Command (15 page)

Teazer
found her berth again in Dockyard Creek and Kydd gave leave to all the Maltese hands. With certain employment in difficult times they could be relied on to return and their absence released space for the rest.

The muster book had to be sent to Gibraltar and proved before pay could be authorised, and even then it might be months in ar-rears. The British sailors would have only what they had kept
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from their previous ship but Jack Tar would never be renowned for frugal habits. Not for nothing was it said, “They earn money like horses and spend it like asses.” Kydd resolved to try for an advance from the clerk of the cheque in the dockyard.

The shipwrights and riggers tut-tutted over the amount of extra rigging, blocks, pendants, clew garnets and the rest involved in spreading a main-yard but it was the appearance of young Attard, brimming over with self-confidence and full of salty yarns about his experiences, that most eased the process, and
Teazer
prepared for her new sail, the langard mainsail.

It was more difficult in the matter of carronades. It was not a weapon much seen in Mediterranean arsenals and in the peculiar circumstances of Malta the Board of Ordnance did not figure at all.

No carronades but still, Kydd accepted, six-pounders were not to be despised;
Teazer
’s sixteen long sixes were normally more than enough to settle an argument with a privateer, and even if they were to find carronades it would mean re-equipping with special slides in place of the usual wheeled gun-carriage.

Kydd returned to his ship; there would be some delay while these improvements were put in train and he had time on his hands. “Mr Dacres.”

His lieutenant came across the quarterdeck from where he had been watching the movements of the exotic little craft about the great harbour.

Kydd removed his cocked hat and smiled. “I have a mind t’

step ashore and see a little o’ Malta. I thought to hire a carriage, save m’ legs a hard beat t’ windward. I wonder if ye’d care t’ join me f’r the day?”

“I would like that, sir,” he replied, but then added, “But without we have a pilot with Italian or the Maltese lingo, I fear we would be at a stand.”

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“O’ course. Then as this is a problem o’ navigation, who better than our master t’ plot the course?”

The sun was warm to the skin and had a benign cast that set the mood for Kydd. For the first time in weeks he could let tranquillity take hold. In the sternsheets of the cutter he relaxed against the backboard and grinned at Dacres in the sheer escapism of the moment, but Dacres only smiled back politely.

“Mr Bonnici,” Kydd asked, “I’m intrigued t’ know—who was it built this mighty place? Seems t’ me that it’s the strongest cita-del in all Europe.”

“Well, sir,” Bonnici said, “ye have to understan’ that in the time of your Queen Elizabet’ we were attack by the Turk, an’

suffer a long and cruel siege. We win, but the knights say they never suffer such again, an’ build Valletta—only fifteen year and finished!” he said proudly.

Kydd picked up the “your” and wondered at Bonnici’s loyalty, but remembered his years of service to the Royal Navy. “They did a fine job, right enough. An’ since then, Mr Bonnici, has any dared t’ invade Malta?” In the magnificence of Grand Harbour the island seemed one extended fortress and quite impregnable.

“None, sir,” said Bonnici, simply. “The French were let here b’

treachery, no fight.” He stopped and added, “Ah, none saving th’

English—only one time Malta taken, an’ that was you, last year against the French.”

“I rather fancy you’re glad to see the back of them,” Dacres murmured.

“Yes!” Bonnici spat with the first emotion Kydd had seen him display. “They come as robber, bandit—take fr’m our church an’

the people. We hunger, starve, our trade finish. They say they come as
liberatore,
to throw out th’ knights, but really they wan’

to take, seize.”

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Kydd let him subside then asked, “Where are th’ knights now, then?”

“The Gran’ Master and most o’ the knights go to Russia an’

wait to return,” he finished abruptly.

“You don’t want ’em back?”

“For me—no, sir, they are no good f’r Malta.”

“But if they are Maltese—y’ knows, of th’ noble orders—”

“They are not, sir. They come in th’ year 1530. Ver’ old, but they given Malta by others.”

“So
you
were before . . . ?”

“No, sir. The Normans were here before, the Count Roger.”

“And before then, you?”

“No, sir. Before them the Arab, an’ before them the Greeks.”

“I see.”

“Before them th’ east Roman, an’ the empire, they call it Melita.”

“And—”

“The Carthaginian before, stay seven hundred years. An’ before them . . .”

“Er, yes?”

“Before them many say we are giants—at Tarxien, in the country, are strange an’ magic dwelling of stones, even th’ wisest cannot tell of them . . .”

The boat approached the landing place on the flanks of the fortress city and Yates stood for the final approach. “Hold water larb’d, give way starb’d—Jones, y’ fawney bastard, ye’re nothing but a mumpin’ packet rat. Do I ’ave ter show y’ how?”

The trio climbed a short way up some broad steps before a water fountain with a statue of Neptune. “We call this th’ Nix Mangiare Stairs, on account of the beggars have nothing t’ eat.

This is their cry,” Bonnici said, then went ahead for a carriage.

“The
cales,
” he said. In the four-seater Kydd and Dacres sat facing forward with Bonnici opposite. They set off, with the

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driver walking, bridle in hand, and wound up into the city proper.

People streamed past, most ignoring them; the women, many in hooded black silk capes, were all prettily adorned with rings, bracelets and silver shoe-buckles and stepped out proudly, while the men affected either dress that would go unremarked in Oxford Street or colourful country garb of trousers and a long sash.

As he took in the sights Kydd realised he had been more than a little distracted before. They began with the five-hundred-year-old Grand Master’s Palace, now occupied by Cameron and his administration. The interior of the Cathedral of St John took Kydd’s breath away. A riot of gilded tracery, with a blue-stone altar before a life-size religious group in marble, it reeked of a past age of splendour and devotion.

“Th’ Manoel theatre—it’s lower down, an’ some say th’ oldest in Europe.” It was not large but well appointed.

Then followed sightseeing of the mighty walls, and the public gardens in Floriana outside the massive gates offering views without end of surrounding bays and inlets with their fortifications.

Over a simple meal Bonnici finished their education: the ancient capital, Mdina, was apparently a perfect medieval walled city, complete with drawbridge and castle. At nearby Rabat there were catacombs and noble buildings, while on the coast the al-luring Blue Grotto waited to bewitch unwary seafarers. And if it were at all possible the little port of Marsaxlokk and the en-chanting Dingli cliffs should not be missed, to say nothing of Zurrieq and Kirkop, Qrendi and Mqabba. Proudly he described in detail the bravery of the Maltese sailors when the apostle Paul was wrecked in a bay up this very coast after meeting with a
gregale,
a fierce local storm, on his way to Rome.

Kydd was sorry when the day ended and they made their way down to the marina and their boat.

“Sir—for you.” Bowden was waiting at the gangway and passed across a note. It was sealed inside an expensive card and
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addressed impeccably to himself as “The Captain, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship
Teazer.
” Kydd took it down quickly to his cabin away from curious gazes.

“Well, damme!” he muttered. It was an invitation: but this was no ordinary social occasion. Phrases like “. . . sensible of the obligation owing to Commander Kydd upon his late meeting with the Barbary pirates . . .” and “. . . we, merchants of Malta in the Adriatic trade, do wish to render plain our deepest appreciation . . .” left no doubt of its drift.

There was to be a presentation of silver to the brave captain who had defied the sea-robbers so cunningly, and this was to be made by the distinguished English merchant Mr Roderick Mason in the presence of Chevalier Antonio Mancini, fifth Baron Baldassare.

“Tysoe!” Kydd roared. “D’ ye think m’ best red ’n’ green with th’ lace will serve for a baron?” He held out the invitation with the merest trace of smugness.

“Oh, sir, my opinion is . . .”

“Spit it out, man!”

“Then sir, if you’ll permit me . . .”

“Yes or no, y’ villain!”

Tysoe’s eye held a glimmer of complacency as he continued suavely, “Sir must be aware that he cuts a fine figure—in uniform blues, and most especially in full-dress. The guests will be expecting you to appear in the character of a sea officer and we don’t wish to disappoint, do we, sir?”

He was met by torchlight and conveyed in a carriage to a well-proportioned building with an impressive entrance. Standing waiting were several elderly gentlemen of apparent wealth—silk stockings and lace, ostrich-fringed hats, gold-tipped canes, and jewels on their shoe-buckles.

Kydd felt his relative youth but took assurance from the

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splendour of his full-dress uniform with the substantial gold of the epaulette, cuffs and lapels against the discreet dark-blue and white of the rest. He took off his gold-laced hat and waited politely.

“Captain, so happy you were able to come.” A dignified man greeted him with a quick bow. “Mason, Roderick Mason, at your service.” His shrewd grey eyes appraised Kydd.

They went in together to an enclosed inner courtyard crowded with people. The murmur of voices stopped as they appeared.

“Gentlemen, might I present HMS
Teazer
’s gallant commander?

Captain Thomas Kydd!”

There was a spatter of genteel applause, and he bowed civilly to right and left. A footman appeared at his side with wine in a tall crystal glass. He accepted it and turned to Mason. “S’ good of ye t’ invite me, sir.”

“Our honour entirely, Captain. Shall we proceed?”

The room was not large and was warm with the glitter of candles on a long table. Mason ushered Kydd to its head where a jovial man in scarlet stood up to meet them. “Sir, may I present Captain Thomas Kydd?” He turned slightly. “Chevalier the Baron Baldassare.”

“Y’r servant, sir,” Kydd replied, with a workmanlike bow, and allowed himself to be seated between the two, trying to remember the graces taught so patiently by his noble-born friend Renzi.

Turning to the chevalier he opened, “Rousin’ weather we’re having, this time o’ the year, or do ye prefer it the cooler?”

The dinner passed most pleasantly. Lingering looks were cast his way by the ladies, and valiant attempts made to engage him in conversation over the energetic sawing of a string trio. Mason leaned closer. “I must allow, sir, it was a fine service you performed for us. Have you any conception of the value, for instance, of a single Ragusa-bound brigantine in currants?”

Kydd shook his head.

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“It would probably amaze you to learn that the ship—if tolerably new—would be of the order of some
migliaia
of
scudi.
If we then add in the desideratum for insurance and other expenditures on the vessel, the capital outlay on the cargo and loss of expected profit, then the depredations of these vermin stand as an
impossible
burden on any merchant and therefore deleterious to the trade of Malta as a whole.”

Kydd nodded and added quietly, “An’ not t’ mention y’r sailors slaughtered by the Moor, Mr Mason.”

Finally the cloth was drawn and the chevalier stood up; fine words were said, then Mason took the chair. “My lord, the distinguished ladies and the gentlemen of Malta here gathered, we are come this night to do honour to the Royal Navy—and in particular the brave Commander Kydd who . . .”

Pink with embarrassment Kydd sat through it, only relieved that he had not let down his ship or her company.

“And so I give you Captain Thomas Kydd!”

He stood and a footman entered bearing a tray. On it were two articles of handsome silver, which Mason lifted up and presented to him. He accepted them graciously.

When he turned to address the guests, he was ill-prepared for the storm of applause and cries of support that echoed about the room. It was all he could do to stutter something about stern duty, the trade of Great Britain and the new prosperity of Malta, but it seemed to suffice and he sat down.

“Well spoken, sir,” said Mason, and the rest of the evening passed in an agreeable blur of sociability.

“Mr Bonnici, if ye has the time, I’d like t’ speak with you in m’

cabin.” The master followed and sat, politely attending. “I’ve promised Commissioner Cameron a war cruise, let the Frenchy know we’re about, an’ I’m exercised to know as t’ where we should go to annoy them the most.”

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Bonnici’s brow furrowed. “Sir, wi’ respect, this is not a thing for I, a sailing master,” he replied slowly.

Operational matters were for the commissioned officers and Kydd knew that, strictly, it was improper to approach him. “I understand, Mr Bonnici,” he said, “yet you’ll hold better acquaintance than we with th’ waters in the eastern Mediterranean, I fancy. It is y’r opinion only that I’m seeking—the decisions are mine.”

“Er, it is my difficulty, sir. If some—gentlemen in Malta hear I tell you where t’ go for taking the private ships . . . it may be they think I do this for other reason.” Bonnici’s family were all in Malta and in their closed community would bear any suspicion if it seemed questionably coincidental that they had appeared suddenly on the scene. Kydd would have to make his own guesses.