The ship resembled the Marseille traders that Kydd knew so well from blockade duty off Toulon, and if this was so it was almost certainly a French supply transport. A flutter of white and gold jerked up her mizzen halliards.
"Naples," muttered Purchet. "Won't save 'em," he added happily. Kydd was not so sure: Naples had been occupied by the French, as had Sicily, but as far as he knew the Bourbon Kingdom of the Two Sicilies still existed in exile and was an ally. As well, of course, a vessel could hoist any colours it chose.
"Call away the cutter, an' I'll take a dozen men."
"You'll—?"
"Yes, Mr Dacres. You're in command. I don't have t' tell you, any sign o' trouble you're to run out our guns, show 'em our force." It was not at all usual for a captain to perform a boarding himself, but this was not a job for the inexperienced.
"Aye aye, sir."
The cutter pulled strongly towards the merchant ship. Stirk, forward with bared cutlass, would be the first to board. Bowden sat set-faced next to him, other seamen ready close by.
The ship was larger than Teazer, four hundred tons at least and well laden, wallowing weightily in beam seas. There was something strange, almost menacing, about the drab, dark-stained timbered vessel. Kydd gave an involuntary shudder and was guiltily glad that Stirk was going over the bulwark first. They neared and prepared to hook on: now would be the most likely time for a line of vengeful French soldiers to stand up suddenly at the deckline with muskets trained, but only a row of bored, dark-featured Mediterranean sailors looked down on them.
Stirk seized the flimsy rope-ladder and with a snarl swarmed up and on to the vessel's deck. The others followed quickly and Kydd found himself confronting a short and red-faced individual. The master, he guessed.
"Le capitaine?" Kydd growled, pleased that his hours with Renzi at French lessons in the dog-watches were now paying off. But French was virtually unknown in the eastern Mediterranean and the master shook his head angrily. Kydd mimed the riffling of papers and waited patiently for him to return with them.
The man's hands trembled as he handed them over and his face showed as much anxiety as bluster. Kydd inspected the papers, looking for a bill of lading, but all the papers he held were in an impenetrable foreign language.
"Sbrigati, abbiamo una fretta del diavolo," the man burst out angrily.
Kydd looked at him in surprise, then handed the papers to Bowden, who studied them in puzzlement. "Er, sorry, sir, I've no idea—I think it's a form of Italian."
"Where—you—go?" Kydd asked slowly. Suspicions were forming: the unusually wide cargo-hatch covers, the heavy stay tackles still triced in place along the yards . . . "Stand to, you there," he growled at his party, some of whom clearly shared his unease. He snapped, "What—is—your—cargo?"
The man's eyes flickered once then he drew himself up and shouted venomously at Kydd, "Una fregata da ghiaccio! Capisci? Ghi-acc-io!"
There was a definite air of anxiety now and Kydd's suspicions hardened. "We're going t' take a look at his cargo," he called to his men. The course of the vessel was fair for the deserts of north Africa—and Alexandria: the desperate French would seize on any means to deliver cannon to their beleaguered army.
Thrusting past, Kydd strode across. The hatches were well secured: battens nailed down firmly over canvas sealed the contents of the hold and the little hutch that normally allowed entrance to the hold was nowhere to be seen.
"Get a fire axe!" Kydd told Stirk, who found one at the ship's side. The master's eyes widened in horror as he saw what was happening and he threw himself at the hatch, shouting hoarsely. The axe splintered the first batten as he tried to wrestle it away. "Carry on," Kydd barked. Two seamen forcibly held back the frantic master.
Using the pointed end of the axe Stirk levered aside the battens on one side, then dealt with the opposite side. The master's struggles ceased and he now moaned loudly. Kydd looked warily at the rest of the crew, but they stood stolidly as if the events were none of their business.
"Quickly now," Kydd urged. The top of the hatch was merely planks that were smartly lifted away but under—there was straw. Nothing but straw to the very top of the hatch.
Kydd told Stirk to stab down with his cutlass point. Such a heavy cargo—it could not be straw. Stirk's thrust brought the unmistakable sharp clash of metal. He tried in another place— the same betraying clang.
The master now fell to his knees, imploring, sobbing. "Ghiaccio! Per amor di Dio—ghi-acc-io!"
"Clear th' straw!" Kydd knew his voice sounded weak, nervous. The straw was quickly pulled away to reveal an expanse of shiny metal sheeting. "Open it," he said thickly.
Seeing no easy way Stirk brought the axe to bear on it, and began to hack a hole through to see into the interior. The smash of the axe in the stillness sounded against the moaning of the master. Then Stirk fell back abruptly and pointed to the hole. Glistening through the rent torn in the metal was tons and tons of ice and snow.
Kydd stared at the sight as the hot sun began to melt the top layer. He was completely at a loss. Then he heard Bowden mumble, "I did hear once, sir, as how there are ships that bring ice from Mount Etna to the tables of the Barbary princes . . ."
"Then why th' devil did you not tell me, y' bloody villain?" Kydd snarled.
In the seclusion of his great cabin Kydd smiled wryly. The aggrieved master had been mollified with silver and a hastily scrawled pass, but it had been a less than glorious first encounter for Teazer.
Still, as they beat further to the east the ship was pulling together well; his insistence on daily practice at the guns was paying off and small tokens of homely sea life were making an appearance. A dog-vane cunningly crafted of cork and feathers on each shroud to indicate the wind direction for the benefit of the quartermaster, an elaborate turk's head knot worked on the centre spoke of the wheel so the helmsman could find the midships position by feel—all reflected an increasing pride and respect in the little ship.
Kydd quickly retrieved his equilibrium and when Teazer had reached far enough into the eastern Mediterranean and needed to put about for the remaining leg of returning to Malta he was sincerely regretful. The watch-on-deck was now, without being told, taking the trouble to flemish down lines neatly after sail trimming and he had seen several sailors pointing rope, an unnecessary but most seamanlike ornamenting of a rope's end in place of the usual twine whipping.
"Mr Dacres!" he called.
The officer came up, touching his hat. "Sir?"
"I have it in mind t' grant a make 'n' mend for all hands this afternoon—make today a rope-yarn Sunday, as it were. Did y' have anything planned for 'em?"
Dacres frowned, but could not object. A make and mend was given to allow seamen time to make repairs to their working rig and draw slops from the purser to fashion clothes. It also meant that they could sit on the foredeck in the sun gossiping amiably while they sewed, out of reach of an irascible boatswain or others wanting men for duty about ship. But Kydd knew the value of allowing the men time to add individuality to their rig and their ship: later it would translate to ownership, pride in themselves and their sea home.
Thus it was that after the grog issue and noon meal Teazer 's men set out their gear for an agreeable afternoon.
"Mr Dacres, a turn about the decks?" Kydd removed his hat ostentatiously and placed it firmly under his arm, a sign that he was off duty; Dacres reluctantly followed suit and they paced forward slowly. The decks were crowded and Kydd was careful to step round the industrious; others drew back respectfully.
There were some with the gift of the needle and they were turning their talents to account for their messmates, a favour that no doubt would be returned in grog. To Kydd, it was not odd to see hardened seamen deftly turn a seam in a smart jacket complete with white piping, or crafting exquisite buttons from bone, but it might just extend Dacres's education.