The quarterdeck fell into silence, Teazer obediently stretching out away from the shore—and Kydd's only chance of making his name. "Wear about an' keep us with th' land," he threw at Bonnici, whose expression remained blank.
And still no sign of movement in the anchored vessel. Was it ever going to make a break for the open sea?
Teazer closed rapidly with the coast again. "Pass th' word for the purser."
"The—the purser, sir?" Dacres said in astonishment.
"Yes, you heard. The purser."
Kydd kept his silence while Ellicott scrambled up the hatchway. "How many days' vittles do we have at hand?" he asked the man.
Ellicott shot a shrewd glance at the motionless French vessel. "Sir, as you remember, you gave directions—"
"How—many—days ? "
"Er, no more'n three, five if we're three upon four."
All La Fouine had to do was sit tight until Teazer had sailed away and then he could depart into the unknown. Kydd clenched his fists. No glorious fight, no conclusions, just a hungry and miserable return to Malta to report that he had seen the corvette, but had done nothing but leave him in peace.
There had to be something. A rammer clattered to the deck at a nearby gun and the seaman shamefacedly retrieved it. Kydd swung round at the distraction, then realised the gun crews had been at quarters since dawn. "Stand down at y'r weapons," he ordered loudly. There was no question about dismissing them in the face of the enemy but at least they could take a measure of relaxation at the guns. "And they shall have their grog. Mr Dacres?"
The gun crews accepted their three-water rum on the upper deck from the grog-monkeys with hushed voices and stifled laughter. They would usually be in a roar of jollity below on the mess decks at this time. By the long custom of the service they were entitled to a double tot before battle and Kydd had ensured they got it. Besides, it gave him precious time to think.
He paced up and down, oblivious of the glances that followed him. His passion had cooled and he now directed all his resources into cunning. La Fouine was bigger in all respects—by definition that probably meant defeat if they attempted a land battle even if he sent every last soul ashore to storm him. And a sea battle? He was more than willing to stand against this foe but how the devil was he going to drive him out?
Then it came to him. "Mr Dacres, find me a trumpet, an' someone who knows how to play one! This minute, d'ye hear?" Without waiting for a reply from the dumbfounded lieutenant he turned on his heels and went below. "Mr Peck! Rouse out y'r writing tackle an' please to wait on me in ten minutes." It would give him time to jot down a few ideas.
He settled at the table. Now just how was it done? He knew what he wanted, but was hazy in the details. Was it not a chamade he was contemplating? A formal parlay? No, that was just the flourish of a trumpet necessary to get attention and a cease-fire. What was it called? Did it matter? He scrawled away.
"Sir?"
He motioned Peck to the other side of the table. "You c'n write Frenchy?" he said severely.
"I do, sir, yes."
"Then write this—in y'r best round hand." Peck busied himself with his quill and Kydd focused his thoughts. His mind produced an image of the French captain in his own cabin, frowning over a paper handed to him by a shadowy petty officer. He began composing.
"Au capitaine de vaisseau—" No, this was an unrated vessel, so, "Au capitaine de frégate La Fouine, au mouillage à Lampedusa . . ." He presumed it was spelled the same way in French, if not then they could guess. Then the meat. That he was disappointed with the dull spirit of the famed French Revolution that they felt unable to try the fortune of their flag against such an insignificant and lone brig-sloop of His Majesty's Navy. That for their convenience he was shortening sail and holding fire until they were both fairly on the open sea and would salute their flag with the utmost politeness before any act of hostility. In effect this was no less than a personal challenge.
He waited for Peck to finish, then snatched the paper and scanned it quickly. The painful hours of learning with Renzi had yielded a workmanlike competence in the language but by no means a familiarity with the high-flown courtliness that seemed to be the style required in high diplomacy. But with a savage smile he decided that if he had erred on the side of plain speaking then so much the better. "Ask Mr Dacres t' attend me," he said to Peck. Dacres was fluent but Kydd did not want to be told what to say: they had to be his words—but with no misunderstandings.
Dacres took the paper as if it would catch fire but manfully worked his way through it. "Sir, if I could suggest . . ." To Kydd they were footling changes but he allowed them in the final draft.
"Did you find a trumpet?" he asked, when they had regained the deck.
"Er, Able Seaman Ridoli—it would seem he has tolerable skill at the flügelhorn, which he assures me is a species of trumpet. As he will never be parted from his instrument, he therefore has it on board—"
"Get him in the boat. Mr Bowden, ye know what to do? When you reach th' rock, set Ridoli t' play for a space, then return."
"May I know what he should play, sir?"
"Damn it, I don't know!" Kydd said irritably. "Some kind o' tan-tara as the lobsterbacks like playing—use y'r initiative."
The boat left Teazer under a huge white flag of truce and headed shorewards. There was no response from the French, and through his telescope Kydd saw Bowden head purposefully for a prominent flat rock. There was a wild leap from the bowman and then Bowden and Ridoli clambered uncertainly through the seaweed to stand atop the craggy outcrop. Ridoli took up his instrument, glittering brassily in the sunlight and the mellow, haunting strains of some Italian air floated back across the wave-tops. Bowden waved him to silence and they boarded the boat again for the pull back.
But there, in plain view, resting on top of the rock, was the white dot of the letter that Bowden had left. "Stay in th' boat, if y' please," Kydd ordered. He stared at the French vessel until his eyes watered. This was his last throw of the dice.
"Sir!" Attard's eyes had caught sight of something around the bow of the corvette; then a boat pulled smartly into view. It also had a flag of truce and it headed for the rock. The letter was snatched up and handed down into the boat, which lost no time in returning.
It had worked! So far. By now word of Kydd's action would have spread the length and breadth of Teazer and the deck was crowded with excited men who had no business being away from their quarters for battle but Kydd could not deny them.
Time dragged. Teazer wore round for another stretch out to sea—but the boat reappeared and again headed for the rock. A figure mounted the highest point and sounded off a meticulous and elaborate call on his trumpet, so much more martial than their offering. And when the boat headed back there was a letter waiting in the precise centre of the rock.
"Go!" Bowden and his crew needed no urging, pulling directly for the rock and claiming the letter. In a fever of anticipation Kydd took it below, in passing snapping at Dacres to send the men properly to quarters.
It was exquisitely written, the wordy introductory paragraphs ornate with unnecessary curlicues. Kydd's eyes went to the closing salutation; it seemed the commander of La Fouine had the honour to be Capitaine de Frégate Jean Reynaud. There was no other clue about the man he had the duty to kill or vanquish—or who would do the same to him.
Kydd began the laborious task of penetrating the thicket of verbiage then, too impatient to continue, he summoned Dacres. "There—what do ye think o' this?" he said.