Command (14 page)

Set-faced, in full-dress and sword, Kydd boarded his cutter for the pull across the busy stretch of Grand Harbour to Porta della Marina gate. His report for Pigot had cost him hours of word-grinding and now would be put to the test.

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

“Oars—I’ll split yore ear, y’ bugger, you feather like that agen!”

Yates swore at the stroke oar. As bidden, the man ceased rowing but sat sullenly at his oar.

“I’ll thank ye t’ be more civil, Yates, while I’m in th’ boat,”

Kydd muttered, then addressed himself to the task of stepping out with his cocked hat, sword and frock coat unmarked.

He was met by General Pigot’s aide. “Good voyage, Captain?”

he asked smoothly. “His Excellency will see you shortly.” Was Pigot now taking the airs of a governor? Kydd wondered wryly.

He did not have to wait long but the man seemed preoccupied.

“An’ good morning to you, Captain,” he said, rummaging on his desk. “Blast it,” he muttered. “Was here before, dammit.” He glanced up. “An’ what can I do for you, Mr Kydd?”

Command

“Ah, here is my report on th’ voyage just concluded, sir.”

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

“Er, we found Admiral Warren, sir, but he already had word o’ Ganteaume sailing.”

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

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

“Tut tut—can’t be helped. Did you see Ganteaume at all?

Blasted man seems to be everywhere these days.”

“I didn’t. No, sir.”

“Well, that’s that. You’ll be on your way, then?”

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

“Orders?” Pigot frowned. “From me? Does seem you have an odd notion of what we’re doin’ here.” He pursed his lips.

“We—that is, the British—freed Malta from the Frenchies but this doesn’t mean t’ say that Malta is now ours.”

“Er, then whose—”

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

“Are they returning to claim, sir?” Kydd asked.

“Ah—there we have a problem.”

“Sir?”

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

100

Julian Stockwin

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

“And so—”

“And so we stay until we’re told t’ hand ’em over an’ do nothing precipitate like.”

Kydd was beginning to see why there was such a lack of order in this place and no formal naval presence. Money would not be wasted on works that would have to be given up at any point.

“Then you have no instructions for me, sir?” he persisted.

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

Kydd rose. “Thank you for y’r time, sir.”

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

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

Could he endure swinging about a buoy for long weeks—

months? Was it even morally right to do so while others fought?

No, that was intolerable.

He could think of one solution: he would issue orders to

Command

101

himself. Orders for the prosecution of the war in these waters: chasing down pirates, spying out for the French, other warlike moves—and, where unavoidable, carrying dispatches. It would, of course, be prudent to have them counter-signed. He brightened at the thought of his own war without a senior to interfere.

A satisfied smile spread as he ordered his coxswain to turn about and return. This time he would go to the Grand Palace and see the civil commissioner on quite a different matter.

Cameron seemed mildly curious to see him. “Anything I can do, Cap’n?” he said cheerfully.

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

“Malta Naval Service?” Cameron murmured absently.

“Aye, sir. The man-o’-war
Teazer
is returned from sea trials, as ye know . . .”

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

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

“But of most importance at the moment is the need to support our trade in the Adriatic.” Cameron rubbed his jaw speculatively. “What with the Italian ports in French hands directly across the water, it leaves only the Balkans in the whole eastern
102

Julian Stockwin

Mediterranean open to our cotton exports. You’d be doing us a great service should you be able t’ offer us any protection in that area.”

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

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

He got up from his chair and came round to Kydd. “This is fine news, and ye must know will give much heart to the people, sir.”

Kydd mumbled an embarrassed acknowledgement. “It only needs us to agree the date when the convoy sails, then, Captain.”

“Convoy?” Kydd blurted.

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

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

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

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

A single gun from
Teazer
’s fo’c’sle set the whole mass in motion, an enthusiastic scrambling of sail to fit within the square

Command

103

defined by the four marker ships Kydd had chosen and which bore the distinctive Republic of Dubrovnik flag above the British.

Kydd’s strict orders were that any vessel that strayed from this square for any reason, impatience or laggardliness, would no longer be considered under protection.

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

Teazer
eased into position on the weather side of the square and trimmed canvas to stay with the slow-moving crowd of sail.

Kydd remained on deck until he was sure the convoy was on its way, then turned to the officer-of-the-watch and said, “I’m going below, Mr Dacres. Call me if ye think there’s anything amiss.”

He climbed into his cot without undressing.

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

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

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

Kydd lowered his telescope and turned to Bonnici. “It’s a xebec I recognise, but what’s th’ other?” It was more substantially built than the low, fine-lined xebec, and on the very much smaller
104

Julian Stockwin

lateen mizzen a tiny but complete square sail topped the mast.

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

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

“The large, he a
barca—
do not confuse wi’ the Spanish one,”

Bonnici added, carefully studying it with the glass.

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

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

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

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

“Mr Dacres—Mr Bowden, I have a service for ye. Now, mark m’

words, an’ let there be no mistake . . .”

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

Command

105

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

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

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

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