Command

He could heave to and wait for the squadron to return but if it was on station at some other place he would never meet up with it. But could he thrash backwards and forwards along the rendezvous line for ever? Time was running out.

At three in the morning, in the dimness of yet another sleepless night, Kydd resolved on action. He would leave the line and look for the squadron—the details would wait until morning. He fell sound asleep.

At first light he appeared on deck and sniffed the wind. 'Put up y'r helm an' steer sou'-sou'-east,' he told Dacres. They would head towards Egypt and the fighting: if the squadron was anywhere, the probability was that it would be there.

Full and bye, Teazer stretched south nobly. In three hours they were sighting sail, small fry and a possible frigate who did not seem inclined to make their acquaintance. In a few more hours, as the coast firmed ahead in a lazy blue-grey, more vessels showed against it—but no ship-of-the-line. When Kydd recognised an untidy straggle of buildings and a distinctive tower as Alexandria, he knew that the gamble had failed: the squadron was not there.

He ordered Teazer to put about, knowing that he could now be judged guilty of quitting his station without leave, a grave offence. Kydd went to his cabin with a heavy heart and had barely sat down when there was a knock. 'Captain, sir!' Martyn shrilled. 'Compliments from Mr Dacres and a vessel is sighted!'

Kydd hastened on deck: a small topsail cutter flying a blue ensign was leaning into the wind trying to close with them. 'Heave to, Mr Dacres,' Kydd called, and waited while the sleek craft came up and exchanged private signals.

'You've missed 'em!' shouted the young lieutenant-in-command as the vessel rounded to under their lee. 'That is, the East Med squadron, if that's who you're after,' he added, shading his eyes against the sun. 'What's the news?'

Kydd bridled at the familiarity and answered shortly, 'No news, L'tenant. What course did Sir John take when he left?'

'Why, to the rendezvous, I should think, sir,' said the lieutenant, remembering himself.

'North,' Kydd ordered.

Teazer's signal of dispatches aboard ensured her swift passage past officious scouting frigates within sight of the squadron, which was in tight formation and precisely on the line of the rendezvous.

'To place us t' loo'ard o' the flagship, Mr Bonnici,' Kydd told the master and went below to prepare, in obedience to the summons to place himself and his dispatches before the admiral immediately.

Teazer's cutter smacked into the water and the boat's crew swarmed aboard. Kydd's coxswain, Yates, sat at the tiller importantly, a beribboned hat with Teazer picked out in gold paint incongruously smart against his thick-set, hairy body.

'Stretch out, yer buggers!' he bawled. Kydd winced. This was not the coxswain he would have wished but the man was a veteran of both St Vincent and a blazing frigate action.

The whole squadron lay hove to, the flagship Renown at the centre. The boat rounded the noble stern of the battleship, all gilt and windows and with her name boldly emblazoned. Mildly curious faces looked down from her deck-line above.

Renown's boatswain himself set his silver call to piercing squeals to announce the arrival on board of the captain of a vessel of the Royal Navy, an honour that would have sent a delicious thrill through Kydd if it had come at any other time.

In the admiral's quarters the flag-lieutenant murmured an introduction and left Kydd with the admiral, who stared at him stonily, waiting.

'Ah, Commander Thomas Kydd, sloop Teazer with dispatches, sir.' Warren had a powerful air of intimidation and Kydd found his own back stiffening.

'From the commander-in-chief?' The admiral's hard tone did nothing for Kydd's composure.

'Er, no, sir, from Malta.'

'Malta! Who the devil thinks to worry me with dispatches from there, sir?'

'Gen'ral Pigot, sir—he says they're urgent,' Kydd said, and handed over the satchel, which the admiral took quickly.

'These are dated more than a week ago,' said Warren sharply, looking up.

Kydd added in a small voice, 'We thought t' find you at the rendezvous, sir. We beat up 'n' down the line for several days an' then—an' then, sir, I thought it best to—to leave station an' look for you t' the s'uth'ard, sir . . .' He tailed off.

Warren's frosty stare hardened. 'It took you that long to find I wasn't there and go looking? Good God above!' He snorted. He still held the dispatches and riffled through them. 'So what do we have here that's so damned urgent it needs one of the King's ships to tell me?'

'The French, Sir John—they're out!' said Kydd, his voice strengthening, 'Sailed fr'm Leghorn just this—'

'From Leghorn—yes, yes, I know that. Why do you think I've been away from the rendezvous? No other than chasing your Ganteaume.' His face tightened. 'And this must mean, sir, you have sailed right through them on their way back! What do you have to say to that?'

Kydd gulped, he had ignored all sail sighted in his haste to reach the rendezvous. And with his precious dispatches shown to be not much more than gossip, he felt anything but a taut sea-captain with a vital mission. He flushed, but stubbornly held Warren's eye.

Something in his manner made Warren pause. 'Do I see a new-made commander before me, Mr Kydd?'

'Aye, sir.'

'Your first errand, I venture to say?'

'Sir.'