Command

the transport at source.

Obedient to his orders Kydd kept Teazer ever eastward until they reached the deepest extent of the Gulf of Sirte, still with no sign of Ganteaume. And then it was time to return.

With a worsening state of provisions and water now three upon four, Teazer lay over on the larboard tack as close on the wind as she could and left the desolate desert land astern. She made good time to thirty-five degrees north, then went about for the second leg to Malta.

In the empty expanse of the eastern Mediterranean it was odd for the masthead lookout to hail the deck and stranger still for him to be in some confusion about what had been sighted.

'Get up there an' report what you see,' Kydd told Bowden, who swung himself smartly into the shrouds clutching a telescope and joined the lookout.

'A boat, sir,' his report came down. 'I think in distress.'

This far from land the constant south-easterly current in these parts would be sweeping it further and further into the lonely vastness. Teazer 's bow turned towards it and they drew nearer. There was a small mast but no sail spread and the five aboard lay in postures of exhaustion.

One in the bow had sufficient strength to take a line and they drew the boat alongside. Sailors from Teazer dropped into it to bring up the pathetic creatures waving feebly with thin cries. From the quarterdeck Kydd watched them helped aboard, guessing from the rising jabber of his Maltese sailors that they were probably survivors from a local craft caught in a storm.

It was odd, however, that there had been no undue movement in the barometer lately that Kydd had noticed and also puzzling that the boat was of western European style. He glanced up at the sails flogging in their brails— the wind was backing more to the west and he was anxious to be on his way before he was headed for Malta.

'Get a move on, Mr Dacres!' he bawled.

'Go forward an' tell 'em to take th' rest inboard,' he snapped to Martyn, standing meekly at his side. 'And make the boat fast under our stern—an' main quick, dammit!' he threw after the youngster.

Kydd stood motionless. More mouths to feed, water to guzzle when they themselves were so short . . . Was his heart hardening so much that he was begrudging this of shipwrecked sailors? He did not want to answer the question.

Sail was loosed and braced round, and Teazer resumed her course homewards. Kydd knew he could leave the details of caring for the passengers to the good-hearted seamen, who in all probability would give them the shirts from their own backs.

'Sir, I talked wi' them an' I think you mus' know.'

'Yes, Mr Bonnici.' Kydd's interest quickened. They had seen Ganteaume afar off, perhaps? Or even . . .

'Th' French, sir. It was the French did this t' them!' Bonnici's eyes glittered.

'And?'

'Not ships-o'-the-line. A ship—corvette. To save prize crew they cast adrift all th' prisoner!'

'They were taken by a National ship? When? What was his name?' This was very different: a unit of the French Navy loose on the sea lanes. He would not be going back with nothing. Warren could not afford any interference with shipping in the approaches to Alexandria and would quickly dispatch a frigate to deal with it.

'Sir, his name La Fouine, ship-rig wi' eight-pounders, an' fast.' He added, 'They were took three day ago.'

Kydd gave a wry smile. The corvette would be well clear of the area and could be anywhere. But he had something to tell.

*  *  *

'T' twenty degrees east, sir, conformable to y'r orders.'

'And nothing—not even a whisper?' Warren said testily, his gouty foot was supported discreetly by a cushion under the table.

'Nothing, sir.'

'You spoke with merchantmen, of course.'

'Yes, sir. No word of Ganteaume anywhere in this part o' the Mediterranean.'

Warren glowered at Kydd.

'Sir, we picked up a boatload o' survivors on returning. They say they were taken by a French National ship—a corvette, sir,' Kydd added hastily, seeing Warren's sudden jerk of interest. 'And this two or three days ago.'

'So he's on the high seas somewhere to the east at last report,' Warren mused. 'Nothing for a battle squadron to concern themselves with. But if he gets among our transports . . .'

The usual corvette was bigger than an English ship-sloop but smaller than a frigate; with extended quarterdeck and bulwarks well built up, they had been called by some 'petty-frigates.'

'Do ye know his name?' he rumbled, leaning forward.

'Sir—it's La Fouine.'

'Ha!'

'You know him, sir?'

'Never heard of him in my life. Your French not up to it, I see?' Warren's grim face eased into a thin smile.

'Er, it means some sort o' bird?' Kydd hazarded. His lessons with Renzi had been workmanlike and to the point, but it sounded a bit like—