"I'll thank ye t' be more civil, Yates, while I'm in th' boat," Kydd muttered, then addressed himself to the task of stepping out with his cocked hat, sword and frock coat unmarked.
He was met by General Pigot's aide. "Good voyage, Captain?" he asked smoothly. "His Excellency will see you shortly." Was Pigot now taking the airs of a governor? Kydd wondered wryly.
He did not have to wait long but the man seemed preoccupied. "An' good morning to you, Captain," he said, rummaging on his desk. "Blast it," he muttered. "Was here before, dammit." He glanced up. "An' what can I do for you, Mr Kydd?"
"Ah, here is my report on th' voyage just concluded, sir."
"Oh? What kind o' passage was it, then?" he said politely, as he put it down in front of him and went back to his rummaging.
"Er, we found Admiral Warren, sir, but he already had word o' Ganteaume sailing."
"Good. Our soldiers are very exposed at the landing, need 'em to be well protected. Anythin' else?"
Kydd gulped. "We fell in with a merchantman being set upon by a pirate. I went in chase but—but he got away."
"Tut tut—can't be helped. Did you see Ganteaume at all? Blasted man seems to be everywhere these days."
"I didn't. No, sir."
"Well, that's that. You'll be on your way, then?"
This was like no other naval operational discussion he knew of: what about the strategics of tasking his ship, an appraisal of intelligence, some kind of indication of future planning? What should he do now? "Er, sir, I'm a little hazy about what m' duties are, an' those of m' ship. We have no senior officers until th' fleet is here—er, do y' have orders concerning me at all, sir?"
"Orders?" Pigot frowned. "From me? Does seem you have an odd notion of what we're doin' here." He pursed his lips. "We—that is, the British—freed Malta from the Frenchies but this doesn't mean t' say that Malta is now ours."
"Er, then whose—"
"In course, we have t' give it back. To your knights—the Knights of St John who've been here since afore King Henry's day. Meantimes we keep Malta in trust for 'em."
"Are they returning to claim, sir?" Kydd asked.
"Ah—there we have a problem."
"Sir?"
"The last Grand Master died in exile when he an' the other knights were driven out by the French and the others elected a new—then asked the Tsar of Russia for a home an' protection.
He gave it—and now the Grand Master who wants t' claim Malta is a Russian. So do you fancy a sovereign Russian territory astride the centre of the Mediterranean? Strongest fortress outside Gibraltar? Hostile t' England? Neither do I, sir!"
"And so—"
"And so we stay until we're told t' hand 'em over an' do nothing precipitate like."
Kydd was beginning to see why there was such a lack of order in this place and no formal naval presence. Money would not be wasted on works that would have to be given up at any point. "Then you have no instructions for me, sir?" he persisted.
Pigot said gruffly, "Sir, I'm not one of your admirals as knows the sea. I recommend you find someone who does and take your orders from him."
Kydd rose. "Thank you for y'r time, sir."
It was all most irregular, Kydd pondered in the boat on the way back to his ship. If Pigot did not want him, who did? If he reported to the distant commander-in-chief off Toulon for clarification that would take weeks. By the letter of his orders he should attach himself to the "Malta Service"—if anyone could be termed senior officer of such an operational force he was obliged to accept that it was none other than himself.
No King's ship was at liberty to do as she pleased: if he took to the high seas on his own account it was piracy—even the act of going to sea required orders of some kind, if only to cover the routine expenditure of stores accountable against the object of the voyage. By rights he should remain at moorings until he received specific orders for the employment of his ship.
Could he endure swinging about a buoy for long weeks— months? Was it even morally right to do so while others fought? No, that was intolerable.
He could think of one solution: he would issue orders to himself. Orders for the prosecution of the war in these waters: chasing down pirates, spying out for the French, other warlike moves—and, where unavoidable, carrying dispatches. It would, of course, be prudent to have them counter-signed. He brightened at the thought of his own war without a senior to interfere. A satisfied smile spread as he ordered his coxswain to turn about and return. This time he would go to the Grand Palace and see the civil commissioner on quite a different matter.
Cameron seemed mildly curious to see him. "Anything I can do, Cap'n?" he said cheerfully.
"Indeed, sir, there is," began Kydd, importantly. "I have been placed in command o' the Malta Naval Service, an' I beg you will acquaint me with your chief concerns that they might be taken into account in our planning."
"Malta Naval Service?" Cameron murmured absently.
"Aye, sir. The man-o'-war Teazer is returned from sea trials, as ye know . . ."
"Well, now, an' I do have my worries as well you c'n understand." He leaned back and regarded Kydd curiously. "An' the chief one, o' course, is trade protection, destroying th' pests that infest these seas. We're particularly vexed by privateers in the Sicily Channel—that's your passage between Sicily and the Barbary coast. Quite upset the trade from the west. And then there's always troubles around the Greek islands, Ligurians and similar."
"A serious matter, sir." That would be an aggressive war patrol to the west, then, showing the flag and spreading the dismaying news among the vermin of the sea that a Royal Navy warship was now to be reckoned with in their hunting grounds.
"But of most importance at the moment is the need to support our trade in the Adriatic." Cameron rubbed his jaw speculatively. "What with the Italian ports in French hands directly across the water, it leaves only the Balkans in the whole eastern Mediterranean open to our cotton exports. You'd be doing us a great service should you be able t' offer us any protection in that area."
"O' course, sir." A fast strike north into the unsuspecting Ionians—he would have as much action as he could wish for in the near future.
"Excellent. Splendid." Cameron leaned back in his chair. "I shall immediately issue a public notice to that effect."
He got up from his chair and came round to Kydd. "This is fine news, and ye must know will give much heart to the people, sir. " Kydd mumbled an embarrassed acknowledgement. "It only needs us to agree the date when the convoy sails, then, Captain."
"Convoy?" Kydd blurted.
"Yes, of course. And let me tell you, when they hear that it will be escorted b' one of Nelson's victorious sea officers, why, they'll be fighting each other to be part o' such a one!"
Outside Grand Harbour a tight cloud of sails massed. Of every conceivable shape and size, exotic and homely, all were united in the common objective of making it safely to Ragusa in the republic of Dubrovnik on the Balkan coast.
Any sight more different from the stern discipline of an Atlantic convoy would be difficult to conjure—no divisional pennants, masthead wefts, numbered columns or even identity vanes. Instead, in the five days left to him, a harassed Kydd had everyone he could find scribbling away at Convoy Instructions for the mass of ships.
All that could be expected was the bare minimum: private recognition signals and one or two for manoeuvring. The formation of the convoy was to be simply a giant advancing square with the escort to windward. It was the best he could do.
A single gun from Teazer's fo'c'sle set the whole mass in motion, an enthusiastic scrambling of sail to fit within the square defined by the four marker ships Kydd had chosen and which bore the distinctive Republic of Dubrovnik flag above the British. Kydd's strict orders were that any vessel that strayed from this square for any reason, impatience or laggardliness, would no longer be considered under protection.