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said, “and a quiet time in th’ North American station.” Dacres had never smelt gun-smoke in battle and would probably learn more in Teazer over a few months than from years in a ship-of-the-line. He changed the subject. “How are our Maltese hands taking t’ our ways, do ye think? I have m’
    hopes of ’em—they look prime sailormen, seem to find ’emselves at home.”
    “I have my concerns that they may not understand orders in stress of weather, sir. Do you not think—”
    “Seamen that’re well led will never let ye down, Mr Dacres.
    They’ll catch on soon enough. We’re to be working closely t’gether in the future an’ you’ll find—”
    A knock on the door and a muffled “Captain, sir,” from outside interrupted him. It was the midshipman of the watch. “Mr Purchet’s compliments and he’d like to see Mr Dacres on deck when convenient.”
    Kydd rose. “I won’t keep ye, Mr Dacres. I’ve no doubt we’ll have another opportunity to dine together presently.” He took his seat again: the man was so utterly different, in almost every way, so at variance with his own experiences. Nevertheless it was vital he got a measure of him. As with the rest of Teazer ’s company, time would tell.
    “God rot it, what’re you about, Mr Bowden?” roared the boatswain, stumping his way forward. The fore yard lay at a gro-tesque angle, and before he could reach the scene there was a 54
    Julian Stockwin
    savage tearing and twanging as the fore topsail split from bottom to top. The big spar dropped jerkily to the caps of the foremast.
    Beneath, men scattered hastily. Purchet stood stock still, gob-bling with rage. Dacres hurried up from the mainmast; he and Bowden looked back aft to Kydd, their faces pale.
    Kydd had been watching the dry-exercises of the sail gear and stepped forward quickly. “Set y’r clew garnets taut—haul in on y’r topsail clewline. Get that larb’d fore course tack ’n’ sheet right in!” he bawled. This would hold the yard up while a jury lift was rigged. For some reason the lower yard lift on one side, taking most of the weight of the heavy spar, had given way and the inevitable had happened. The only saving grace was that there were no men on the yardarm and they were still safely at anchor. Possibly the cordage had rotted in the storehouse. Incidents like this might happen again; the sooner faults were bowled out the better. “Mr Purchet!” he ordered. “See what it is an’ report t’ me.”
    Kydd was afire with eagerness to see Teazer at sea, cutting a feather in that deep blue expanse and off to the glories that would assuredly be hers. But he could not risk it with an untried ship and crew. He jammed his hands into his pockets and paced up and down.
    By early afternoon they had succeeded in loosing and furling sail on both masts without incident; each yard had been braced up sharp on each tack, halliards and slablines, martnets and leechlines, all had been hauled and veered, run through their various operating ranges.
    Stations had been stepped through also, for wearing, tacking, setting and striking sail, and Kydd dared hope that the moment when Teazer was set free for her true purpose was drawing close.
    “Noon tomorrow, I do believe, Mr Dacres!” he called, when it became clear at last that the ship’s company was pulling together as one.

    Command
    55

    • • •
The following morning there was something in the air: an under-current of anticipation, tension, excitement. Exercises now had meaning and significance—the age-old exhilaration felt when a ship was making ready for sea, preparing for that final moment when the land and its distractions were cast aside and the ship and the souls she bore within her entered Neptune’s realm.
    Kydd felt in his heart that they were ready: men were familiar with their stations, drill at the sails was now acceptable, gear had been tested. He had some anxieties: the master was elderly and his navigational skill was