Command

By evening Teazer was trim and neat; they would be at moorings under the guns of the fortress of Malta by this time the following day and Kydd's thoughts turned to those whom he felt he could invite to his little entertainment. It would be gratifying to a degree to have ladies attend; for some reason their presence always seemed to bring out the best in conversations and politeness. What his sister Cecilia would not give to host the evening, he thought wistfully.

The final day of the voyage dawned with a light drizzle and murky skies, but later in the morning a fresh wind from the northwest cleared it away and the watch-on-deck was set to swabbing the wet decks dry.

Over on the south-east horizon to leeward the lightening sea contrasted pleasingly with the uniform dark grey of the retreating cloud masses in a precise line, lighter sea to darker sky, the inverse of the normal order. The new wave of Romantic artists should take a sea voyage, thought Kydd, and capture striking scenes such as this, particularly when the white sails of a distant ship showed so dramatically against the dark grey, like the one now lifting above the horizon—'Be damned! Th' lookouts, ahoy! Are you asleep? Why did y' not sight that ship t' loo'ard, ye rogues?'

There was a lookout at the fore-topmast head, another at the main, but their attention was forward, each vying with the other to raise the cry of 'Land ho!' when Malta came into view ahead.

'Hold y' course, Mr Dacres,' Kydd ordered. Carrying dispatches took precedence over all and therefore there was no need to stand towards and go through the motions of intercepting possible contraband. In the unlikely event of an enemy of force the security of the dispatches was paramount but Teazer was well on her way to Malta some dozen hours ahead.

The brig plunged on close-hauled in the freshening breeze, the other vessel on the hard line of the horizon stood at a slight angle away, crossing her stern. 'Sir, I do believe he's signalling.' Dacres handed over his telescope: there was indeed a distinct dash of colour at the mizzen halliards but directly to leeward it was impossible to make out the flags.

'Is she not Stag, sir?' Dacres asked. The vessel was now visible as ship-rigged and had come round to the wind and bore towards them. If it was Stag she must have good reason to wish to speak them and it would be prudent to await her.

'We'll heave to, I think,' Kydd ordered, still watching the vessel. Bows toward, it was difficult to make an identification. 'Mr Bowden, hang out the private signal, if y' please.'

An answering hoist appeared at the main. 'Er, still can't make it out, sir,' Bowden reported. Kydd waited for the ship to come up with them.

Then he stiffened. There was something about . . . He jerked up the glass and screwed his eyes in concentration. That fore topgallant, the dark patching that looked like stripes—it had to be! If that vessel was not La Fouine he was a Dutchman!

Instantly his mind snapped to a steely focus: this was now much more than a simple incident at sea. The need for instant decision forced itself to the front of his consciousness—all matters such as the corvette's reason to be so close to Malta would wait. Fight or flee? That was the question now.

Arguments raced through his mind: dispatches were the priority, therefore strictly he should fly for the safety of Malta. Yet there had been occasions in the past when vessels carrying dispatches had offered battle, even tiny cutters, but they had generally been in a threatening situation and had had to fight for their lives. Could he justify it before a later court of inquiry if he decided to close with La Fouine and lost the day?

On the other hand La Fouine was most certainly a grave danger to the trade of the islands as well as lying athwart the lines of supply to Egypt. Did he not have a duty to deal with such a threat?

But all internal debate was a waste of time. In his heart he knew that he would fight. As simple as that: no explanations, no analysis—in the next few hours Teazer would face her enemy again and force a conclusion.

Once this was decided Kydd's mind raced over the alternatives. The overriding necessity was for Teazer to get her carronades close—La Fouine's eight- pounders far out-ranged them and she could end lying off and being bombarded at leisure.

What did Kydd have on his side? There was the element of surprise—but that only counted if he could manoeuvre Teazer to a killing range. What else? Yes! There was still surprise! At that very moment La Fouine was crowding on sail, thinking Teazer had been deceived by his false signals. Furthermore, he knew Teazer as a six-pounder brig and would have no hesitation in moving in for the kill. Finally, he had had the better of Kydd before, and would not be inclined to think it might be different this time. They had a chance.

'Hold her at this,' he ordered the conn, and roared, 'Clear f'r action!' Seeing Bowden about to bend on the two huge battle ensigns he intervened and instead a puzzled 'please repeat your last signal' rose slowly up while they wallowed in the brisk seas. To any spectator Teazer 's raw captain had clearly been taken in by La Fouine's stratagem: he believed the other ship to be British and her signals unclear.

It would take nerve, and precise judgement: they had to be under way and manoeuvring before La Fouine reached them, but too early would not achieve their object of luring him near. There was apprehension on the quarterdeck—what was Kydd thinking, to lie helpless before the onrush of their enemy?

La Fouine knifed towards them; at the right distance Kydd hoisted an ensign and loosed his men in a panic-stricken effort to get away. A desperate last-minute attempt at tacking had them fall away helplessly in stays and, with savage delight, Kydd saw La Fouine shape course to come down and fall upon them.

Kydd sent for Stirk and told him what he was planning to do; the man grinned and went to each gun captain in turn. Dacres looked grave when he received his orders; Poulden's reaction was a gratified salute. Now nothing more could be done.

La Fouine drew closer, coming in from astern as Teazer tried to make way after the 'failure' of her tacking, her guns run out along her length, men standing forward to catch sight of their victim. There was an unmistakable air of triumph aboard: his bowsprit drew level with Teazer's quarterdeck. Kydd was relying on the corvette's cupidity: that they would not wish to damage their future prize unduly.

The first guns spoke: balls whistled overhead from La Fouine's eight-pounders aimed high, and Teazer continued to claw into the wind, apparent panic on her decks. The corvette sheered confidently across, men massed on the fo'c'sle. Their purpose was all too plain—boarders!