Command

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 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.

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 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 make a sally in force. Either that or lurk to the west of Sicily and attack