Julian Stockwin - Command

Mercifully, La Fouine had shot ahead, leaving them flailing astern, his guns falling silent as they ceased to bear. Kydd hurried to the bows. Teazer's dainty bowsprit had taken an eight-pounder shot squarely at its base and now lay in the sea under her forefoot, shattered and tangled in an appalling snarl of ropes and blocks. With the ruin so complete, Teazer was now dead in the water.

A single lucky shot: it was unfair so early in the fight—and in the worst possible place. Completely out of balance Teazer could neither turn away nor keep a straight course and was now terribly vulnerable.

Over the fast-opening stretch of sea La Fouine continued on, the smoke around him dissipating quickly. Now was his chance to make his escape to continue unimpeded on his voyage of destruction.

But he did not. He wore round in a lazy circle that would end with the methodical annihilation of his helpless opponent.

A cold pit of fear opened in Kydd's stomach, not so much for himself but for the men who had trusted him, for his lovely ship that had minutes of life left—and he knew for a certainty there was nothing he could do about it.

The circle was closing. As a carnivore stalks its kill, La Fouine was going to make sure of his prey. Out of range of Teazer's little six-pounders he was coming round to cross her stern—a true deciding blow, for with perfect impunity he could slowly pass by, sending every shot in his broadside in deadly aim smashing through her pretty stern windows and on into her vitals, unstop-pably down the length of the ship. It would be an onslaught of death and devastation that would be unimaginably violent.

It was the end. The only question left was, at what point did Kydd stop the carnage by yielding to the enemy?

La Fouine came round and steered straight for Teazer's forlorn stern. If war was logical, thought Kydd, dully, now would be the time to give up and strike his colours. But war was not logical; if he hauled down his flag, after mere minutes of fighting, he and the Navy would be damned for ever as cowardly. Therefore there was no alternative: Teazer and her people must endure what came until—until Teazer's commander put a stop to it . . .

As he straightened for the final run, La Fouine's cannon showed in a sinister line along his side. Kydd imagined he could see the slight movements at their black muzzles as gun captains triumphantly trained their weapons for maximum damage. He closed silently, aiming to pass no more than ten yards away.

Just before he reached Teazer Kydd roared, with all the passion of his frustration and sorrow, "On th' deck! Everyone—get down!"

The gun crews, seamen with pikes waiting to repel boarders, the boatswain and his party, all lay prone, cringing in anticipation at the hideous storm about to break over them. Kydd was about to follow suit when some scrap of foolish pride—perhaps a death wish—kept him standing tall and glaring contemptuously at the nemesis gliding in for the kill. Then he became aware of others: Dacres, standing with him, Bowden, the little midshipmen coming up, Poulden, more.

He tried to order them down but the lump in his throat was too great. La Fouine slowed; they were going to take all the time they needed. His bowsprit reached them not thirty feet off, sliding past, men on the deck in every detail, watching them, waiting for the single shout of the order to fire. At any second . . .

The shout came—but there was no sudden eruption of violence. The shout was repeated but Kydd's mind refused to accept what was going on until he realised that the guns were still silent. La Fouine slid past slowly while the shouting grew strident. They were calling on him to surrender! A figure in blue and white on the quarterdeck was shouting angrily through a speaking trumpet.

Now was the sensible time to admit to his helplessness and to save lives, finish Teazer's plucky resistance. Inside he was in a maelstrom of emotion, his first command, the pinnacle of his life, all to end so bleakly. It just could not—

"Non!" he thundered back. "Je ne capitule pas!" The corvette glided silently past and began circling again. On his return there would be no mercy shown and there would be death and blood in the afternoon. Defiantly, Kydd and his ship waited.

CHAPTER 8

"DEAR FELLOW, IT WAS NOTHING! We were signalled to investigate the firing and there you were, helpless as a sucking shrimp under the guns of the Frenchy." Winthrop, the frigate Stag's captain, looked amiably over his glass and chuckled. "Never does to vex those who are bigger than you."

"Aye, sir, but I must thank ye on behalf o' the ship," Kydd said stiffly. It had been a hard time for him during the lengthy tow to Malta coming to terms with Teazer's hair's-breadth escape and its implications for his future.

Winthrop sighed. "Do forgive me if I appear . . . unfeeling, Mr Kydd, yet I am obliged to remark that my providential appearance on the scene seems as much a fortune of war as the cannon strike on your bowsprit—do you not agree?"

It was nothing but the truth, Kydd had to admit. "The fortune o' war, yes, sir—but where is m' reputation, my prospects with th' admiral? Sadly out o' countenance, I'd wager."

"Not necessarily," Winthrop replied, topping up Kydd's glass. "Consider, while you are not distinguished in any measure, you have disgraced neither yourself nor your flag. If I catch your meaning aright, then unless Lord Keith at this moment has a particularly shining young officer he is desirous of advancing in the service then your position is secure . . . for the time being, of course."

Kydd felt his spirits rising, but he could not help adding, "'Twould be a fine thing if y'r same fortune c'n throw me a chance of a bold stroke as would set th' world t' talking—and me t' notice."

Winthrop regarded him soberly. "You may discover your chance earlier than you think. We are all placed in the way of opportunity. You will not have heard yet, but it seems the late and much lamented Abercrombie is to be replaced by the grand General Hely-Hutchinson. And I have it from a valued source that the Egypt campaign will therefore take a decidedly active turn. Do try to get yourself to sea as soon as you may, Kydd. I feel this is not to be missed."

"Then, sir, you'll see Teazer there right enough!"

There was a vehemence in Kydd's voice that evoked a frown. "Sir, all the world applauds an officer of audacity and character— but, if you'll forgive me remarking it, where is the line that marks off for him the aspiration to laurels from vainglory and rash imprudence?"

Receiving no answer, he let it hang, then said gently, " Distinction will attend a virtuous endeavour, never doubt it, but the pursuit of peril and hazard in the expectation of glory will damn for ever the officer who sets his course thus."

The loss of a bowsprit was catastrophic in the heat of battle, yet was an easy enough repair for a dockyard: the stump was withdrawn, the new spar stepped and the original jibboom heeled to it. There was little other damage and therefore Teazer could look forward to getting back to sea soon.

A ship from England had arrived with precious dockyard stores—among them Teazer 's carronades and a stern instruction from the Board of Ordnance to ship them in place of her entire current fit of carriage guns in accordance with latest practice in England for the smaller classes of warship.

Teazer's present six-pounders were to a carronade as a cutlass to a rapier. They were short, brutish weapons with a vicious recoil—but they multiplied by four times the weight of metal of her broadside. At short range to any opponent the twenty-four-pounder carronade would be indistinguishable from the guns of a ship-of-the-line—but it had to be close-in fighting for the lighter-charged weapons to reach out and do their work.