Command

'Sir, I know what I saw,' Decatur protested, moving to confront Bainbridge, 'and it was not an English victory.'

With his eyes still on the lieutenant, Bainbridge said quietly, 'Mr Kydd, what do you say?'

Kydd stepped forward and spoke loudly: 'Captain, it was a near-run thing. I'll have ye know I'm proud of my ship, sir! ' He paused for just a moment. 'But I own, it was the Americans who beat us this day.'

The frigate broke into a riot of cheering and noise. Bainbridge held out his hand. 'I hope we meet again soon, Commander.'

Gindler saw Kydd to the side. 'It did me a power of good to see you, my friend,' he said quietly.

'Aye—and we'll be sure t' meet again . . . an' in better times f'r us both.' Kydd signalled to the pinnace and donned his hat.

'And that was handsomely done of you, if I may say,' Gindler said, his glance as fond as a brother.

Kydd murmured something, but Gindler cut him short. Leaning forward he said, in an odd manner, 'If you're returning to Malta, you will be passing by Lampedusa. You might wish to admire the scenery. It's remarkable— especially in the sou'-sou'-west . . .'

CHAPTER 7

'RUN OUT!' The eight larboard six-pounders rumbled and fetched up against the solidity of the bulwark at the gun-port with a crash, the sailors at the side- tackles heaving like madmen at the cold iron. The gun captain threw up his hand to indicate that the exercise was finished—but three aimed rounds in four minutes was not good enough.

'Mr Stirk, y'r men would not stand against a Caribbee mudlark,' Kydd called irritably down the deck. 'Shall we see some heavy in it this time?'

It was now sure: thanks to Gindler, there would be a meeting shortly. And not with a despised privateer—this was a fully fitted out man-o'-war, an eight-pounder corvette of the French Navy, bigger, heavier and possibly faster than Teazer.

Now that the reality was upon him the looming fight was awaking all kinds of feelings in Kydd; before, he could always glance back and see the captain standing nobly on his quarterdeck, a symbol of strength and authority to look to in a time of trial, the one who would see them safely through.

But did he, Thomas Kydd, former perruquier of Guildford, have it in him? The simple act of taking command had become complicated by so many elements that were not amenable to plain thinking and common logic: men's character, the probability of the enemy taking this course or that, and now the requirement that he should show himself as a strong commander, contemptuous of danger and sure of himself—a leader others would follow.

His back straightened as he watched the men at their gunnery exercise. It was not simple duty and obeying orders that was making them sweat: an alchemy of character and leadership was turning their mechanical actions into a willing, purposeful working together. But was it for him or their ship? Or both?

He was still in his twenties, but Kydd's face was hardening. Lines of responsibility and authority had deepened and changed his aspect from the carefree young man he had been. The simple ambition that had driven his thirst for laurels had become multi-faceted; his need for personal triumphs was now tempered by the knowledge that men were following him, trusting him, and he had a bounden duty to care for them. His quest for professional distinction must now be subordinate to so much else.

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 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 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.