Bowden returned. "No question about it, sir. This is a thirty-three-second glass," he said, trying to hide the smugness in his voice.
Kydd looked accusingly at Bonnici, who reddened. "Er, a Venetian hour-glass it mus' be, sir," the master mumbled. "We take fr'm the Arsenale when we store th' ship."
But it was nothing that could not be put right, thought Kydd, with relief, thankful that the heavens had been restored to their rightful place and his ship sped on unharmed into the warm night.
Free from the routine of night watch-keeping, Kydd could take no advantage of the luxury of an all-night-in: excitement and anticipation coursed through him making sleep impossible. Then came memories: that lonely, exhausted night as a press-gang victim, new on board; the first time he had stood watch as a green and terrified officer-of-the-watch—and the bitter time following when he had felt he could never belong in the company of gentlemen. And now he was past it all and elevated above every one of them. Restless and unsleeping, he longed for morning.
At long last he heard the muffled thump of feet on deck and lay back, seeing in his mind's eye the activity of hands turned out and irritable petty officers urging them on to meet the break of day at quarters. He remained for a few minutes longer in his cot, aware that voices in the after end of the ship were respectfully subdued in deference to his august being.
As the early light strengthened he came on deck. Only his word of a clear horizon would be sufficient to allow the men to be stood down from quarters and go about their day. He acknowledged Dacres's salute and gave the word, savouring the instant activity it produced while he breathed deeply of the zest of a sea dawn.
Reluctantly he went for his breakfast, to be eaten in solitary splendour. He took his time, knowing that his presence would be unwelcome in the scurry of striking down hammocks, lashing them tightly and sending them up to the nettings, the domestics of the evening mess deck now to assume a martial readiness.
A discreet knock: it was the carpenter, duly reporting inches only of water showing in the well. Then came Dacres, with a question about employment for the hands in the forenoon. The rhythms of the morning took hold without him and he was free to attend to his own concerns.
Later he ventured on deck; Dacres moved to leeward of the quarterdeck, as was the custom. Kydd, keyed up with feeling, acknowledged him politely, then began strolling down the deck.
The effect was instant: on either side men fell silent and stiffened, ceasing their work to straighten and touch their hats. He ducked under the main staysail and the men on the other side, tailing on to a jib sheet, lost their hauling cadence and came to an untidy stop. The petty officer in charge looked at Kydd warily, clearly at a loss.
It was no good. Kydd knew full well what was happening: there had to be some pressing reason why the captain, next down from God, should march the length of the vessel to see them—it could only mean trouble. He had to face the fact that, as captain, he was not at liberty to wander about his own ship as he pleased.
Every movement, intentional or careless, had significance for the men, who would now be watching him as the creatures of the jungle regarded the pacing lion.
"Carry on," he told the petty officer, and made his way back to the quarterdeck. The next time he wanted to stretch his legs and enjoy the sights forward on his pretty ship he would need to make some excuse to have the master or carpenter with him.
On impulse, Kydd crossed to the boatswain. "Mr Purchet. I'm not comfortable with th' play we're seeing in the main topmast cross-tree, th' t'gallant mast in the cap."
"I'll take a look, sir," Purchet said, glancing up.
"No, thank 'ee," Kydd said quickly. "I've a mind t' see myself."
He handed his hat and coat to an astonished Dacres and swung easily into the rigging, mounting with the fluid agility of the top-man he had been those years ago. He climbed around the futtock shrouds, ignoring the startled looks of two seamen working in the maintop, and on up to the cross-trees.
The lookout could not believe the evidence of his own eyes and stared at Kydd as he heaved himself up and on to the trestle-tree. Kydd hung on in the lively movement, muscles aglow, and took his fill of the lovely symmetry of Teazer's foreshortened length far below, hissing through the seas in a sinuous line of foam-flecks. After making a pretence of inspecting the topgallant mast as it passed through the cap he then shaded his eyes and looked away to the horizon.
An immensity of sparkling sea stretched before them as Teazer sped eastwards into emptiness, mainland Greece more than a hundred leagues distant and nothing ahead but the unchanging even line where sea met sky. It was a breathtaking sight from this height, one that in times past he had always thrilled to.
Reluctantly, he started to descend, then became aware that the clean line of horizon was broken. Eyes honed from a hundred watches scanning into nothing soon picked it up: a speck of paleness occasionally flashing brilliant white as the sun caught it."Sailhoooo!" he roared to the deck below. "Fine on th' weather bow." His hail to the deck caused the lookout beside him to jerk with surprise. Kydd then saw, in place of the sharp angularity of the usual Mediterranean lateener, the more blocky indication of square sail. "Square sail, an' studding athwart!"
This was not a trading felucca or any other of the myriad small craft native to this part of the great inland sea: it was of significant size and European built; perhaps a transport for Napoleon's lost army—or a hunting frigate . . .
Realising he had an urgent need to be back on deck, he reached out for a topmast backstay and swung into space. In seconds he had slid hand-over-hand down the backstay, arriving with a light jump on his own quarterdeck.
He was conscious of eyes on him: this was now the classic dilemma faced by every smaller ship, to sail towards a potential prize or retreat from what could be a more powerful enemy. To play safe would be to put up the helm and slink away, but that would be to throw away any chance of securing their first prize. Yet if he pressed on to investigate and it turned out to be one of the French admiral Ganteaume's fast frigates then Teazer stood little chance.
"Course t' intercept, Mr Bonnici," he snapped. He had a bounden duty to stop and investigate every sail. If things turned out against them, it couldn't be helped.
"Clear for action, sir?" Awkwardly Dacres held out Kydd's cocked hat and coat, which Kydd accepted but did not put on, mindful of his ruined cotton stockings and tar streaks on his hands.
From the main deck, the top-hamper of the chase was not yet visible. "No. We'll have time enough later. Report when he's topsails clear, I'll be below."
It seemed an age before the report finally arrived, but Kydd had already guessed the chase must be a smaller vessel or a merchantman that had decided to make a run for it—and they were slowly overhauling it. There was always the chance that it was leading him on into a trap, and with a new ship and untried crew the consequences could be serious—but it was unlikely.
When he went up on deck he deliberately left his sword on its hook below as a sign that he did not expect to fight. "Chase bears ahead nine miles, sir," Dacres said importantly. Hull-up, the ship was clawing to windward in a losing battle with the brisk breeze; Teazer had bowlines in their bridles drawing out the leading edge of her courses and topsails and was slashing along in exhilarating fashion. The end could not be in doubt.
At long cannon-shot Kydd ordered a gun to windward. It took another before the vessel set topsails a-fly in surrender and came up into the wind. With the greatest satisfaction he set Teazer hove to a little to windward.