Tenacious

enough! An' caught in the act—the consul said the Grand Master gave up the island to this Buonaparte only a week past. Much plundering an' such but now he's to account to us.'

'Aye,' Kydd answered. 'But we'll settle him, depend on't.' He remembered the time he had spent in the last days of Venice, another antique civilisation, with centuries of continuous history, brought down by the same ruthless leader. He felt bitter that the world he had grown up in, with all its traditional ways, its colour and individuality, was now being dragged into chaos and desolation by this man.

The flagship picked up her pilot for the passage and, ignoring the hundreds of boats that now surrounded them, the fleet formed line for the transit. From the fervent cries and theatrical gestures of the populace there was no doubt that they saw Nelson's fleet as their only safeguard against the dreaded Buonaparte.

There were currents as fast as a man could run, but they met no other perils as they passed through the strait. The eastern Mediterranean: few aboard had been in this half of the ancient world. To the south were the sands of North Africa and far to the east the fabled Holy Land. On the northern side was Greece, the classical fount of civilisation, and then the Ottomans in Constantinople. Every one was now under threat of war.

Ahead, a bare two days' sail, was the victorious enemy. Would the fleet stay within the fastness of the Grand Harbour, reputedly the greatest stronghold in the Mediterranean, or, with their greater numbers, would they chance an encounter at sea? Would Napoleon Buonaparte himself take command on the flagship? With stakes so high, nothing short of a fight to the finish would serve: Nelson would ensure this. Possibly within a day these waters would witness a battle whose like they had never seen before.

It was crucial that any piece of intelligence was brought to bear. From every ship in the fleet, boarding parties were sent away to stop and question all vessels of size, but with little result: it would be a brave merchantman who ventured close to Malta during these times.

They stood to the southward, ready for whatever might come at Malta. Yet again the signal hoisted in the flagship was 'investigate strange sail.' And once again it was Tenacious's pennants that accompanied it.

'Your bird,' grunted Bryant to Kydd. The sail was now visible from the deck and it was small.

'Aye aye, sir,' Kydd answered, without enthusiasm, and went to his cabin to change into a more presentable frock-coat, then buckle on his sword. Rawson could be relied on to muster the boat's crew. They had time: Tenacious had left the line and was thrashing out under full sail to intercept. Only when they had stopped the vessel would he take away the cutter, which was now kept towing astern.

This was not his first boarding and he had grown weary of trying to make himself understood to those who had every reason not to understand him.

It was yet another of the myriad small craft plying the inland sea, a brig of uncertain origin that had led them on a fine dance and now lay under backed mainsail, awaiting Kydd and his party.

As so often there were no colours flying. Idly, Rawson speculated on the short passage across. 'An Austrian, I'd wager. Surly-lookin' crew—be trading with Sicily, sugar f'r wine or some such. What d' you think, Mr Hercules?'

Bowden sat with his face turned towards the brig and said nothing. There was only need to take one midshipman, whose task was to stay in the boat and keep the seamen from idle talk, but Kydd wanted Bowden and his French with him. Rawson's animosity towards the boy irritated him and no doubt made the lad's life hard in the crude confines of the midshipmen's berth. 'Pipe down, Rawson,' Kydd snapped irritably. But there was nothing more he could do for Bowden that would not be construed as favouritism; the lad must find his own salvation.

The boat bumped alongside and Kydd stood up as the bowman hooked on the shabby fore chains. He stared directly at the only man on deck wearing a coat instead of the universal blouse and sash of the Mediterranean sailor, probably the master. The brig reeked of dried fish. Eventually the man growled at one of the sullen seamen, who threw a wooden-stepped rope-ladder over the side.

'Thank 'ee,' he said politely, and mounted to the deck. 'L'tenant Kydd, Royal Navy,' he intoned, bowing.

Significant looks were exchanged and there was a low mutter among the other men beginning to gather. 'Which is the captain?' Kydd said loudly. 'Cap-tain,' he repeated slowly. There was no response. 'Bowden, ask 'em in French, an' say who we are.' Still no one replied. They stared stonily at Kydd.

'Th' captain!' Kydd said sharply.

'Is mi,' the man in the coat grunted, keeping his distance. Kydd understood his reluctance: he might now be making a prize of their vessel or, at the very least, pressing men and he was backed by the mighty presence a few hundred yards away of a ship-of-the-line.

'Y'r papers,' Kydd said, miming the riffling of paper.

The master eased a well-thumbed wad out of his waistcoat and handed them across without expression.

'Ah—a Ragusan.' Although the language of the registry certificate was none that he could decipher, the vessel's origins were plain. Ragusa was a busy port in the Balkans opposite Italy and, as far as Kydd could remember, still ruled by the Bourbons and therefore not an enemy.

He pulled out the crew list and gave it a quick search: it was unlikely that a British deserter would be careless enough to sign up under his own name, but this had happened in Kydd's experience. He recognised the layout of a bill of lading, but it was incomprehensible. The next document was a little less oblique, but as Kydd pored over the certificate of clearance from Chioggia, which he remembered was near Venice, he sensed a sudden tension. Should they be found to be carrying cargo bound for any French possession, by the rules of war it was contraband: they stood to have it and the ship seized as lawful prize.

However, his orders were plain: they were not for prize-taking but for the acquiring of intelligence by any means, after the source had been shown to be friendly and therefore reliable.

With a smile he closed the papers, and fixed the master's eye. 'Fair winds, then, Cap'n, and a prosperous voyage to ye.' The brig was obviously trading with the enemy—how else could they survive commercially in the eastern Mediterranean? It was their bad luck that the English had chosen to enter there now.

Bowden started to translate but the man waved him to silence. 'Got luck, tenente,' he said stolidly, and, more strongly, 'By God grace, to wictory of the francesi, sir.'

'Thank you, Cap'n,' Kydd said, with a little bow. 'Have you b' chance seen 'em at sea on your voyage?' he added casually, making rocking motions with his hands.

'No, tenente. Not as after they sail fr'm Malta.'