Command by Julian Stockwin

Dacres. “You have th’ ship. Course east b’
    south, all plain sail.”
    As simple as that! He brightened at the thought of never having to stand a watch again, instead taking charge or handing over whenever he felt inclined. “Aye aye, sir,” Dacres murmured, and went to the conn.
    Kydd knew he should go below and start on the work that was waiting in neat piles on his desk but it was too exhilarating on deck with the regular heave of the waves under the keel and their stately move forward, the boundless blue expanse of sea, flecked with white under a perfect Mediterranean sun.
    The log was cast and the result pegged on the traverse board: nine and a half knots. Given the lateness in the day, he would leave until tomorrow the agreeable task of exploring Teazer ’s sailing qualities and quirks to bring out the best in her. The southerly was veering more to the west but holding steady—they should have a soldier’s wind in the morning.
    Eight bells, the first dog-watch. The decks cleared as men went below for grog and their supper. It would be a cheerful conclusion to the day for them and Kydd could picture the jollity as they settled in with new chums, shipmates who would share with them the dangers aloft and in the fighting for their lives. The talk would be of their new ship, the calibre of their officers, their prospects for their voyaging and, the most important topic of all, their new captain.
    Alone on deck but for the lookouts and the small group at the helm, Kydd felt even more the peculiar isolation of his position, the utter absence of any he could relax with in the same way.
    This was the hidden price for the fulfilment of his ambitions. In 7
    Julian Stockwin
    the gathering dusk he became aware of the flash of eyes in the cluster by the helm: they were affronted by the captain’s continued presence on deck, his implied lack of trust in them. Kydd turned and went below.
    “Oh, sir,” said Tysoe reprovingly, “you never sent word. Your supper is no longer hot. Shall I tell the steward—”
    His cabin table was spread. “No, thank ’ee,” Kydd said: the galley fire was probably out by now. He had forgotten the behind-the-scenes activity that accompanied even the smallest domestic want of the captain. “Open a claret an’ I’ll take a glass. The rest t’ go to the midshipmen’s berth.” The small gesture might help to allay the anxieties of the two new faces going to sea for the first time, perhaps even hinting that their captain was of the human species.
    He sat alone by the light of a candle, chewing tepid cutlets and sad greens, feeling by turns dispirited and exalted. Hammocks were piped down—he had ordered that for tonight going to quarters could be overlooked—and the watch below turned in. After Tysoe had cleared away, Kydd pulled over the pile of papers and set to. A knock on the door an hour or so later interrupted his concentration. It was Laffin, with the thick-set figure of another seaman in the shadows behind carrying a dim lanthorn.
    “Sir. Galley fire doused, lights are out fore ’n’ aft, two inches in th’ well, no men in bilboes,” Laffin said impassively. As a boatswain’s mate in a sloop he took the duties of a master-at-arms, which included ship’s security.
    “Thank ye, Laffin,” Kydd said. These reports, made to him as captain, allowed the silent hours officially to begin.
    “Er, do you . . .” For some reason he was reluctant to let Laffin go. “. . . go an’ prove the lookouts,” he finished lamely.
    “Aye aye, sir,” the seaman said stolidly.
    Kydd put aside the paperwork and retired for the night, but he lay awake in his cot, mind racing as he reviewed the day, senses

    Command
    7
    jerked to full alert by every unknown noise in the new ship, then lulled as his seaman’s ear resolved them into patterns falling in with the regular motions of the invisible ocean.
    The wind had freshened in the night and the morning dawned bright and boisterous, white