lively movement, muscles aglow, and took his fill of the lovely symmetry of Teazer's foreshortened length far below, hissing through the seas in a sinuous line of foam-flecks. After making a pretence of inspecting the topgallant mast as it passed through the cap he then shaded his eyes and looked away to the horizon.

An immensity of sparkling sea stretched before them as Teazer sped eastwards into emptiness, mainland Greece more than a hundred leagues distant and nothing ahead but the unchanging even line where sea met sky. It was a breathtaking sight from this height, one that in times past he had always thrilled to.

Reluctantly, he started to descend, then became aware that the clean line of horizon was broken. Eyes honed from a hundred watches scanning into nothing soon picked it up: a speck of paleness occasionally flashing brilliant white as the sun caught it."Sailhoooo!" he roared to the deck below. "Fine on th' weather bow." His hail to the deck caused the lookout beside him to jerk with surprise. Kydd then saw, in place of the sharp angularity of the usual Mediterranean lateener, the more blocky indication of square sail. "Square sail, an' studding athwart!"

This was not a trading felucca or any other of the myriad small craft native to this part of the great inland sea: it was of significant size and European built; perhaps a transport for Napoleon's lost army—or a hunting frigate . . .

Realising he had an urgent need to be back on deck, he reached out for a topmast backstay and swung into space. In seconds he had slid hand-over-hand down the backstay, arriving with a light jump on his own quarterdeck.

He was conscious of eyes on him: this was now the classic dilemma faced by every smaller ship, to sail towards a potential prize or retreat from what could be a more powerful enemy. To play safe would be to put up the helm and slink away, but that would be to throw away any chance of securing their first prize. Yet if he pressed on to investigate and it turned out to be one of the French admiral Ganteaume's fast frigates then Teazer stood little chance.

"Course t' intercept, Mr Bonnici," he snapped. He had a bounden duty to stop and investigate every sail. If things turned out against them, it couldn't be helped.

"Clear for action, sir?" Awkwardly Dacres held out Kydd's cocked hat and coat, which Kydd accepted but did not put on, mindful of his ruined cotton stockings and tar streaks on his hands.

From the main deck, the top-hamper of the chase was not yet visible. "No. We'll have time enough later. Report when he's topsails clear, I'll be below."

It seemed an age before the report finally arrived, but Kydd had already guessed the chase must be a smaller vessel or a merchantman that had decided to make a run for it—and they were slowly overhauling it. There was always the chance that it was leading him on into a trap, and with a new ship and untried crew the consequences could be serious—but it was unlikely.

When he went up on deck he deliberately left his sword on its hook below as a sign that he did not expect to fight. "Chase bears ahead nine miles, sir," Dacres said importantly. Hull-up, the ship was clawing to windward in a losing battle with the brisk breeze; Teazer had bowlines in their bridles drawing out the leading edge of her courses and topsails and was slashing along in exhilarating fashion. The end could not be in doubt.

At long cannon-shot Kydd ordered a gun to windward. It took another before the vessel set topsails a-fly in surrender and came up into the wind. With the greatest satisfaction he set Teazer hove to a little to windward.

The ship resembled the Marseille traders that Kydd knew so well from blockade duty off Toulon, and if this was so it was almost certainly a French supply transport. A flutter of white and gold jerked up her mizzen halliards.

"Naples," muttered Purchet. "Won't save 'em," he added happily. Kydd was not so sure: Naples had been occupied by the French, as had Sicily, but as far as he knew the Bourbon Kingdom of the Two Sicilies still existed in exile and was an ally. As well, of course, a vessel could hoist any colours it chose.

"Call away the cutter, an' I'll take a dozen men."

"You'll—?"

"Yes, Mr Dacres. You're in command. I don't have t' tell you, any sign o' trouble you're to run out our guns, show 'em our force." It was not at all usual for a captain to perform a boarding himself, but this was not a job for the inexperienced.

"Aye aye, sir."

The cutter pulled strongly towards the merchant ship. Stirk, forward with bared cutlass, would be the first to board. Bowden sat set-faced next to him, other seamen ready close by.

The ship was larger than Teazer, four hundred tons at least and well laden, wallowing weightily in beam seas. There was something strange, almost menacing, about the drab, dark-stained timbered vessel. Kydd gave an involuntary shudder and was guiltily glad that Stirk was going over the bulwark first. They neared and prepared to hook on: now would be the most likely time for a line of vengeful French soldiers to stand up suddenly at the deckline with muskets trained, but only a row of bored, dark-featured Mediterranean sailors looked down on them.

Stirk seized the flimsy rope-ladder and with a snarl swarmed up and on to the vessel's deck. The others followed quickly and Kydd found himself confronting a short and red-faced individual. The master, he guessed.

"Le capitaine?" Kydd growled, pleased that his hours with Renzi at French lessons in the dog-watches were now paying off. But French was virtually unknown in the eastern Mediterranean and the master shook his head angrily. Kydd mimed the riffling of papers and waited patiently for him to return with them.

The man's hands trembled as he handed them over and his face showed as much anxiety as bluster. Kydd inspected the papers, looking for a bill of lading, but all the papers he held were in an impenetrable foreign language.

"Sbrigati, abbiamo una fretta del diavolo," the man burst out angrily.

Kydd looked at him in surprise, then handed the papers to Bowden, who studied them in puzzlement. "Er, sorry, sir, I've no idea—I think it's a form of Italian."

"Where—you—go?" Kydd asked slowly. Suspicions were forming: the unusually wide cargo-hatch covers, the heavy stay tackles still triced in place along the yards . . . "Stand to, you there," he growled at his party, some of whom clearly shared his unease. He snapped, "What—is—your—cargo?"

The man's eyes flickered once then he drew himself up and shouted venomously at Kydd, "Una fregata da ghiaccio! Capisci? Ghi-acc-io!"

There was a definite air of anxiety now and Kydd's suspicions hardened. "We're going t' take a look at his cargo," he called to his men. The course of the vessel was fair for the deserts of north Africa—and Alexandria: the desperate French would seize on any means to deliver cannon to their beleaguered army.

Thrusting past, Kydd strode across. The hatches were well secured: battens nailed down firmly over canvas sealed the contents of the hold and the little hutch that normally allowed entrance to the hold was nowhere to be seen.

"Get a fire axe!" Kydd told Stirk, who found one at the ship's side. The master's eyes widened in horror as he saw what was happening and he threw himself at the hatch, shouting hoarsely. The axe splintered the first batten as he tried to wrestle it away. "Carry on," Kydd barked. Two seamen forcibly held back the frantic master.

Using the pointed end of the axe Stirk levered aside the battens on one side, then dealt with the opposite side. The master's struggles ceased and he now moaned loudly. Kydd looked warily at the rest of the crew, but they stood stolidly as if the events were none of their business.

"Quickly now," Kydd urged. The top of the hatch was merely planks that were smartly lifted away but under—there was straw. Nothing but straw to the very top of the hatch.

Kydd told Stirk to stab down with his cutlass point. Such a heavy cargo—it could not be straw. Stirk's thrust brought the unmistakable sharp clash of metal. He tried in another place— the same betraying clang.

The master now fell to his knees, imploring, sobbing. "Ghiaccio! Per amor di Dio—ghi-acc-io!"

"Clear th' straw!" Kydd knew his voice sounded weak, nervous. The straw was quickly pulled away to reveal an expanse of shiny metal sheeting. "Open it," he said thickly.

Seeing no easy way Stirk brought the axe to bear on it, and began to hack a hole through to see into the interior. The smash of the axe in the stillness sounded against the moaning of the master. Then Stirk fell back abruptly and pointed to the hole. Glistening through the rent torn in the metal was tons and tons of ice and snow.

Kydd stared at the sight as the hot sun began to melt the top layer. He was completely at a loss. Then he heard Bowden mumble, "I did hear once, sir, as how there are ships that bring ice from Mount Etna to the tables of the Barbary princes . . ."

"Then why th' devil did you not tell me, y' bloody villain?" Kydd snarled.

In the seclusion of his great cabin Kydd smiled wryly. The aggrieved master had been mollified with silver and a hastily scrawled pass, but it had been a less than glorious first encounter for Teazer.

Still, as they beat further to the east the ship was pulling together well; his insistence on daily practice at the guns was paying off and small tokens of homely sea life were making an appearance. A dog-vane cunningly crafted of cork and feathers on each shroud to indicate the wind direction for the benefit of the quartermaster, an elaborate turk's head knot worked on the centre spoke of the wheel so the helmsman could find the midships position by feel—all reflected an increasing pride and respect in the little ship.

Kydd quickly retrieved his equilibrium and when Teazer had reached far enough into the eastern Mediterranean and needed to put about for the remaining leg of returning to Malta he was sincerely regretful. The watch-on-deck was now, without being told, taking the trouble to flemish down lines neatly after sail trimming and he had seen several sailors pointing rope, an unnecessary but most seamanlike ornamenting of a rope's end in place of the usual twine whipping.

"Mr Dacres!" he called.

The officer came up, touching his hat. "Sir?"

"I have it in mind t' grant a make 'n' mend for all hands this afternoon—make today a rope-yarn Sunday, as it were. Did y' have anything planned for 'em?"

Dacres frowned, but could not object. A make and mend was given to allow seamen time to make repairs to their working rig and draw slops from the purser to fashion clothes. It also meant that they could sit on the foredeck in the sun gossiping amiably while they sewed, out of reach of an irascible boatswain or others wanting men for duty about ship. But Kydd knew the value of allowing the men time to add individuality to their rig and their ship: later it would translate to ownership, pride in themselves and their sea home.

Thus it was that after the grog issue and noon meal Teazer 's men set out their gear for an agreeable afternoon.

"Mr Dacres, a turn about the decks?" Kydd removed his hat ostentatiously and placed it firmly under his arm, a sign that he was off duty; Dacres reluctantly followed suit and they paced forward slowly. The decks were crowded and Kydd was careful to step round the industrious; others drew back respectfully.

There were some with the gift of the needle and they were turning their talents to account for their messmates, a favour that no doubt would be returned in grog. To Kydd, it was not odd to see hardened seamen deftly turn a seam in a smart jacket complete with white piping, or crafting exquisite buttons from bone, but it might just extend Dacres's education.

Some sailors told salty yarns or closed their eyes in the simple luxury of the sun, others busied themselves at whalebone scrimshaw: fine pieces would fetch a good price ashore. At the bow, pairs of seamen plaited each other's pigtails—Kydd's own tiemate had been Nicholas Renzi.

Teazer was a small ship with tight living conditions and it was essential her company quickly settled into amicable sea routines: the process, Kydd was pleased to see, seemed already well under way.

CHAPTER 4

"DAMME, BUT YOU TOOK YOUR TIME, Captain," General Pigot grumbled but Kydd detected a certain satisfaction. "So, we can account the good ship Teazer one of our company, hey?"

"We are ready f'r operations now, sir," Kydd said carefully.

It was a delicate matter: his direct allegiance was to his commanding admiral, yet he was on detached service from the fleet and in the service of Malta, now governed by a civil power. In turn the civil commissioner would rely for military matters on the garrison general, Pigot. Thus, in elliptical fashion, Kydd would in effect report to Pigot—but he had no wish to become a creature of the Army with its ignorance of the sea and its perils.

The general looked at Kydd speculatively. "T' be quite honest with ye, Captain, I didn't think you had it in you to get your ship up to scratch in time. What is it? A brig?"

"Aye, sir—a brig-sloop." Then Kydd added warmly, "She mounts eight 6-pounders a side, an' more besides for close-in work."

Pigot nodded slowly. "Well, as long as ye don't come up against a bigger," he said, as if to himself. He raised his eyes to meet Kydd's. "I'd be obliged if you'd wait on me in the morning. I may have a service for you."

* * *

"Now, I'd like you to get a sense o' how important these dispatches are, Mr Kydd," Pigot said, leaning forward seriously. "Our landings in Egypt are bein' hotly disputed—if Johnny Crapaud gets resupply it'll turn the situation right round."

He looked at Kydd shrewdly. "This is news of the French admiral, Ganteaume. A powerful crowd o' battleships an' such sailed from Leghorn to God knows where. Be a good chap an' let your Admiral Warren know about him just as quick as y' can."

There had been a landing in Egypt by the British under Abercrombie with the objective of dealing with the still-potent French Army stranded there by Nelson's dazzling victory at the Nile. Any threat to its lines of support would be serious indeed. Kydd stuffed the dispatches crisply into the satchel. "Aye aye, sir. I sail afore sunset."

The rest of the day was needed to stow last-minute stores and water. This was going to be no simple exercise: Teazer would shortly be embarking on a deep-sea voyage to face all weathers and whatever enemy lay outside. What was not aboard when they sailed could not be obtained until they returned after their mission.

With the men below at their midday meal, Kydd called his officers to his cabin. "I'll not have you in ignorance of th' ship's movements," he said, trying not to sound pompous. "It's straightforward enough, gentlemen. Dispatches—th' French under Ganteaume are out an' tryin' t' supply their army in Egypt. If they find they c'n beat us, I don't have to tell ye, it's as if the Nile never happened an' they have a royal road to India. We have t' rendezvous with Admiral Sir John Borlase Warren an' advise him in time.

"Mr Bonnici, show us y'r charts." There was a new chart of the Alexandria coast by the Admiralty Hydrographic Office, the first Kydd had seen, but the others were of questionable reliability.

"Th' reigning wind's fair fr'm the north-west, o' course, and we'll make good time—I expect t' be at the rendezvous in five or six days at most. I shall be pressing Teazer hard, an' I want you all to be watching f'r strains aloft."

He thought for a space, then added, "Were we to fall in with an enemy, m' first duty is to the dispatches an' I will not offer battle. But we might have t' fight our way clear, so . . ." He tailed off at the blank faces. Then he understood—all this was so much a waste of words: the men knew full well what was to be expected of them and their ship without his needing to spell it out, but were too polite to say so.

He dismissed them, and remained alone in his cabin. It was the first proper mission of his first command and failure or mistakes were unthinkable. It was coming home to him just what being a captain meant: there was not a soul he could talk to, seek advice from or even reveal his feelings to about the momentousness of this occasion.

Other thoughts jostled. Now he had all of the responsibility but at the same time all of the power. He could give orders for anything within reason but unless it was the right order . . . Where before things had just happened, which his responsibility was to conform to and support, now it would be his role to think about and make those things happen or nothing would. In the past if he failed in a duty it would be a matter of reproof. Now it would be the ship and her company who suffered calamitous consequences.

Anxieties flooded in: supposing he had overlooked a vital task and Teazer suddenly found herself helpless before the guns of an enemy? What if a strange man-o'-war loomed up and he had forgotten to give out the secret recognition signal to the signals crew in time? And had he taken aboard sufficient of the right sort of stores, enough water, powder, charts—were they wise to trust in Kydd, the raw new captain of Teazer, to get the crucial dispatches into the right hands?

He tried to throw off the demons. Rationally there was no future in worry, in formless anxiety, and it was vital to keep a strong, calm manner in front of the men. He reached for composure. Then he found Renzi's reassuring image materialise before him. What would be his closest friend's advice, his calm and ordered appreciation of his position?

He saw Renzi's expression assume a saintly sorrow, as it always did when there was a hard truth. And he knew what it was before the vision faded. He was the captain: there was no other alternative than that he must find the strength, courage and intelligence from within himself.

"Let go!" HMS Teazer's last bond with the land was cast off; her jack forward was struck and her largest ensign, the blue of the Mediterranean Fleet, soared up her main halliards just as the crack of her salute to General Pigot sent gun-smoke wreathing agreeably across Kydd's nostrils.

In the brisk southerly, Teazer leaned to the wind, eased cautiously to the north-east in the busy harbour and made for the open water. The following seas, with their swelling rhythm from astern, seemed to urge the ship on to adventures ahead.

"Mr Dacres!" Kydd called across the quarterdeck. "Set sea watches, starbowlines to muster." From now on there would always be at least half of Teazer 's complement closed up on watch, ready to meet any challenge at every hour of day and night until they made port again.

He stood looking on as the watch mustered. The petty officers were consulting their lists and jollying the tardy to their stations. It was satisfying to feel the familiar routines establish themselves and Kydd found it difficult to keep a stern appearance.

He saw Stirk approaching. With a grin that could best be described as huge, he said, "Ready t' scale the guns, sir."

Kydd smothered an answering smile. "Carry on, Mr Stirk."

The six-pounders had been in store at the arsenal long enough for rust to form in the bores and scaling by dry firing would scour them clear. Soon the flat blang of the reduced charges sounded along the deck.

He looked across at Dacres. "You have th' ship. Course east b' south, all plain sail."

As simple as that! He brightened at the thought of never having to stand a watch again, instead taking charge or handing over whenever he felt inclined. "Aye aye, sir," Dacres murmured, and went to the conn.

Kydd knew he should go below and start on the work that was waiting in neat piles on his desk but it was too exhilarating on deck with the regular heave of the waves under the keel and their stately move forward, the boundless blue expanse of sea, flecked with white under a perfect Mediterranean sun.

The log was cast and the result pegged on the traverse board: nine and a half knots. Given the lateness in the day, he would leave until tomorrow the agreeable task of exploring Teazer's sailing qualities and quirks to bring out the best in her. The southerly was veering more to the west but holding steady—they should have a soldier's wind in the morning.

Eight bells, the first dog-watch. The decks cleared as men went below for grog and their supper. It would be a cheerful conclusion to the day for them and Kydd could picture the jollity as they settled in with new chums, shipmates who would share with them the dangers aloft and in the fighting for their lives. The talk would be of their new ship, the calibre of their officers, their prospects for their voyaging and, the most important topic of all, their new captain.

Alone on deck but for the lookouts and the small group at the helm, Kydd felt even more the peculiar isolation of his position, the utter absence of any he could relax with in the same way. This was the hidden price for the fulfilment of his ambitions. In the gathering dusk he became aware of the flash of eyes in the cluster by the helm: they were affronted by the captain's continued presence on deck, his implied lack of trust in them. Kydd turned and went below.

"Oh, sir," said Tysoe reprovingly, "you never sent word. Your supper is no longer hot. Shall I tell the steward—"

His cabin table was spread. "No, thank 'ee," Kydd said: the galley fire was probably out by now. He had forgotten the behind-the-scenes activity that accompanied even the smallest domestic want of the captain. "Open a claret an' I'll take a glass. The rest t' go to the midshipmen's berth." The small gesture might help to allay the anxieties of the two new faces going to sea for the first time, perhaps even hinting that their captain was of the human species.

He sat alone by the light of a candle, chewing tepid cutlets and sad greens, feeling by turns dispirited and exalted. Hammocks were piped down—he had ordered that for tonight going to quarters could be overlooked—and the watch below turned in. After Tysoe had cleared away, Kydd pulled over the pile of papers and set to. A knock on the door an hour or so later interrupted his concentration. It was Laffin, with the thick-set figure of another seaman in the shadows behind carrying a dim lanthorn.

"Sir. Galley fire doused, lights are out fore 'n' aft, two inches in th' well, no men in bilboes," Laffin said impassively. As a boatswain's mate in a sloop he took the duties of a master-at-arms, which included ship's security.

"Thank ye, Laffin," Kydd said. These reports, made to him as captain, allowed the silent hours officially to begin.

"Er, do you . . ." For some reason he was reluctant to let Laffin go. ". . . go an' prove the lookouts," he finished lamely.

"Aye aye, sir," the seaman said stolidly.

Kydd put aside the paperwork and retired for the night, but he lay awake in his cot, mind racing as he reviewed the day, senses jerked to full alert by every unknown noise in the new ship, then lulled as his seaman's ear resolved them into patterns falling in with the regular motions of the invisible ocean.

The wind had freshened in the night and the morning dawned bright and boisterous, white horses on a following deep blue sea. Teazer's sturdy bowsprit rose and fell. Kydd was concerned to notice the foredeck flood several times, even in these moderate conditions, the water sluicing aft before it was shed to the scup-pers—with the working of the vessel's seams this would translate into wet hammocks for those below.

He heard a tinny sound above the sea noises: a young sailor at the main hatchway was enthusiastically beating away at an odd-looking small drum, breaking into the ordered calm of the early morning.

"Wha—"

"Quarters, sir," said Bowden, hiding a smile. As master's mate, he was taking watches opposite Dacres and had the deck. Kydd wondered at his confidence: he remembered his own first watch on deck as an officer and the nervous apprehension he had felt.

But that drum would have to go: the martial thunder of Tenacious's marine drums left no doubt about their purpose— the men to close up at their guns to meet the dawn prepared for what the new day would reveal.

With no enemy sail sighted, quarters were stood down, hammocks piped up and the men went to breakfast. There was no need for Kydd to remain on deck but he found it hard to stand aside from the routine working of the ship. He had been an intimate part of it since he had first gone to sea, and particularly since he had become an officer.

He turned abruptly and went below to his cabin. If he chose, there was nothing to stop him remaining in the comforts of his great cabin for the entire day—but then he would not know what was going on on deck. "Thank ye, Tysoe," he said, as the man brought in coffee. As routines became evident Kydd's needs were being intelligently anticipated: Kydd blessed his choice those years ago of Tysoe as servant.

An unexpected surge of contentment surfaced as he gazed through his stern windows at the swelling seas. Teazer had a pleasing motion, predictable and rarely hesitating—that was the sign of sea-kindliness: neither crank nor tender, she would lean before the buffets of wind and sea and smoothly return to a stable uprightness.

Today he would discover more of his men and his ship. Dacres was the most imperative task: he was the entire officer corps of Teazer and, in practical terms, a deputy-captain. Kydd needed a right-hand man—but, more than that, someone he could confide in, trust, one with whom he could not only mull over ideas and plans but whom he could place in hazardous situations and discover how far he could rely on him. The trouble was that Dacres's studiously polite but reserved manner made him difficult to approach.

As he finished his coffee, the thumping of bare feet sounded loud on the deckhead above. It would be the afterguard racing across the top of his cabin to the cro'jack braces, which, as in all Navy ships, were crossed and led aft. He longed to know why they were being tended but forced himself to stay seated. Then the ship heeled to larboard for a space before returning. It was too much. He left his cabin, just remembering his hat, and bounded on deck. A quick glance at the binnacle and out over the exuberant seas told him, however, that all was well. He saw Dacres steadying himself by the weather main shrouds and looking fixedly forward.

At Kydd's appearance, Dacres moved to leeward, as was the custom. Kydd asked him, "How does she go for ye, Mr Dacres?"

Dacres glanced at him briefly, his pale face taut, then hastily looked away without speaking.

Kydd frowned. "I said, how is she, Mr Dacres?"

The officer remained silent, obstinately turned away. If there was going to be bad blood between them due to some imagined slight the situation would become impossible. "Mr Dacres. I desire you should wait on me in my cabin—directly, if y' please!" he snapped, and strode below.

"Now, sir!" he said, rounding on Dacres as he entered. "You'll tell me what it is ails ye, d'ye hear me?"

Holding to one side of the desk with Teazer's lively motion Dacres stared at Kydd. His eyes were dark pits and he seemed to have difficulty forming the words. Kydd felt a stab of apprehension.

Dacres tensed, his eyes beseeching. Then he swung away in misery, scrambling to get out. Kydd heard the sound of helpless retching from beyond the door.

The south-westerly hauled round steadily, now with more than a little of the north in it until Teazer was stretching out on the larboard tack in a fine board deep into the eastern Mediterranean. More close-hauled, the motion was steadier but the angle of the waves marching in on the quarter imparted a spirited twist to the top of each heave.

This rendered Dacres helpless with seasickness. Kydd left him to claw back his sea legs, trusting in his sense of duty to return to his responsibilities as soon as he was able. For a sailor it was different: seasickness was not recognised as a malady and any man found leaning over the side was considered to be shirking and failing his shipmates. A rope's end was hard medicine, but who was to say that it was not a better way to force attention away from self-misery?

The morning wore on: it was approaching noon. "Mr Bowden!

Where are y'r young gentlemen? The heavens wait f'r no man. I will see them on th' quarterdeck one bell before noon or know the reason why, sir!" Kydd growled.

The two new midshipmen could not have been more different. Attard, the nominee of the dockyard, was slightly older at fifteen. Wary but self-possessed, he clearly knew his way about ships. The other, Martyn, was diffident and delicately built, with the features of an artist.

"Carry on, Mr Bowden," Kydd said, but stayed to observe their instruction in the noon sight ceremony.

Martyn struggled with his brand new sextant. It was a challenge to any to wield an instrument in the lively motion of the brig and Kydd sympathised. Attard had a well-used piece that seemed too heavy but Bowden's easy flourishes encouraged them both.

Kydd adopted a small-ship straddle, standing with legs well apart, feet planted firmly on the deck with a spring in the knee, then lifted his octant. He noticed Bowden's imitation—he was learning quickly.

Local apparent noon came and went; Bowden and the young lads importantly noted their readings and retired for the calculations. Kydd delayed going below: the prospect from the quarterdeck was grand—taut new pale sails and freshly blacked rigging against the spotless deep-blue and white horses of the sea. With the brisk westerly tasting of salt, Teazer was showing every sign of being an outstanding sailer.

The four days to the rendezvous saw Dacres recover and Teazer become ever more shipshape. The boatswain twice had the brig hove to while the lee shrouds were taken up at the lanyards where the new cordage had stretched, and the marks tied to the braces to indicate the sharp-up position were moved in. And, as Kydd had surmised, a light forefoot made for a drier fo'c'sle but livelier motion. He was getting to know his tight-found little ship—and loving her the more.

At fifty miles north of Alexandria the fleet rendezvous was an easy enough navigational target, a line rather than a point, the latitude of thirty-one degrees forty-five minutes.

Kydd felt anxious at the thought of meeting an admiral for the first time as a commander. Sir John was known to be a stickler for the proprieties and probably had his powerful force arrayed in line ahead with all the panoply of a crack squadron at sea— gun salutes of the right number, frigate scouts to whom a humble brig-sloop would tug the forelock and all manner of other touchy observances.

Yet Teazer was the bearer of dispatches—news—and for a short time she would be the centre of attention. As the rendezvous approached Kydd saw to it that her decks were scrubbed and holystoned to a pristine paleness, her brightwork gleaming and guns readied for salutes.

Before sailing from Malta, the dispatches had been placed into padlocked canvas bags weighted with grape-shot. Kydd took them out and placed them on his desk in anticipation of the instant summons he expected; his dress uniform and sword were ready in his cabin and his coxswain went off to prepare his boat's crew.

They reached the western end of the rendezvous line: all that was necessary now was to run down the line of latitude until the squadron was sighted. At the foretop there was now a pair of lookouts and Bowden had two seamen at the main as signals party. They were leaving nothing to chance. "Th' foretop lookouts, ahoy!" bellowed Kydd, "T' keep y' eyes open or I'll . . . I'll have ye!"

They shaped course eastwards along the line. With a height-of-eye of eighty feet at the main they would be able to spy the royals of a ship-of-the-line from a fifty-mile broad front in clear weather. In the quartering winds Teazer was at her best point of sailing and foamed along at speed.

By noon, however, they had nearly reached the mid-point of the thirty-mile line with Warren's squadron not yet in sight. Kydd was aware of the momentous events taking place not so far to the south, the landings near Alexandria intended to wrest the whole of Egypt and the Levant from the French. But if the dispatches did not reach their intended recipient in time it left the whole seaward approaches wide open to Ganteaume.

Towards evening they finally reached the other end of the line with still no sighting. In the privacy of his cabin Kydd checked his orders yet again: the rendezvous was specified in two distinct places and could not be in error. Might there be in fact two locations as there were off Toulon, for close in and more distant? If so, it was never mentioned in orders. Had the squadron sailed on further beyond the end of the line due to navigational error? With the figuring of half a dozen ships to rely on, this was unlikely. Was their own navigation at fault? Had he missed the delivery of his charges through some ridiculous oversight?

Kydd chose to sail beyond the end of the line until dark before going about and returning. The night-recognition signals he had on hand only applied to Keith's main fleet; he had none for Warren's detached squadron. Tension increased as Teazer wore round and snugged down to double-reefed topsails, waiting for dawn.

Daybreak brought with it no welcome sight of sail, only the empty vastness of the sea. The westerly now headed them and Kydd could make progress only in long, uneven tacks each side of the line, a wearying sequence that had the brig going about twice in every watch with no assurance that they would intercept the squadron.

They reached the mid-point of the line: still no sign. They approached the western end of the line—ominously there was not a sail in sight anywhere. For Kydd, the elation and excitement of command had slowly ebbed into a stomach-churning morass of worry as he reviewed for the twentieth time what might have gone wrong.

He could heave to and wait for the squadron to return but if it was on station at some other place he would never meet up with it. But could he thrash backwards and forwards along the rendezvous line for ever? Time was running out.

At three in the morning, in the dimness of yet another sleepless night, Kydd resolved on action. He would leave the line and look for the squadron—the details would wait until morning. He fell sound asleep.

At first light he appeared on deck and sniffed the wind. "Put up y'r helm an' steer sou'-sou'-east," he told Dacres. They would head towards Egypt and the fighting: if the squadron was anywhere, the probability was that it would be there.

Full and bye, Teazer stretched south nobly. In three hours they were sighting sail, small fry and a possible frigate who did not seem inclined to make their acquaintance. In a few more hours, as the coast firmed ahead in a lazy blue-grey, more vessels showed against it—but no ship-of-the-line. When Kydd recognised an untidy straggle of buildings and a distinctive tower as Alexandria, he knew that the gamble had failed: the squadron was not there.

He ordered Teazer to put about, knowing that he could now be judged guilty of quitting his station without leave, a grave offence. Kydd went to his cabin with a heavy heart and had barely sat down when there was a knock. "Captain, sir!" Martyn shrilled. "Compliments from Mr Dacres and a vessel is sighted!"

Kydd hastened on deck: a small topsail cutter flying a blue ensign was leaning into the wind trying to close with them. "Heave to, Mr Dacres," Kydd called, and waited while the sleek craft came up and exchanged private signals.

"You've missed 'em!" shouted the young lieutenant-in-command as the vessel rounded to under their lee. "That is, the East Med squadron, if that's who you're after," he added, shading his eyes against the sun. "What's the news?"

Kydd bridled at the familiarity and answered shortly, "No news, L'tenant. What course did Sir John take when he left?"

"Why, to the rendezvous, I should think, sir," said the lieutenant, remembering himself.

"North," Kydd ordered.

Teazer's signal of dispatches aboard ensured her swift passage past officious scouting frigates within sight of the squadron, which was in tight formation and precisely on the line of the rendezvous.

"To place us t' loo'ard o' the flagship, Mr Bonnici," Kydd told the master and went below to prepare, in obedience to the summons to place himself and his dispatches before the admiral immediately.

Teazer's cutter smacked into the water and the boat's crew swarmed aboard. Kydd's coxswain, Yates, sat at the tiller importantly, a beribboned hat with Teazer picked out in gold paint incongruously smart against his thick-set, hairy body.

"Stretch out, yer buggers!" he bawled. Kydd winced. This was not the coxswain he would have wished but the man was a veteran of both St Vincent and a blazing frigate action.

The whole squadron lay hove to, the flagship Renown at the centre. The boat rounded the noble stern of the battleship, all gilt and windows and with her name boldly emblazoned. Mildly curious faces looked down from her deck-line above.

Renown's boatswain himself set his silver call to piercing squeals to announce the arrival on board of the captain of a vessel of the Royal Navy, an honour that would have sent a delicious thrill through Kydd if it had come at any other time.

In the admiral's quarters the flag-lieutenant murmured an introduction and left Kydd with the admiral, who stared at him stonily, waiting.

"Ah, Commander Thomas Kydd, sloop Teazer with dispatches, sir." Warren had a powerful air of intimidation and Kydd found his own back stiffening.

"From the commander-in-chief?" The admiral's hard tone did nothing for Kydd's composure.

"Er, no, sir, from Malta."

"Malta! Who the devil thinks to worry me with dispatches from there, sir?"

"Gen'ral Pigot, sir—he says they're urgent," Kydd said, and handed over the satchel, which the admiral took quickly.

"These are dated more than a week ago," said Warren sharply, looking up.

Kydd added in a small voice, "We thought t' find you at the rendezvous, sir. We beat up 'n' down the line for several days an' then—an' then, sir, I thought it best to—to leave station an' look for you t' the s'uth'ard, sir . . ." He tailed off.

Warren's frosty stare hardened. "It took you that long to find I wasn't there and go looking? Good God above!" He snorted. He still held the dispatches and riffled through them. "So what do we have here that's so damned urgent it needs one of the King's ships to tell me?"

"The French, Sir John—they're out!" said Kydd, his voice strengthening, "Sailed fr'm Leghorn just this—"

"From Leghorn—yes, yes, I know that. Why do you think I've been away from the rendezvous? No other than chasing your Ganteaume." His face tightened. "And this must mean, sir, you have sailed right through them on their way back! What do you have to say to that?"

Kydd gulped, he had ignored all sail sighted in his haste to reach the rendezvous. And with his precious dispatches shown to be not much more than gossip, he felt anything but a taut sea-captain with a vital mission. He flushed, but stubbornly held Warren's eye.

Something in his manner made Warren pause. "Do I see a new-made commander before me, Mr Kydd?"

"Aye, sir."

"Your first errand, I venture to say?"

"Sir."

A tiny smile appeared. "Is all as you expected it to be?"

Kydd's tensions eased a fraction. "It's—different t' what I expected, yes, sir." It was difficult to know whether the admiral was making conversation or had an object in mind.

"Expect the worst, Mr Kydd, and then you'll never be disappointed." He looked pleased at his aphorism, adding, "And give the men not an inch. They'll never thank you for it."

"Have you any dispatches for Malta, sir?" Kydd asked.

"Malta? What conceivable interest would I have there? No, sir, carry on about your business and be thankful I'm not taking you under command."

Teazer put about and made off to the west, her commander standing alone on the quarterdeck. As soon as the ship was settled on her new course he went to his cabin.

Kydd realised that he was still a very new captain but a future of being a lap-dog at the beck and call of any senior to him was not how he saw a fighting ship should spend her time. He had broadsides and fighting seamen ready for his country's service. He had achieved the peak of his ambition: his own ship.

For a captain loneliness was inevitable, but he hadn't realised how much he would feel it. It was something that came with the job, though, and he would have to get used to it. The only "friend" he was in a position to contemplate was the single other officer, Dacres, but he could find little in common with the man.

The seas coming on the bow produced an energetic dip and rise and an eagerness in the motion that Kydd could sense even this far aft. The willingness in his ship reached out to him and his moodiness eased. Looking around his cabin he felt a quickening of the spirit: he was captain of the ship, damn it, and he was a sad looby if he failed to make the most of it.

"Tysoe!" he bellowed—he must find a bell or something: without a marine sentry outside ready to pass the word this was the only way he could send for his servant.

Tysoe appeared quickly, only slightly aggrieved at the manner of the summons. "Sir?" he said quietly, now carrying himself nobly as befitted the manservant of the captain.

"I shall have some veal for m' dinner—an' open one of the pino biancos to go with it."

"Certainly, sir. Could I be so bold as to remind you that your cabin stores include some pickled berberries that would accompany admirably?" The flecks of silver in the man's bushy hair added maturity to his appearance and Kydd knew that he could expect Tysoe to function with distinction on any ship's occasion.

"Yes, rouse 'em out, if y' will." Tysoe inclined his head and left, Kydd smiling at the way he kept his dignity while bracing against Teazer's playful movements.

The papers on the desk, weighted with a half musket-ball, recalled him to duty. Captain's Orders: now, just how did he want his ship run? For Teazer there were no precedents from a previous commander, no existing orders to copy and adopt, and Kydd had the chance to set out his own ideas.

"Instructions and Standing Orders for the General Government and Discipline of His Majesty's Sloop Teazer." The well-remembered heading now preceded his own orders: he must start with due obeisance to His Majesty in Council, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and so on—Peck could be relied on to chase up the wording.

And the meat. Conduct of the watch-on-deck with particular attention to the logs; the rough log of the mate-of-the-watch with entries by others listing provisions and stores expended, returned or condemned and so on, to be later taken to the appropriate officer for signature. And only then would the master deign to gather up the threads and transcribe this officially into the ship's log for Kydd's approval.

The signal log: this would most certainly be used in evidence in any court-of-inquiry as would officers' journals detailing the day's events and any reckoning of their position; he would, of course, require that Dacres regularly submit his journal to him.

The bulk of the rest would be as much advice as regulation: if the officer-of-the-watch sighted a strange sail at night, water shoaling—all the hundred and one things that could suddenly slam in on the unwary. If there was no provision for guidance in a Captain's Orders the negligent could plead ignorance. Kydd's rich experiences gave him an advantage in foreseeing these situations.

There were whole sections on the duties of the first lieutenant, master, boatswain, even the petty officers. They would all be left in no doubt about their responsibilities, as far as Kydd was concerned.

And on to working the ship: silence fore and aft when major manoeuvres were being performed; the precise line of demarcation between the captain, master and officer-of-the-watch, and other general matters. He debated whether to include instructions for topmen aloft for their varying situations but decided against it, not least because it was turning into a wearisome task indeed.

Kydd was thankful for midday and his necessary appearance on deck at the noon sight, with its welcome vision of sun and sea. He left the others comparing their readings and returned to his cabin to find Tysoe standing solicitously with a cloth-encircled bottle and a steaming dish neatly set.

While the men congregated noisily at their mess-tables and the officers gathered in their tiny gunroom Kydd sat down to his solitary dinner—and, be damned, he was going to enjoy it.

A timid midshipman knocked later at the door with their workings, the position of the ship at noon by their own estimation. He had asked to see these but the two sheets had identical handwriting. To succeed in their profession the young gentlemen must know their navigation faultlessly—and individually. He would speak to Bowden.

A passing shower pitter-pattered on the cabin deckhead above, then strengthened to a drumming and at the same time Teazer's leaning lessened as the wind dropped. With a surge of sympathy Kydd realised they must be having a wet time of it on the upper decks working at their gun practice.

When he picked up his own work again he focused on the people, the men and officers, aboard. His orders would see them properly clothed, the sanctity of their mealtimes preserved and hammocks maintained clean, lashed and stowed clear of seas flooding aboard. There was so much to think about—scrubbing decks: how often and by whom? Sea-chests or sea-bags allowed on the main deck? Slinging hammocks next to hatchways in bad weather? When to rig windsails for ventilation? It went on and on for as many things as Kydd could remember to include.

Yet was this what it was to create a taut, happy ship? He well knew the answer: it all depended on the goodwill and intelligent practicality of his subordinates, and their success, inspired by himself, in drawing out a spirit of excellence, of unity and pride in themselves and their ship.

The noise of the rain squall fell away and there was a sudden cry from a lookout. "Sail hoooo! Two sail three points t' loo'ard!"

Kydd dropped his work and scrambled to his feet, hastening on deck. "Sir!" Dacres pointed with his telescope. There were two vessels lying stopped together just ahead and to leeward,

clearly surprised by Teazer's sudden emergence from the shower.

Heads turned to Kydd in expectation. "Y'r glass, Mr Dacres," he snapped, and steadied the telescope on the pair.

There was not much doubt: they were witnessing the predation of one vessel upon the other. No flag on either, but one had the unmistakable low, rakish lines of a corsair. Kydd's eyes gleamed: he could not go far wrong if he took action. If the victim was friendly he would earn undying gratitude, and if enemy, Teazer would be taking her first prize.

"Down y'r helm—set us alongside, Mr Bonnici!" he roared, thrusting back the telescope at Dacres. The last image he had seen was of an ants' nest of activity on both decks as, no doubt, the corsair prepared to flee. A mile or so downwind and both vessels dead in the water; the circumstances could not have been better.

"Brace round, y' lubbers," he bawled as, close-hauled, Teazer loosed bowlines and came round to lie before the wind, picking up speed now she was not in confrontation with the waves.

"Hands t' quarters!" he snapped. Wincing at the ridiculous drum, he was pleased nevertheless at the enthusiasm the gun crews showed: with wet clothing still clinging they readied their weapons for what must come. On both sides of the deck—eight 6-pounders a side—gun captains checked gunlocks, vents and tackle falls with ferocious concentration.

The corsair was now poling off from the victim, on its three masts huge lateen yards showing signs of movement: it had to be a xebec and, judging from the polacre rig of its prey, this was a merchantman.

In his excitement Kydd could not hold back a wolfish smile as they bore down on the two vessels and he could see that the others aboard Teazer were as exultant. Stirk's head popped up at the fore hatchway and its owner stared forward. His quarters were at the magazine but he obviously wanted to see what was going on.

This was what Teazer had been built for—destined for! One by one reports were made to him of readiness for battle. Dacres's quarters bill would be shortly tested. Kydd could see him forward, scribbling in a notebook. But it would be an easy baptism of fire for the ship: they would get no fierce broadside-to-broadside hammering from the undisciplined rabble in a corsair.

The xebec had its sails abroad now: the two larger forward ones a-goosewing, spread on opposite sides to catch the following wind and the smaller mizzen taken in. Its low, wasp-like hull would give it speed but Teazer was no plodder.

They were coming up fast on the merchant ship, which was untidily at sixes and sevens and with no clue as to its flag. Its side timbers were bleached and drab, the sails grey with service. However, Kydd had eyes only for the chase, which was making off with ever-increasing speed.

"Cap'n, sir," said the master, quietly. Kydd spared him a glance. "Sir, you're not a-chasin' this pirate?" Kydd frowned. Of course he was—the merchant ship would still be there after they had dealt with the corsair.

"You c'n wager guineas on it, Mr Bonnici," he said testily, and resumed his eager stare forward. The master subsided meekly.

They plunged past the merchantman under every stitch of canvas they possessed. "Give 'em a gun, there," he threw forward. "Let 'em know we're not forgetting 'em," he growled, in an aside to a solemn Dacres.

Kydd snatched a glance at the master, who was watching events blank-faced. The chase was just what was wanted to sort out the real warriors among them, and if Bonnici was not up to it his days in Teazer were numbered.

"Stretch out aloft, there, y' old women!" he bellowed, to the foremast topmen who were sending up stuns'ls but making a sad mess of it. Kydd stared ahead through his pocket glass until his eyes watered, willing Teazer on. As far as he could judge they had a chance. The xebec seemed over-pressed with sail, with much white around its bows but not making the speeds he had seen in similar craft. One thing was certain: with the large number of men crowding its deck he would be very sure never to come close enough to allow them to board.

A popping and a puff of smoke from its high, narrow stern was met with contemptuous laughter by the seamen in Teazer —they had no bow-chasers worth the name but all they needed was to come up with the vessel and settle the matter with a couple of broadsides. A xebec, like all corsairs, was intended to board and overwhelm, never to try conclusions with a warship.

It began angling away, trying for a better slant, and Kydd was certain they were slowly overhauling it, now no more than a mile ahead. His excitement increased and he recognised a rising bloodlust.

"The merchantman is falling astern, sir."

"Thank ye, Mr Dacres," Kydd snapped. The ship was now at quite a distance, but it was still apparently immobile and could wait. Should he try a yaw? That involved suddenly throwing over the helm briefly to bring Teazer's broadside to bear, but it would be at the cost of losing way in the chase and he could not allow that.

It was fast and exhilarating, this hot-blooded flying after the corsair, knowing that there was little doubt about how the battle would end, and then a triumphant return to the grateful merchant ship.

Kydd turned to his midshipman messenger. "Go an' get my sword, if y' will, Mr Martyn." The heft of his fine fighting sword was satisfying and he saw that they were decidedly nearer. It would not be long now—neither darkness nor a friendly port would save their prey.

Every eye forward was on the xebec. It seemed to hesitate, the big lateens shivering, the speed falling off. Surely not—it couldn't be so easy. Teazer came on in fine style, Kydd giving away nothing to chance. The corsair's aspect changed slightly to larboard.

He would take it ranging up on his starboard side for the first broadside and then—

As quick as a warhorse wheeling for the charge, the xebec's sheets flew in and it slewed round. Was it trying to fall upon Teazer before it was ready in order to board her? "Stand by y'r guns!" Kydd roared.

Heading back towards them at speed, its lofty lateens drawing hard, it seemed intent on a suicidal last charge. "Hands t' shorten sail!" If the madman wanted a yardarm to yardarm smashing match, he would oblige.

The sharp drawn bow of the corsair was aimed like a lance at Teazer and Kydd felt the first nagging doubt. What was going on? Had he missed something? His ship slowed ready for the struggle but the xebec still hurtled down on them. The cheers and pugnacious mockery faded away on Teazer at the bewildering sight.

It was a successful manoeuvre for the xebec as its head-on charge prevented any of Teazer's guns being brought to bear, but it could not last. Sheering suddenly to starboard it would pass down the brig's larboard side. Then the action would begin, Kydd thought savagely.

At the last possible moment the xebec sheered aside—now it must brave Teazer 's broadside. It angled nimbly away to increase the range before daring its passage. Kydd saw the evil craft under his guns and did not hesitate: "A broadside, on m' word—fire!"

Teazer's guns spoke in anger for the first time. Her broadside, however, was more a ragged series of cracks than the full-throated blast that would have come from Tenacious. Kydd waited eagerly for the smoke to clear—but there were only some ragged holes low in the sails and no other significant damage he could see. The xebec slashed past in a flurry of white, largely untouched.

But on one side Teazer was defenceless until the guns were reloaded. The corsair could now strike like a snake to lay itself alongside and board. "Load wi' canister!" Kydd shouted urgently. He wheeled on the helm. "Hard t' larboard!" This would bring their opposite broadside to bear if they were quick enough but Teazer seemed to be in thrall to the menace off to one side and turned so slowly.

"Stand by t' repel boarders!" Men not at the guns raced to the masts and to the stands of boarding pikes. Others went to the arms chests in the centre of the deck, casting anxious looks at the crowded deck of the xebec. Kydd drew his sword. They would shortly be fighting for their lives.

Where would the strike come from? The corsair had passed Teazer but could now turn and fall away downwind to pass her again, or place itself across Teazer 's stern and grapple.

"What the devil—?" The corsair was showing no interest in closing with Teazer. In fact, it continued on its course, steadily making off into the distance without so much as a backward glance.

Teazer wallowed about on her turn, which was taking her away from the diminishing sight of the xebec. "Belay that—come up t' the wind," Kydd snapped. Teazer obediently stopped her turn and rotated back to face the way they had come—as far as she could.

And then he understood. The chase had been long and downwind, the corsair had deliberately drawn Teazer after it and then at the right time had put about and, with its fore and aft rig superior in lying close to the wind, was now heading back upwind to the helpless merchantman to finish the job.

Kydd's face burned. To be gulled so easily! To let his fighting spirit heat his blood to the point where it had taken the place of cool reasoning! This was not how it was to be a successful captain. The corsair had made a cunning show of desperate flight, staying just out of reach, luring Kydd on and on before casting loose a hidden drag-sail and flying back to secure its prize. Teazer was left clawing back in slow tacks.

Kydd stole a quick look at Bonnici, still standing impassive.

He had known all along, and said nothing. Kydd's embarrassment deepened. He glanced forward: there he saw Stirk at the fore hatchway, looking down the deck at him. While he watched, Stirk turned away and went below again. His humiliation was complete.

Alone in the great cabin, Kydd balled his fists with frustration and bitterly went over the day's events. The first lesson was burned into his soul for ever—never again would he allow the ardour of battle to cloud his reasoning; it needed more than dash and courage to be a leader of men. The feeling of shame, of every eye on him as he slunk below, would live with him for a very long time.

From now on, it would be an icy calm, an automaton-like analysis of the situation and a ruthless focus on bringing about a victory. Nothing else would serve.

There were other things, practical matters he had discovered. Teazer's broadside was insufficient in weight of metal, although in accord with her establishment. Before he next sailed he would add carronades to his armament, by whatever means.

And sail: he could see no real reason why he could not ship a main-yard in place of the cro'jack on the mainmast. At the moment it acted solely to spread the foot of the main topsail, which left the fore as the only course. More substantial sail area there would surely add speed, especially sailing by the wind and he had seen several Navy brig-sloops so fitted.

But the chief objective for Kydd at the moment was to win back the trust and confidence of his ship's company. When he met the corsair again on the open sea it would not hesitate to take on Teazer, knowing she had a raw and impetuous captain, ripe for the taking. Kydd was determined that next time things would be different.