Command (18 page)

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

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

“Witnesses?” Kydd said sharply. “Mr Purchet?”

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

“Thank you. Is there any t’ speak for him?”

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

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

“Articles o’ War, if y’ please.”

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

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

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

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

“No, sir,” Hawkins said evenly.

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

There was a wave of murmuring but it could have been worse.

Kydd stood back from the lectern and thrust his hands behind his back. “Strip!”

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

In a deathly silence, broken only by the low hissing of the ship’s wake, Hawkins’s thumbs were secured above his head with spun yarn. His head flat on the gratings, he fixed Kydd’s

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eye, then deliberately looked the other way and tensed.

Feeling a sick emptiness inside Kydd croaked, “Do y’r duty, boatswain’s mate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no getting away from it: he had failed. “Tysoe!” he called loudly. His servant appeared suspiciously promptly. “An’

I’ll have another—open me a red for th’ kidneys.”

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

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

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

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

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

What then?

The winds were briskly from the north-west, as expected, and

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could not have been fairer for their run along the coast but would be in their teeth in the case of a desperate flight back to Malta.

And with offshore sandbanks and unknown currents it would need fine seamanship indeed to get through.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This far from land the constant south-easterly current in these parts would be sweeping it further and further into the lonely vastness.
Teazer
’s bow turned towards it and they drew nearer.

There was a small mast but no sail spread and the five aboard lay in postures of exhaustion.

One in the bow had sufficient strength to take a line and they drew the boat alongside. Sailors from
Teazer
dropped into it to bring up the pathetic creatures waving feebly with thin cries.

From the quarterdeck Kydd watched them helped aboard, guessing from the rising jabber of his Maltese sailors that they were probably survivors from a local craft caught in a storm.

It was odd, however, that there had been no undue movement in the barometer lately that Kydd had noticed and also puzzling that the boat was of western European style. He glanced up at the sails flogging in their brails—the wind was backing more to

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the west and he was anxious to be on his way before he was headed for Malta.

“Get a move on, Mr Dacres!” he bawled.

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

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

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

“Sir, I talked wi’ them an’ I think you mus’ know.”

“Yes, Mr Bonnici.” Kydd’s interest quickened. They had seen Ganteaume afar off, perhaps? Or even . . .

“Th’ French, sir. It was the French did this t’ them!” Bonnici’s eyes glittered.

“And?”

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

“They were taken by a National ship? When? What was his name?” This was very different: a unit of the French Navy loose on the sea lanes. He would not be going back with nothing.

Warren could not afford any interference with shipping in the approaches to Alexandria and would quickly dispatch a frigate to deal with it.

“Sir, his name
La Fouine,
ship-rig wi’ eight-pounders, an’

fast.” He added, “They were took three day ago.”

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

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• • •

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

“Nothing, sir.”

“You spoke with merchantmen, of course.”

“Yes, sir. No word of Ganteaume anywhere in this part o’ the Mediterranean.”

Warren glowered at Kydd.

“Sir, we picked up a boatload o’ survivors on returning. They say they were taken by a French National ship—a corvette, sir,”

Kydd added hastily, seeing Warren’s sudden jerk of interest. “And this two or three days ago.”

“So he’s on the high seas somewhere to the east at last report,”

Warren mused. “Nothing for a battle squadron to concern themselves with. But if he gets among our transports . . .”

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

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

“Sir—it’s
La Fouine.
”

“Ha!”

“You know him, sir?”

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

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

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