Command (23 page)

This took time and, in just the same way as with the stuns’ls, if
La Fouine
were to revert back before the wind they would need removing. Again, he took his cue from the Frenchy: no bowlines, therefore none for him.

Kydd stepped over to the quartermaster at the wheel. “Luff

’n’ touch her,” he ordered. Tentatively Poulden eased the helm, watching for the slightest flutter at the taut, windward edge of the sail, at which point they were straining as close to the

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north-westerly as it was possible to be. Kydd was bargaining that
Teazer
had the speed to overcome the disadvantage of being so tight to the wind compared to one slightly fuller, and thus claw back some distance into the breeze. It would take longer to overhaul their quarry but the advantage would be priceless.

By two in the afternoon the end was in sight. After miles of a sea chase
Teazer
was comfortably to windward of her opponent and was about to establish an overlap—the guns would be speaking soon.

Kydd had done all he could to prepare his ship and her company. Now it was time.

“Firing to larb’d,” Kydd warned. There was no doubt of their target, slashing along just ahead of them and to leeward, but by this he was indicating that he would not be putting his wheel over suddenly and crossing the enemy stern for a savage raking broadside from his starboard side—that would offer one chance only and, with six-pounders, it was not a battle-winning tactic.

Instead he would continue coming up, then pound away broadside to broadside until there was a result—one way or another.

And because of
Teazer
’s hard-won weather position his foe could not turn away from the onslaught as that would present his vulnerable stern-quarters to a double broadside. The French commander must have come to the same conclusion for he could see aboard
La Fouine
that they were shortening sail: it could only be in readiness for combat.

At last: no more tactics, manoeuvring, hard racing. This was the moment.

Kydd allowed
Teazer
to move ahead before he ordered sail shortened and their frantic speed faded to a purposeful trot as they squared away to their opponent. As he had seen his captain do at the Nile, he started pacing slowly up and down to throw off the aim of muskets in the fighting tops of the enemy picking him out as an officer.

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Julian Stockwin

Along the exposed decks the gun crews tensed, held to a hair-trigger, seeing their enemy so brutally clear. Kydd saw no reason to delay: as soon as the last gun had slewed round and could bear it was time to begin. “Mr Dacres, fire when ready.”

All along the larboard side the six-pounders woke to violent life, eight ringing cracks joining in one ear-splitting discharge, which, Kydd noted again, was quite unlike the deep smash of
Tenacious
’s twenty-four pounders. Still, when the smoke cleared there were several tell-tale dark blotches on
La Fouine
’s sides.

But there would be pay-back. The gun crews worked like maniacs; Kydd remembered from his past at the lower-deck guns that the best cure for cannon-fever was furious work at the guns.

Then
La Fouine
’s eight-pounders replied in a vicious stabbing of gunflash and smoke. A musical twang sounded as a stay parted, and a single scream came from forward, cut off almost as soon as it began.
Teazer
seemed to have escaped serious injury.

Firing became general, guns spoke as soon as they were loaded in a harsh cycle of labour and pain, which was now the lot of the gun crews. Kydd’s glance went down to the facings on his coat, smeared with the soft grey of gun-smoke. This was now a smashing duel and it was only just beginning.

He turned at the mainmast and began his pace back to the wheel. He knew only too well that the helmsman had the hardest task: the target of so many sharp-shooters, he could neither move nor retaliate, but at the same time he had the vital responsibility of keeping the ship from veering wildly off course, a fatal matter in the heat of battle.

He glanced across—it was still Poulden at the wheel, calm and measured, a fine example to all who saw him.

From far forward there was a distinct strike of shot, the shock transmitted down the ship through her frames, even to where Kydd stood. Then followed a slow, rending crack as of a tree falling—which could have only one meaning.

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“Hold her!” he bawled at Poulden.
Teazer
was sheering up out of control into the wind, her sails banging and flapping as they were taken full aback and her speed dropped away to nothing.

A seaman pelted up, wild-eyed. “Sir, we took a shot in th’

bowsprit at th’ gammoning an’ it carried away.” Chest heaving, the man seemed to be looking to Kydd for some sort of miracle, but with the bowsprit and therefore all the headsails gone there was nothing his captain could think of that would salvage the moment. One thing was imperative: to stop the wild flogging of the sails—even as he glanced over the side they were slowly gathering sternway under their impetus.

Mercifully,
La Fouine
had shot ahead, leaving them flailing astern, his guns falling silent as they ceased to bear. Kydd hurried to the bows.
Teazer
’s dainty bowsprit had taken an eight-pounder shot squarely at its base and now lay in the sea under her forefoot, shattered and tangled in an appalling snarl of ropes and blocks.

With the ruin so complete,
Teazer
was now dead in the water.

A single lucky shot: it was unfair so early in the fight—and in the worst possible place. Completely out of balance
Teazer
could neither turn away nor keep a straight course and was now terribly vulnerable.

Over the fast-opening stretch of sea
La Fouine
continued on, the smoke around him dissipating quickly. Now was his chance to make his escape to continue unimpeded on his voyage of destruction.

But he did not. He wore round in a lazy circle that would end with the methodical annihilation of his helpless opponent.

A cold pit of fear opened in Kydd’s stomach, not so much for himself but for the men who had trusted him, for his lovely ship that had minutes of life left—and he knew for a certainty there was nothing he could do about it.

The circle was closing. As a carnivore stalks its kill,
La Fouine
was going to make sure of his prey. Out of range of
Teazer
’s little
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Julian Stockwin

six-pounders he was coming round to cross her stern—a true deciding blow, for with perfect impunity he could slowly pass by, sending every shot in his broadside in deadly aim smashing through her pretty stern windows and on into her vitals, unstop-pably down the length of the ship. It would be an onslaught of death and devastation that would be unimaginably violent.

It was the end. The only question left was, at what point did Kydd stop the carnage by yielding to the enemy?

La Fouine
came round and steered straight for
Teazer
’s forlorn stern. If war was logical, thought Kydd, dully, now would be the time to give up and strike his colours. But war was not logical; if he hauled down his flag, after mere minutes of fighting, he and the Navy would be damned for ever as cowardly. Therefore there was no alternative:
Teazer
and her people must endure what came until—until
Teazer
’s commander put a stop to it . . .

As he straightened for the final run,
La Fouine
’s cannon showed in a sinister line along his side. Kydd imagined he could see the slight movements at their black muzzles as gun captains triumphantly trained their weapons for maximum damage. He closed silently, aiming to pass no more than ten yards away.

Just before he reached
Teazer
Kydd roared, with all the passion of his frustration and sorrow, “On th’ deck! Everyone—get down!”

The gun crews, seamen with pikes waiting to repel boarders, the boatswain and his party, all lay prone, cringing in anticipation at the hideous storm about to break over them. Kydd was about to follow suit when some scrap of foolish pride—perhaps a death wish—kept him standing tall and glaring contemptuously at the nemesis gliding in for the kill. Then he became aware of others: Dacres, standing with him, Bowden, the little midshipmen coming up, Poulden, more.

He tried to order them down but the lump in his throat was too great.
La Fouine
slowed; they were going to take all the time

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they needed. His bowsprit reached them not thirty feet off, sliding past, men on the deck in every detail, watching them, waiting for the single shout of the order to fire. At any second . . .

The shout came—but there was no sudden eruption of violence. The shout was repeated but Kydd’s mind refused to accept what was going on until he realised that the guns were still silent.
La Fouine
slid past slowly while the shouting grew strident. They were calling on him to surrender! A figure in blue and white on the quarterdeck was shouting angrily through a speaking trumpet.

Now was the sensible time to admit to his helplessness and to save lives, finish
Teazer
’s plucky resistance. Inside he was in a maelstrom of emotion, his first command, the pinnacle of his life, all to end so bleakly. It just could not—

“Non!”
he thundered back.
“Je ne capitule pas!”

The corvette glided silently past and began circling again. On his return there would be no mercy shown and there would be death and blood in the afternoon. Defiantly, Kydd and his ship waited.

“Dear fellow, it was nothing! We were signalled to investigate the firing and there you were, helpless as a sucking shrimp under the guns of the Frenchy.” Winthrop, the frigate
Stag
’s captain, looked amiably over his glass and chuckled. “Never does to vex those who are bigger than you.”

“Aye, sir, but I must thank ye on behalf o’ the ship,” Kydd said stiffly. It had been a hard time for him during the lengthy tow to Malta coming to terms with
Teazer
’s hair’s-breadth escape and its implications for his future.

Winthrop sighed. “Do forgive me if I appear . . . unfeeling, Mr Kydd, yet I am obliged to remark that my providential appearance on the scene seems as much a fortune of war as the cannon strike on your bowsprit—do you not agree?”

It was nothing but the truth, Kydd had to admit. “The fortune o’ war, yes, sir—but where is m’ reputation, my prospects with th’ admiral? Sadly out o’ countenance, I’d wager.”

“Not necessarily,” Winthrop replied, topping up Kydd’s glass.

“Consider, while you are not distinguished in any measure, you have disgraced neither yourself nor your flag. If I catch your meaning aright, then unless Lord Keith at this moment has a particularly shining young officer he is desirous of advancing in the service then your position is secure . . . for the time being, of course.”

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Kydd felt his spirits rising, but he could not help adding,

“ ’Twould be a fine thing if y’r same fortune c’n throw me a chance of a bold stroke as would set th’ world t’ talking—and me t’ notice.”

Winthrop regarded him soberly. “You may discover your chance earlier than you think. We are all placed in the way of opportunity. You will not have heard yet, but it seems the late and much lamented Abercrombie is to be replaced by the grand General Hely-Hutchinson. And I have it from a valued source that the Egypt campaign will therefore take a decidedly active turn. Do try to get yourself to sea as soon as you may, Kydd. I feel this is not to be missed.”

“Then, sir, you’ll see
Teazer
there right enough!”

There was a vehemence in Kydd’s voice that evoked a frown.

“Sir, all the world applauds an officer of audacity and character—

but, if you’ll forgive me remarking it, where is the line that marks off for him the aspiration to laurels from vainglory and rash imprudence?”

Receiving no answer, he let it hang, then said gently, “Distinction will attend a virtuous endeavour, never doubt it, but the pursuit of peril and hazard in the expectation of glory will damn for ever the officer who sets his course thus.”

The loss of a bowsprit was catastrophic in the heat of battle, yet was an easy enough repair for a dockyard: the stump was withdrawn, the new spar stepped and the original jibboom heeled to it. There was little other damage and therefore
Teazer
could look forward to getting back to sea soon.

A ship from England had arrived with precious dockyard stores—among them
Teazer
’s carronades and a stern instruction from the Board of Ordnance to ship them in place of her entire current fit of carriage guns in accordance with latest practice in England for the smaller classes of warship.

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Teazer
’s present six-pounders were to a carronade as a cutlass to a rapier. They were short, brutish weapons with a vicious recoil—but they multiplied by four times the weight of metal of her broadside. At short range to any opponent the twenty-four-pounder carronade would be indistinguishable from the guns of a ship-of-the-line—but it had to be close-in fighting for the lighter-charged weapons to reach out and do their work.

Kydd was not so sure: the entire armament, bar a pair he would replace the small chase guns with? His whole experience in the Navy had been with ships whose main weapon was the long cannon. With refinements such as a ringed cascabel for angled fire and dispart sights, action could be opened at a remarkable range and only at the climax would any carronades carried come into play. Now he was being asked to retire all but two of his six-pounders in favour of an all-carronade armament.