Julian Stockwin - Command

"You're in the right of it, friend. All along the—"

There was a hesitant knock at the door: it was Dacres. "Sir, I'm sorry to say, there's some kind of—of altercation at the watering place. Midshipman Martyn seems unable to keep order in his men. Shall I—"

"No. Call away the jolly-boat, an' I'm going ashore m'self."

"And if you have room . . ." said Gindler, smoothly. At Kydd's look he added, "In the instance that I may be of service in the article of translations, as it were."

The source of the altercation was easy enough to detect: the slippery runway for the casks up to the rock fissure from where the water sprang could take only one, either coming or going. Boatswain's mate Laffin stood astride it with fists at the ready, a sailor opposite him, a bull-sized black man, grinned savagely, and other Americans were bunching behind him.

"Moses! Step back now, d' you hear?" Gindler shouted, from the boat. "You want to start another war?"

A harsh bass laugh came from the huge frame. "They wants 'un, I c'n oblige 'em, Mr Gindler."

Kydd quickly crossed to Laffin. "What's this, then?" he snapped.

"Cousin Jonathan—can't take a joke, sir. Thinks mebbe they're better'n us—"

There was a roar from the Americans and Kydd stepped between them, holding up his hands. If he could not pacify both sides, and quickly, there was every likelihood of a confrontation and repercussions at an international level.

"I'm surprised at ye, Laffin," he began. The man looked at him sullenly. "Do ye not remember how we settle these matters in the fleet?" Laffin blinked without reply.

He turned to Gindler, whose eyes were warily on his men, now spreading out as if taking positions for a fight. "Sir." He took off his cocked hat and flung it on the sand in front of Gindler. "I do challenge th' United States Navy!" There was an audible gasp and he saw Gindler tense. "T' find which is th' better ship—fair 'n' square—we challenge Essex to a contest o' skill an' strength. A race o' one mile, under oars."

After a dumbfounded silence there were roars of agreement. Gindler stepped forward, picked up Kydd's hat and returned it to him with a bow, saying, in ringing tones, "On behalf of my fellow Americans, I accept your challenge, Mr Kydd."

He turned to his men and said, "We can't let 'em think that as a nation we do not know how to play fair. We'll have the same number of men, of course, but—we exchange boats before we start."

Kydd grinned. Clearly Gindler was no stranger to the stratagems common in fleet regattas. This would put paid to anything underhand.

The watering was completed at breakneck speed and a course laid out from under the bowsprit of Essex to a buoy half a mile along the coast.

The two boats were readied. In deference to the smaller craft that Teazer carried, her pinnace was run against Essex's yawl, both pulling four oars. Much was made of the transfer of oarsmen from one to the other, particularly the remarkable sight of the sovereign flag of each nation proudly at the transom of another. Wry comments were passed concerning the workmanship of their boats of the occasion, Teazers scorning the carvel build of the yawl while the Essexes sighed theatrically at the clencher-build of the pinnace, but the four oarsmen took their places readily enough, adjusting foot-stretchers and hefting the fifteen-foot sweeps.

Every boat that could swim lined the course, filled with hoarsely yelling spectators; the rest crowded the decks of their respective ships. On the fo'c'sle of Essex Kydd slowly raised a pistol. The shouting died away as the oarsmen spat on their hands: the crack of the pistol was lost in a sudden storm of cheering and they bent to their sweeps in a mighty, straining effort.

The boats leaped ahead, nothing between them. Bainbridge and his officers grouped together on the foredeck, solemnly observing progress—the first to return and pass under the bowsprit would be declared winner.

It was a tight race; the shorter but quicker strokes of the Americans contrasted with the longer but deeper pulls of their opponents and they were round the buoy first—but on the run back the gap narrowed by inches until it became too close to call.

"America by a nose!" Decatur yelled, punching the air as the two craft shot under the line of bowsprit.

"Not so fast, Lootenant," Bainbridge said, in a hard voice, among the deafening noise of cheering and argument.

"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.