Command (19 page)

Command

137

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

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

“Sir,” Kydd stuttered.

“Then you shall have orders that I believe will keep you tolerably employed. I desire that you will seek out and destroy this corvette, should he have the temerity to sail east or south of Sicily.” Warren peered at Kydd to see the effect of his words.

“I will not have frigates absented from my squadron before Ganteaume, yet I cannot tolerate such a one astride the approaches to Egypt. Can ye do it?”

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

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

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

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

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“There is besides one thing other t’ consider—how does he keep the seas for long without he has a friendly port at his back t’

keep him victualled an’ in powder an’ such?”

“They have a treaty with Sicily but I doubt they would oper-ate from there—I have heard Taranto has been visited by them,”

Dacres offered.

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

“Not f’r me saying, sir, but has he sail back to France?”

Kydd bristled. “No, he hasn’t—we’ll find him sure enough!”

If he could not, this chance of distinction was gone for ever. He looked from one to the other but each avoided his gaze, and stared down at the chart. This was hardly Nelson’s band of brothers before a battle, he brooded; but was he not the captain with the full power, and responsibility, to make decisions?

“Very well, this is what we’ll do.” He collected his thoughts.

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

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

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

Kydd was tormented with thoughts that his decision was a failure, that the corvette had turned back after seizing its prize and was now in Marseille. But surely there would be no point in

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the Frenchman turning out its prisoners to save on prize crew unless it intended further predation?

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

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

Scoured by sea salt and dust storm
Teazer
was no longer new.

Her bright sides had faded and her lovely white figurehead had lost its gold, now defiantly weather-beaten. There were also signs of hard usage—ropes turned end for end when they became too hairy at the nip, smart canvas now a bleached grey and everywhere a subtle rounding of sharp corners, a shading of colours about a shape.

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

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

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

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

Dacres reported.

“Aye, sir, beggin’ y’r pardon, but this’n means we shall have t’

return . . .”

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

“Sir,” the master began.

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

“We c’n get water,” the master continued softly.

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

“Sir, all they who sail th’ Mediterranean know where is water.

Not at the port—no, on th’ shore, in the rock.” His shrewd eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Go on!”

“Near Zuwarah. Another five leagues, no more.”

Cautiously,
Teazer
shortened sail as the little bay opened up.

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

“What’s the depth o’ water?”

“Good holding in seven fathom, jus’ four cable off.”

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

“We’ll do it!”

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

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

Dacres returned from a quick exploration. “Water indeed, sir!

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

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

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

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

“That’s not Ganteaume—that’s one of ours!” Dacres ex-claimed, with relief.

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“One o’ Warren’s frigates?”

“No, it ain’t, sir,” Purchet said heavily. “Can’t say as I know

’oo he is—but one thing’s f’r sure, he’s not ours.”

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

“Stars and what, sir?” Dacres asked hesitantly.

“They’re Americans,” Kydd said happily. “The United States Navy!”

“The United States?”

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

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

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

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

It soon seemed clear that their manoeuvring was an evolution to allow them to remain, probably for watering, and while he watched, sail was struck smartly while their anchor dropped.

Kydd made sure that
Teazer
’s ensign flew high and free and put

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off for the American. She had a no-nonsense, purposeful air, spoiled for Kydd’s English eye by the bold figurehead of a Red Indian chief and a rounded fo’c’sle instead of the squared-off one to be seen in a King’s ship.

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

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

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

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

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

The great cabin was plainly furnished but clean, with a sense of newness and the scent of North American pine. “Ye have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Kydd said carefully, over some wine.

“We were at our watering, as you can see.” If there was going to be any friction then it would be this: access to the single water source.

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

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

“A good notion. We’ll do that,” Bainbridge said genially, and got to his feet.

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

Bainbridge’s eyes went opaque. “Commander, the quasi-war is now concluded.”

“Ah. So—”

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