Command (21 page)

The gun crews stood down, drinking thirstily at the scuttled butt after the strenuous exercise, but Kydd’s thoughts rushed on.

They would be meeting the enemy shortly and much depended on him. The combat, when it came, would be far from the country he had sworn to defend, far out of sight of the Admiralty and the statesmen who had decreed that he and his men should be there to fight for them. He would strive to his utmost for a victory—but would he be able to forge that precious spirit of steadfast devotion in their cause that would bring
Teazer
’s company with him?

When Stirk roared at a gun captain, Kydd threw off the mood and focused his thoughts. Lampedusa: a wretched little island to the south of the Sicily Channel, hardly inhabited. A temporary base for their quarry? Possibly, provided there was a suitable haven. Bonnici had surmised it could be Capo Ponente and a cove beyond of the sort apparently common there—rocky cave formations and small beaches well protected with ugly shoals.

This left the question of the plan of attack. In the absence of

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any charts of scale worth the name it was a waste of time to attempt anything detailed. The only course he could see was simply to appear at where his best guess was for the corvette’s lair and be prepared for anything—assuming it
was
there and not on its trail of devastation on the high seas.

The immediate future of
Teazer
and her entire ship’s company were now in his hands: in the morning men were going to live or die depending on the cunning and effectiveness of the course of action that he alone must come up with.

He remembered Nelson’s tactics at the Nile. Expecting a classic fleet action at sea he had instead been confronted by the enemy securely at anchor, a wall of guns. Immediately he had conceived a brilliant and original plan. He sailed before the wind but had stern anchors ready to swing them to a stop alongside the enemy and his fleet had gone straight on to achieve a legendary victory.

What was his own strategy compared to this?

Kydd did not spend a good night: they would be off Capo Ponente at daybreak, ready at battle quarters.

He was on deck well before the first light stole in to bring form and life to the dark waves. Then, the black mass of the island resolved into a featureless low tumbling coastline of bleached grey, and the masthead lookout screamed, “
Deck hooo!
Ship at anchor close in wi’ the land!”

Kydd snapped from his muzzy fatigue. There was no doubt that this was Lampedusa, and there, in a cove between two small headlands about four miles away, was a ship-rigged vessel at anchor.

Excited chatter broke out. “Still!” he roared. All eyes were upon him. This was the moment—the point at which he must justify his captaincy of a man-o’-war, and he needed to think.

His senses brought the picture to him immediately: a coastline trending to the north-west from where the steady morning breeze was coming—winds would be parallel with the shore. If the ship
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was going to strike for the open sea then at best it could beat out at an angle from no better than seventy degrees off the wind close-hauled, to sail down the coast running free.

With rising hope he knew what he must do. If he closed quickly with the entrance of the cove he would be in a position to force the enemy to battle as he emerged. The clear image of the ship through his telescope showed no sail bent on and therefore no ca-pability to flee. Realisation dawned: he had trapped his quarry!

A new respect showed in Dacres’s eyes as he approached for orders. “Remain at quarters,” Kydd said crisply, “We take him as he comes out—loose courses.”

Teazer
sped towards the distant ship. The enemy was at bay!

Excitement took hold of Kydd as he went over in his mind what had been done to prepare.

He noticed that he had increased the speed of his pacing about the decks and forced himself back to a confident stroll. “Pass th’

word for my sword,” he ordered. Fighting would start in hours.

Then doubt rushed in like a returning tide. What proof had he that this was the ship he was pursuing? There were no colours, no one knew its distinguishing features. Was this all to be in vain? But, on the other hand, what was an innocent ship-rigged European-built vessel doing in such a place? Somehow he knew that this was
La Fouine.

If it was, they were in for a sharp fight. By eye he appeared about a quarter as big again as
Teazer,
and there were nine ports along that graceful side, an eighteen against their sixteen. If the report of eight-pounders was correct,
Teazer
was appreciably out-gunned as well as out-manned. A twisted smile acknowledged the irony that he, the smaller, was assuming the role of aggressor.

There was a chance, but he was raw and untried in the art of captaincy at war, while a significant unit of the French Navy on an independent cruise far from home would surely have an experienced and formidable commander.

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In all probability, within hours, the lovely
Teazer
would be a shattered ruin and . . . He fought to keep himself expressionless while he crushed the betraying thoughts. His ship would need every ounce of his strength and will in the near future and he would give it.

“A cool one, sir,” Dacres said, beside him. “No sign of a fluster aboard even as we close.”

Kydd said nothing, gazing through his glass at the vessel.

Indeed, there were figures just visible on deck but, puzzlingly, none in the rigging as they bore down. “They know we’re here.

That is sufficient,” he said.

“Sir!” Bonnici was wearing a small-sword for the first time.

Kydd wondered if the older man expected to be in a boarding party but assumed that it was probably more as a gesture for personal protection if they themselves were boarded.

“Yes?”

“I cannot advise but you mus’ not keep in wi’ the land. There are rock offshore, so many an’ not to be seen!” In the break-down of his English there was no mistaking the man’s urgency. It brought a complication: if they remained offshore for their prey, the ship, with superior local knowledge, could slip through the shoals and away.

“We take th’ risk,” Kydd snapped. But advancing with a leadsman in the chains forward was no way to go into battle and he had reluctantly to concede that there was a seaward limit to his approach. He lifted the telescope again. This time there was movement about his mizzen peak halliards and a flash of colour jerked aloft. The ensign of a French man-o’-war.

There was now no doubt, and scattered cheers about the decks of
Teazer
showed that it had not been lost on the men.

At this point it would be usual for the captain to step forward and deliver a stirring call to arms, to excite and inspire—but it was the last thing Kydd felt capable of doing. He was only too
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aware of the nervous excitement building and the challenge to his confidence, and was afraid that anything he said would come out too weakly.

“We’ll shorten sail, I believe,” he ordered instead. They were close enough now that whatever
La Fouine
did they would be up with him quickly. They would be fighting in topsails. There was no point in racing past their target: the more sail-trimmers aloft the fewer on the guns.

Kydd had decided how far in he was prepared to risk
Teazer.

They were rapidly approaching that point and still there was no move from the French to put to sea. He lifted the telescope and braced it, steadying the image, staring long and hard.

He had been mistaken: there
was
sail bent to the yards, but it was in such a fine stow along the yardarms that he had not noticed it:
La Fouine
’s captain was a seaman. He was anchored side towards but then Kydd noticed the line dropping away from the stern-quarters. So it was at no chance angle that he lay—the captain had laid out a mooring by the bow and stern both, which kept his broadside trained resolutely on any who would dare enter the little cove.

“They’re anchored by th’ stern as well,” he grunted, keeping the glass up.

“Sir,” said Dacres.

But it was not his problem, Kydd thought sourly; it was the captain’s. “Heave her to,” he growled, still searching with his telescope. Not a single move to ready for sea—they might as well have been alongside in their home port. “While he’s there we can’t touch him.”

To approach the vessel they would have to present their unprotected bow for an unendurable pounding before they reached him—and, with unknown rocks lurking, tricky manoeuvring would be impossible.
La Fouine
was quite safe where she lay.

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“Sir, that point—”

“God rot it f’r a poxy—!” Kydd exploded in useless anger.

Although they were hove to and stopped in the water, an insistent current was slowly but surely urging them towards the low, rocky southerly point of the cove. And stretching well out from it were the tell-tale hurry and slop of dark irregularities in the wave pattern that betrayed the threat of unknown rocks below the surface. “Get sail on an’ take her out.”

He bit his lip in frustration: this was not how it should be.

Keyed up for a desperate clash of gunpowder and blades he had not expected a long wait until the Frenchman decided he was ready.

“Boats, sir—a cutting out?”

“No.” Dacres was a fool or worse to suggest that. Boats pulling madly towards a prepared warship would be blown out of the water even at night—and this captain would certainly have lookouts to detect an approach in any direction.

“Er, land a gun an’ drive ’im out?” Purchet countered.

Kydd ground his teeth. “No, damn y’r eyes—he’d be a prize simkin should he neglect t’ land sentries on both points, an’ that’s not the kind o’ man I think he is.” His sister’s patient tuition in polite discourse on his promotion to King’s officer was wilting fast under the strain.

The quarterdeck fell into silence,
Teazer
obediently stretching out away from the shore—and Kydd’s only chance of making his name. “Wear about an’ keep us with th’ land,” he threw at Bonnici, whose expression remained blank.

And still no sign of movement in the anchored vessel. Was it ever going to make a break for the open sea?

Teazer
closed rapidly with the coast again. “Pass th’ word for the purser.”

“The—the purser, sir?” Dacres said in astonishment.

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“Yes, you heard. The purser.”

Kydd kept his silence while Ellicott scrambled up the hatchway. “How many days’ vittles do we have at hand?” he asked the man.

Ellicott shot a shrewd glance at the motionless French vessel.

“Sir, as you remember, you gave directions—”

“How—many—days?”

“Er, no more’n three, five if we’re three upon four.”

All
La Fouine
had to do was sit tight until
Teazer
had sailed away and then he could depart into the unknown. Kydd clenched his fists. No glorious fight, no conclusions, just a hungry and miserable return to Malta to report that he had seen the corvette, but had done nothing but leave him in peace.

There had to be something. A rammer clattered to the deck at a nearby gun and the seaman shamefacedly retrieved it. Kydd swung round at the distraction, then realised the gun crews had been at quarters since dawn. “Stand down at y’r weapons,” he ordered loudly. There was no question about dismissing them in the face of the enemy but at least they could take a measure of relaxation at the guns. “And they shall have their grog. Mr Dacres?”

The gun crews accepted their three-water rum on the upper deck from the grog-monkeys with hushed voices and stifled laughter. They would usually be in a roar of jollity below on the mess decks at this time. By the long custom of the service they were entitled to a double tot before battle and Kydd had ensured they got it. Besides, it gave him precious time to think.

He paced up and down, oblivious of the glances that followed him. His passion had cooled and he now directed all his resources into cunning.
La Fouine
was bigger in all respects—by definition that probably meant defeat if they attempted a land battle even if he sent every last soul ashore to storm him. And a sea battle? He was more than willing to stand against this foe but how the devil was he going to drive him out?

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Then it came to him. “Mr Dacres, find me a trumpet, an’

someone who knows how to play one! This minute, d’ye hear?”

Without waiting for a reply from the dumbfounded lieutenant he turned on his heels and went below. “Mr Peck! Rouse out y’r writing tackle an’ please to wait on me in ten minutes.” It would give him time to jot down a few ideas.

He settled at the table. Now just how was it done? He knew what he wanted, but was hazy in the details. Was it not a
chamade
he was contemplating? A formal parlay? No, that was just the flourish of a trumpet necessary to get attention and a cease-fire.

What was it called? Did it matter? He scrawled away.

“Sir?”

He motioned Peck to the other side of the table. “You c’n write Frenchy?” he said severely.

“I do, sir, yes.”

“Then write this—in y’r best round hand.” Peck busied himself with his quill and Kydd focused his thoughts. His mind produced an image of the French captain in his own cabin, frowning over a paper handed to him by a shadowy petty officer. He began composing.

“Au capitaine de vaisseau—”
No, this was an unrated vessel, so, “
Au capitaine de frégate
La Fouine,
au mouillage à Lampedusa