The admiral's granite expression did not change. "It happens. Go on," he rasped.
"Er, at the suggestion of Mr Cameron I took a convoy t' Ragusa and fell in with two Algerines. They left without joining action on seein' my hostile motions."
Warren's eyebrows rose, but he didn't pursue it further. "Well, then—you have your senior now and it is to be admitted that your presence here is not unwelcome." Kydd smothered a sigh of relief and tried to look eager. "While my fleet repairs and stores, it would be of service to me should you look into the south for word of Ganteaume. Even as I've been searching for him in the north, he may have been at large in the Gulf, refitting.
"You shall have orders for a reconnaissance along the coast east of Tripoli. I don't have to tell you, if Ganteaume is sighted you will spare nothing and nobody to bring me the news. If at the end of ten days there is no word, then your voyage will not be wasted as you shall be able to render me your appreciation of the situation in those parts."
"Aye aye, sir!" Kydd said crisply.
Warren glowered. "And if you're under the impression this scouting voyage is an excuse for prize-taking, let me disabuse you, sir. You're performing this vital task because I can't spare the frigates. Understand?"
"Mr Purchet! Those forrard backstays are a disgrace," Kydd said savagely, as he stepped back aboard. "And why is not th' rattlin' complete on the main shrouds?" He didn't wait for an answer and plunged below.
He had no charts of the Barbary coast. No carronades. There had been only a brief discussion with the flag-lieutenant concerning intelligence, which seemed contradictory and nothing much beyond conjecture: the British were newcomers to the Levant, which had been mainly a French trading preserve before, and it showed. Any charts that might be available were copies of captured enemy ones, of varying age and quality, and provisioning was only to be had at either Malta or by barter with the Moors of north Africa.
There was no word of Ganteaume or his fleet—they might be at large anywhere except in the north where Warren had just been with his squadron. His orders called for a search to the south-east from Tripoli deep into the Gulf of Sirte, presumably returning along the north-trending coast. Any one of the indentations in the lonely desert coast might harbour the powerful enemy squadron; when he came upon them it was in the lap of the gods if the wind was fair for a rapid retirement or whether he would find himself set upon by fast frigates intent on his destruction to preserve the secret of their presence.
There was no possibility of action and glory in this kind of work, no credit for fleeing a superior enemy and simply returning with the news—but every chance of oblivion if he came back with nothing.
Kydd screwed up his attempt at orders in the case of fire on board and flung it into the corner. He snatched up another paper and tried to concentrate on planning the voyage: stores, of course, charts. Where could they water? Their sea endurance would probably not extend to the near thousand-mile round trip. What were the inshore wind and current conditions? He had been in a frigate that had touched ground at the other end of the Mediterranean and it had been a terrifying experience. Was Bonnici up to the hair-raising coast-hugging of this voyage? Was he?
They slipped and put to sea early in the morning, shaping course directly south the several hundred miles to Tripoli, the winds fair for a fast passage. Teazer leaned into it with a will, but her commander stood unmoving on his quarterdeck, staring ahead in a black mood. Dacres reported sea watches set and Kydd grunted an ill-humoured acknowledgement.
He noticed that several men were the worse for wear after a final run ashore before they sailed: if they fumbled a manoeuvre he would see there was a reckoning.
A line of men on their knees with holystones were working their way aft across the deck, kept well supplied with water from a bucket-man and sand from the petty officer in charge. As they approached, Kydd caught furtive glances—was he going to yield the deck to the lowly seamen or stand his ground? A stubbornness born of his mood kept him rooted to the spot. The men came near. Then, without looking up, awkwardly tried to work round his unmoving shoes. He kept his position, staring forward fixedly as the line passed by. Close to Kydd and well within his hearing, Daniel Hawkins said, in a raised voice to the man on his left, "Be gob, an' does we have t' top it the heathen slave an' all?"
Kydd stiffened in surprise.
"Silence, damn y'r hide!" Purchet's outraged bellow came from behind him. "I heard that, y' villain! Y'r own captain you'd chouse, y' rascal!" The boatswain came up to Kydd. "I'll see him afore Mr Dacres for ye, sir."
"Thank you, Mr Purchet, but—" Kydd said, then stopped. Any interference would be seen as weakness, an allowing of disrespect to his person and situation. His authority would begin to unravel as of that moment.
With grim inevitability the little drama expanded. The sullen sailor was hauled off and, within minutes, Dacres had solemnly reported that he had confined a member of Teazer's crew to irons, to appear before Kydd at his pleasure.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable: half an hour before the noon grog issue the ship's company was mustered. For appearance's sake, Kydd required his warrant officers and midshipmen to fall in behind where he would stand, facing the mass of seamen. An improvised lectern was set up and when officers and men were all present Dacres went below to report.
Composing his expression to one of solemn judgement Kydd emerged on to the upper deck. The seamen were mustered in a mass forward with the small number of minor officers aft.
Kydd strode purposefully to the lectern. "Carry on, Mr Dacres," he intoned, with as much gravity as he could muster.
"Sir. At two bells this forenoon Daniel Hawkins, ordinary seaman, was heard to utter words of calumny and disrespect to the person of you, sir, his lawful commander, in contravention of Article the Twenty-third of the Articles of War."
"Witnesses?" Kydd said sharply. "Mr Purchet?"
"Sir," began the boatswain, with ill-concealed relish, and repeated the accusation.
"Thank you. Is there any t' speak for him?"
"Sir." Bowden stepped forward manfully. "Hawkins is in my division, sir, and I have never found reason to remonstrate with him." It was carefully phrased, the absence of positive qualities revealing.
Kydd turned to Hawkins. "Have ye anything t' say?" Hawkins stood loosely, with an expression of boredom. He lifted his eyes to Kydd's. There was nothing in them that could be read. Then he shrugged.
"Articles o' War, if y' please."
"Orf hats!" Purchet roared. Heads were bared with a single rustle of movement.
Peck came forward and read from the frayed leatherbound booklet. "If any person in the fleet . . ." his voice was flat and reedy and almost certainly not heard at the back ". . . uses reproachful or provoking speeches . . ." Kydd watched the men carefully for any sign of unrest behind the glazed expressions and shuffling feet ". . . upon being convicted thereof shall suffer such punishment . . . and a court-martial shall impose."
"On hats!" bawled Purchet. The rustle of movement stopped quickly: it was of deep interest to all to hear how their captain would punish.
"Ye can have a court-martial if y' desires it." This would mean remaining in irons until they returned to Malta.
"No, sir," Hawkins said evenly.
"Very well. I find ye in contempt of good order an' naval discipline an' you shall take your punishment this very day." It was a good opportunity to address the assembled ship's company sternly but Kydd could not find it in himself. He waited for a heartbeat then drew himself up. "Six lashes!"