authority as a commander was from Admiral Keith and the Mediterranean Fleet—but his orders directed him to act under the advice of the Malta authority . . . “I shall have Teazer ready f’r sea within the week, General.”
Command
47
“Good.” He looked at Kydd keenly. “Understand, Captain, we’ve got no standing naval forces. Since the frigate left, we’ve been pestered by vermin—small fry—that are taking the opportunity to make hay among our trade an’ this is a serious matter, I’ll have ye know! Sooner you can get your ship at sea, show o’ force sort of thing, sooner they gets the message. End of the week?”
“Sir.”
Ready or not, they had to put to sea for trials. They had yet to ship guns and his ship’s company, a third under complement, was an unknown quantity. Kydd had lost count of the number of vouchers, receipts and demands he had signed for Ellicott as stores had come aboard in a fitful stream—for all he knew he might have signed himself into perdition.
And when he was finally able to get away from the paperwork it was to find Dacres in argument with the boatswain concerning the best way to warp the vessel the mile over to the ordnance wharf while seamen lolled around idly and his new gunner stood defensively on the foredeck, arms folded.
How was he going to find the men to bring his ship to seaworthiness—and, even more importantly, to battle-worthiness?
Kydd’s happiness was being drowned in a sea of worries.
“Sir.” Bowden touched his hat and waited.
“Er, yes?” Kydd answered, distracted.
“I’ve been talking with the master. He makes a suggestion that I think, sir, you should hear.”
“Oh?”
“We had a long talk about Malta. He is, er, rather open and told me about how things are ashore. They’ve suffered grievously in the two years the French were here, near to starving—and all because of them. Sir, what he is saying is that there are many hungry Maltese seamen who would seize any chance to get to sea—and pay back the French.”
4
Julian Stockwin
“Ask him t’ see me, Mr Bowden.” It was nothing less than a miracle. Foreigners could be found in every Royal Navy warship so this was no bar to the Maltese joining and being engaged directly in the defence of their islands. Trade would give point to their loyalty.
Bowden gave a discreet cough. “Sir—a word?”
“What is it?” Kydd said impatiently.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware that the Maltese, sir . . . They’re reputed to be the Pope’s staunchest sons.”
“Popish?” When promoted lieutenant, Kydd had sworn to ab-jure Stuart claims to the throne and the Catholic religion. “If I don’t see ’em at it, I’ll never know,” he answered briskly. He hailed the master. “Mr Bonnici. How many hands could ye scrape together—prime hands, mark you?”
“Perhaps one, possible two . . . t’ousand.”
Kydd grinned. “Then I’ll take thirty at once, d’ ye hear? When can you get ’em aboard?”
“When ye needs them, sir. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Sir, these men have not th’ experience with the Navy I have.
Sir, do not expec’ them to . . . to spik English.”
A watch-on-deck who could not understand orders? Having to mime everything to be done? But nothing was going to stop him now: if they were intelligent, the common usages of the sea would draw them together. “Then they’ll have t’ learn. Any who can’t stand a watch on account o’ not understanding orders in one month goes back ashore directly, an’ we find someone who can.”
He rounded on the first lieutenant. “So! Mr Dacres, why are we not yet at th’ ordnance wharf?”
Beautiful! Kydd admired the deadly black six-pounders on their neat little carriages ranging down the deck edge—eight to a side,
Command
4
and two smaller, demurely crouched in his great cabin as chase guns. And all unused, originally from the arsenal of the knights of Malta. Gun parties were bringing the cannon to the right
Command
47
“Good.” He looked at Kydd keenly. “Understand, Captain, we’ve got no standing naval forces. Since the frigate left, we’ve been pestered by vermin—small fry—that are taking the opportunity to make hay among our trade an’ this is a serious matter, I’ll have ye know! Sooner you can get your ship at sea, show o’ force sort of thing, sooner they gets the message. End of the week?”
“Sir.”
Ready or not, they had to put to sea for trials. They had yet to ship guns and his ship’s company, a third under complement, was an unknown quantity. Kydd had lost count of the number of vouchers, receipts and demands he had signed for Ellicott as stores had come aboard in a fitful stream—for all he knew he might have signed himself into perdition.
And when he was finally able to get away from the paperwork it was to find Dacres in argument with the boatswain concerning the best way to warp the vessel the mile over to the ordnance wharf while seamen lolled around idly and his new gunner stood defensively on the foredeck, arms folded.
How was he going to find the men to bring his ship to seaworthiness—and, even more importantly, to battle-worthiness?
Kydd’s happiness was being drowned in a sea of worries.
“Sir.” Bowden touched his hat and waited.
“Er, yes?” Kydd answered, distracted.
“I’ve been talking with the master. He makes a suggestion that I think, sir, you should hear.”
“Oh?”
“We had a long talk about Malta. He is, er, rather open and told me about how things are ashore. They’ve suffered grievously in the two years the French were here, near to starving—and all because of them. Sir, what he is saying is that there are many hungry Maltese seamen who would seize any chance to get to sea—and pay back the French.”
4
Julian Stockwin
“Ask him t’ see me, Mr Bowden.” It was nothing less than a miracle. Foreigners could be found in every Royal Navy warship so this was no bar to the Maltese joining and being engaged directly in the defence of their islands. Trade would give point to their loyalty.
Bowden gave a discreet cough. “Sir—a word?”
“What is it?” Kydd said impatiently.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware that the Maltese, sir . . . They’re reputed to be the Pope’s staunchest sons.”
“Popish?” When promoted lieutenant, Kydd had sworn to ab-jure Stuart claims to the throne and the Catholic religion. “If I don’t see ’em at it, I’ll never know,” he answered briskly. He hailed the master. “Mr Bonnici. How many hands could ye scrape together—prime hands, mark you?”
“Perhaps one, possible two . . . t’ousand.”
Kydd grinned. “Then I’ll take thirty at once, d’ ye hear? When can you get ’em aboard?”
“When ye needs them, sir. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Sir, these men have not th’ experience with the Navy I have.
Sir, do not expec’ them to . . . to spik English.”
A watch-on-deck who could not understand orders? Having to mime everything to be done? But nothing was going to stop him now: if they were intelligent, the common usages of the sea would draw them together. “Then they’ll have t’ learn. Any who can’t stand a watch on account o’ not understanding orders in one month goes back ashore directly, an’ we find someone who can.”
He rounded on the first lieutenant. “So! Mr Dacres, why are we not yet at th’ ordnance wharf?”
Beautiful! Kydd admired the deadly black six-pounders on their neat little carriages ranging down the deck edge—eight to a side,
Command
4
and two smaller, demurely crouched in his great cabin as chase guns. And all unused, originally from the arsenal of the knights of Malta. Gun parties were bringing the cannon to the right
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