"That's handsome in ye, sir, but I know th' spring an' there's enough f'r us all. We'll take it together, cask b' cask."
"A good notion. We'll do that," Bainbridge said genially, and got to his feet.
"Sir," Kydd said earnestly, "I was in th' United States when y'r quasi-war with France started. It strikes me there's grounds here f'r—who should say?—mutual assistance against th' aggressor?"
Bainbridge's eyes went opaque. "Commander, the quasi-war is now concluded."
"Ah. So—"
"The treaty of 1778 is no more. We are neutrals, sir, and will faithfully abide by our obligations. I will wish you good day, sir."
It had been worth the try, but it did not furnish the real reason for an American presence so deep into the Mediterranean. "Sir—may I know of y'r interest in these parts, if y' do not think it impertinent t' ask?"
"I do. Good day to you, sir." He conducted Kydd back on deck.
Out in the sunlight Kydd blinked, aware of every eye on him. "Thank ye, sir, f'r your hospitality—it's a very fine ship y' commands."
He passed a silent Decatur, sensed the burning eyes following him and was making to step over the side when someone grabbed his shoulder. He swung round and saw a grinning officer holding out his hand. "Be darned—and this must be Tom Kydd as was. A commander, no less! "
"Aye. An' don't I see Ned Gindler afore me?" It was half a world away from Connecticut but the same friendliness that had so cheered him as a new lieutenant again reached out to him.
"Well met, Ned!" Kydd grinned. The deck remained silent and still about them. Kydd turned and crossed to Bainbridge again. "Sir, it's not in m' power t' return y'r kindness to all of ye in my little ship, but it would give me particular pleasure t' welcome L'tenant Gindler aboard."
"Thank you, Commander. Mr Gindler would be pleased to accept. Until sundown, Lootenant?"
Gindler lifted his glass to Kydd. "Well, I have to declare, she's one trim lady—I guess she's handy in stays?"
"She is that," said Kydd, smugly. "A real flyer on the wind. Not as you'd say spankin' new, but she'll get a lick o' paint when we have time," he added defensively.
"You must be very proud, Tom," Gindler said softly, looking at Kydd with an enigmatic expression. "Captain of your own ship, and all."
It brought Kydd up with a start: what were his present worries compared to what he had won for himself? "A noble thing it is indeed, Ned. Do ye know, I have more power than the King of England?" At Gindler's quizzical look he added, "I may hale a man before me an' have him flogged on the spot—by the law of the land this is somethin' even His Majesty may not do."
It brought laughter from the American but all Kydd found he could manage was a lop-sided smile. Gindler's amusement receded. "My dear fellow—if you'll pardon my remarking it, your demeanour is not to be expected of a grand panjandrum. No, sir! Too much bowed by care and woe in all . . ."
Kydd's smile turned to a grimace. "Aye, I will admit t' it." He stared through the pretty stern windows at the bright, sunlit sea outside. "I have m' ship, this is true, but unless I can shine in its command I'll have t' yield to another. And there's no glory t' be found in small-ship work, all convoys 'n' dispatches, so how am I to find it?" Gindler started to come in but Kydd went on bitterly, "We got word of a French corvette in these waters an' I was sent to bring it t' battle. My one chance—but the cruise is finished without so much of a smell o' one."
He looked up half hopefully. "Ye haven't word of it at all, Ned?"
Gindler murmured noncommittally.
Kydd's eyes fell. "Then, o' course, you havin' made y'r peace with the French you'll be honour bound not t' tell me even if ye knew." Gindler continued to look at him wordlessly.
Tossing off his wine, Kydd changed his mood. "But here I sit, neglectin' m' guest! Tell me, Ned, have you hopes y'self for an advancement at all?"
Gindler's face shadowed. "You may recall, friend, that our war is finished. We're now neutrals not just in name. No war, we don't need ships—or officers is the cry."
"Did m' eyes deceive? Is not Essex as fine a frigate as ever I saw?"
Looking uncomfortable Gindler replied, "Yes, but I have to say there are few more." He hesitated, then went on, "We have a new president, m' friend, a Thomas Jefferson. Now, in the past we've been handing over bags of gold to the Barbary pashas to keep from raiding our trading ships. Jefferson loathes this craven knuckling to pirates and hates even more what it's costing us. We are here to do something about it."
Kydd made to refill his glass, but he shook his head. "Have ye?"
"Not—yet."
"You—"
"Some would say that Dale, our commodore, is a mite lacking in spirit. We surely put their noses out of joint at first, but all we've achieved is threats of war from all four pashas, who are put out by not getting their due tribute."
"So you'll have y'r war."
"Not so, I'm grieved to say it, for Congress has not declared war back. In the main, we're to leave their ships in peace to go about their 'lawful' occasions of plundering our trade." His face tightened.
"It has t' come to war," Kydd said warmly, "and then you'll get y'r ship, Ned!"
Gindler said nothing, and at his dark look Kydd changed the subject. "The Essex—a stout enough frigate. Must be a fine thing t' be an officer aboard."
Gindler threw him a look of resigned exasperation. "Dear Tom, we're a small young navy and everyone in it knows everyone else. Therefore preferment and seniority are a matter of characters, origins and hearsay.
"I speak only between we two, but under the strict and unbending Cap'n Bainbridge—whose treatment of the enlisted hands is, well, shall we say less than enlightened?—I share the wardroom with our absurdly young first l'tenant, Stephen Decatur. Who is of burning zeal but given to duelling, a vice much indulged in by us, I fear. Therefore I'll leave it to your imagining what it is to be one of such a company who do suffer our frustrations to such a degree . . ."
Kydd had never been in such a situation, but he could see what it meant to his friend and felt for him. "Ned, y'r New England trees in spring should be a famous sight, I believe. Do tell me, I c'n remember 'em now . . ."
"You're in the right of it, friend. All along the—"
There was a hesitant knock at the door: it was Dacres. "Sir, I'm sorry to say, there's some kind of—of altercation at the watering place. Midshipman Martyn seems unable to keep order in his men. Shall I—"
"No. Call away the jolly-boat, an' I'm going ashore m'self."
"And if you have room . . ." said Gindler, smoothly. At Kydd's look he added, "In the instance that I may be of service in the article of translations, as it were."
The source of the altercation was easy enough to detect: the slippery runway for the casks up to the rock fissure from where the water sprang could take only one, either coming or going. Boatswain's mate Laffin stood astride it with fists at the ready, a sailor opposite him, a bull-sized black man, grinned savagely, and other Americans were bunching behind him.
"Moses! Step back now, d' you hear?" Gindler shouted, from the boat. "You want to start another war?"
A harsh bass laugh came from the huge frame. "They wants 'un, I c'n oblige 'em, Mr Gindler."
Kydd quickly crossed to Laffin. "What's this, then?" he snapped.
"Cousin Jonathan—can't take a joke, sir. Thinks mebbe they're better'n us—"
There was a roar from the Americans and Kydd stepped between them, holding up his hands. If he could not pacify both sides, and quickly, there was every likelihood of a confrontation and repercussions at an international level.
"I'm surprised at ye, Laffin," he began. The man looked at him sullenly. "Do ye not remember how we settle these matters in the fleet?" Laffin blinked without reply.
He turned to Gindler, whose eyes were warily on his men, now spreading out as if taking positions for a fight. "Sir." He took off his cocked hat and flung it on the sand in front of Gindler. "I do challenge th' United States Navy!" There was an audible gasp and he saw Gindler tense. "T' find which is th' better ship—fair 'n' square—we challenge Essex to a contest o' skill an' strength. A race o' one mile, under oars."