Kydd hastened on deck: a small topsail cutter flying a blue ensign was leaning into the wind trying to close with them. "Heave to, Mr Dacres," Kydd called, and waited while the sleek craft came up and exchanged private signals.
"You've missed 'em!" shouted the young lieutenant-in-command as the vessel rounded to under their lee. "That is, the East Med squadron, if that's who you're after," he added, shading his eyes against the sun. "What's the news?"
Kydd bridled at the familiarity and answered shortly, "No news, L'tenant. What course did Sir John take when he left?"
"Why, to the rendezvous, I should think, sir," said the lieutenant, remembering himself.
"North," Kydd ordered.
Teazer's signal of dispatches aboard ensured her swift passage past officious scouting frigates within sight of the squadron, which was in tight formation and precisely on the line of the rendezvous.
"To place us t' loo'ard o' the flagship, Mr Bonnici," Kydd told the master and went below to prepare, in obedience to the summons to place himself and his dispatches before the admiral immediately.
Teazer's cutter smacked into the water and the boat's crew swarmed aboard. Kydd's coxswain, Yates, sat at the tiller importantly, a beribboned hat with Teazer picked out in gold paint incongruously smart against his thick-set, hairy body.
"Stretch out, yer buggers!" he bawled. Kydd winced. This was not the coxswain he would have wished but the man was a veteran of both St Vincent and a blazing frigate action.
The whole squadron lay hove to, the flagship Renown at the centre. The boat rounded the noble stern of the battleship, all gilt and windows and with her name boldly emblazoned. Mildly curious faces looked down from her deck-line above.
Renown's boatswain himself set his silver call to piercing squeals to announce the arrival on board of the captain of a vessel of the Royal Navy, an honour that would have sent a delicious thrill through Kydd if it had come at any other time.
In the admiral's quarters the flag-lieutenant murmured an introduction and left Kydd with the admiral, who stared at him stonily, waiting.
"Ah, Commander Thomas Kydd, sloop Teazer with dispatches, sir." Warren had a powerful air of intimidation and Kydd found his own back stiffening.
"From the commander-in-chief?" The admiral's hard tone did nothing for Kydd's composure.
"Er, no, sir, from Malta."
"Malta! Who the devil thinks to worry me with dispatches from there, sir?"
"Gen'ral Pigot, sir—he says they're urgent," Kydd said, and handed over the satchel, which the admiral took quickly.
"These are dated more than a week ago," said Warren sharply, looking up.
Kydd added in a small voice, "We thought t' find you at the rendezvous, sir. We beat up 'n' down the line for several days an' then—an' then, sir, I thought it best to—to leave station an' look for you t' the s'uth'ard, sir . . ." He tailed off.
Warren's frosty stare hardened. "It took you that long to find I wasn't there and go looking? Good God above!" He snorted. He still held the dispatches and riffled through them. "So what do we have here that's so damned urgent it needs one of the King's ships to tell me?"
"The French, Sir John—they're out!" said Kydd, his voice strengthening, "Sailed fr'm Leghorn just this—"
"From Leghorn—yes, yes, I know that. Why do you think I've been away from the rendezvous? No other than chasing your Ganteaume." His face tightened. "And this must mean, sir, you have sailed right through them on their way back! What do you have to say to that?"
Kydd gulped, he had ignored all sail sighted in his haste to reach the rendezvous. And with his precious dispatches shown to be not much more than gossip, he felt anything but a taut sea-captain with a vital mission. He flushed, but stubbornly held Warren's eye.
Something in his manner made Warren pause. "Do I see a new-made commander before me, Mr Kydd?"
"Aye, sir."
"Your first errand, I venture to say?"
"Sir."
A tiny smile appeared. "Is all as you expected it to be?"
Kydd's tensions eased a fraction. "It's—different t' what I expected, yes, sir." It was difficult to know whether the admiral was making conversation or had an object in mind.
"Expect the worst, Mr Kydd, and then you'll never be disappointed." He looked pleased at his aphorism, adding, "And give the men not an inch. They'll never thank you for it."
"Have you any dispatches for Malta, sir?" Kydd asked.
"Malta? What conceivable interest would I have there? No, sir, carry on about your business and be thankful I'm not taking you under command."
Teazer put about and made off to the west, her commander standing alone on the quarterdeck. As soon as the ship was settled on her new course he went to his cabin.
Kydd realised that he was still a very new captain but a future of being a lap-dog at the beck and call of any senior to him was not how he saw a fighting ship should spend her time. He had broadsides and fighting seamen ready for his country's service. He had achieved the peak of his ambition: his own ship.
For a captain loneliness was inevitable, but he hadn't realised how much he would feel it. It was something that came with the job, though, and he would have to get used to it. The only "friend" he was in a position to contemplate was the single other officer, Dacres, but he could find little in common with the man.
The seas coming on the bow produced an energetic dip and rise and an eagerness in the motion that Kydd could sense even this far aft. The willingness in his ship reached out to him and his moodiness eased. Looking around his cabin he felt a quickening of the spirit: he was captain of the ship, damn it, and he was a sad looby if he failed to make the most of it.
"Tysoe!" he bellowed—he must find a bell or something: without a marine sentry outside ready to pass the word this was the only way he could send for his servant.
Tysoe appeared quickly, only slightly aggrieved at the manner of the summons. "Sir?" he said quietly, now carrying himself nobly as befitted the manservant of the captain.
"I shall have some veal for m' dinner—an' open one of the pino biancos to go with it."
"Certainly, sir. Could I be so bold as to remind you that your cabin stores include some pickled berberries that would accompany admirably?" The flecks of silver in the man's bushy hair added maturity to his appearance and Kydd knew that he could expect Tysoe to function with distinction on any ship's occasion.
"Yes, rouse 'em out, if y' will." Tysoe inclined his head and left, Kydd smiling at the way he kept his dignity while bracing against Teazer's playful movements.
The papers on the desk, weighted with a half musket-ball, recalled him to duty. Captain's Orders: now, just how did he want his ship run? For Teazer there were no precedents from a previous commander, no existing orders to copy and adopt, and Kydd had the chance to set out his own ideas.
"Instructions and Standing Orders for the General Government and Discipline of His Majesty's Sloop Teazer." The well-remembered heading now preceded his own orders: he must start with due obeisance to His Majesty in Council, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and so on—Peck could be relied on to chase up the wording.
And the meat. Conduct of the watch-on-deck with particular attention to the logs; the rough log of the mate-of-the-watch with entries by others listing provisions and stores expended, returned or condemned and so on, to be later taken to the appropriate officer for signature. And only then would the master deign to gather up the threads and transcribe this officially into the ship's log for Kydd's approval.