As so often there were no colours flying. Idly, Rawson speculated on the short passage across. ‘An Austrian, I’d wager. Surly-lookin’ crew – be trading with Sicily, sugar f’r wine or some such. What d’ you think, Mr Hercules?’
Bowden sat with his face turned towards the brig and said nothing. There was only need to take one midshipman, whose task was to stay in the boat and keep the seamen from idle talk, but Kydd wanted Bowden and his French with him. Rawson’s animosity towards the boy irritated him and no doubt made the lad’s life hard in the crude confines of the midshipmen’s berth. ‘Pipe down, Rawson,’ Kydd snapped irritably. But there was nothing more he could do for Bowden that would not be construed as favouritism; the lad must find his own salvation.
The boat bumped alongside and Kydd stood up as the bowman hooked on the shabby fore-chains. He stared directly at the only man on deck wearing a coat instead of the universal blouse and sash of the Mediterranean sailor, probably the master. The brig reeked of dried fish. Eventually the man growled at one of the sullen seamen, who threw a wooden-stepped rope-ladder over the side.
‘Thank ’ee,’ he said politely, and mounted to the deck. ‘L’tenant Kydd, Royal Navy,’ he intoned, bowing.
Significant looks were exchanged and there was a low mutter among the other men beginning to gather. ‘Which is the captain?’ Kydd said loudly. ‘Cap-tain,’ he repeated slowly. There was no response. ‘Bowden, ask ’em in French, an’ say who we are.’ Still no one replied. They stared stonily at Kydd.
‘Th’ captain!’ Kydd said sharply.
‘Is mi,’ the man in the coat grunted, keeping his distance. Kydd understood his reluctance: he might now be making a prize of their vessel or, at the very least, pressing men and he was backed by the mighty presence a few hundred yards away of a ship-of-the-line.
‘Y’r papers,’ Kydd said, miming the riffling of paper.
The master eased a well-thumbed wad out of his waistcoat and handed them across without expression.
‘Ah – a Ragusan.’ Although the language of the registry certificate was none that he could decipher, the vessel’s origins were plain. Ragusa was a busy port in the Balkans opposite Italy and, as far as Kydd could remember, still ruled by the Bourbons and therefore not an enemy.
He pulled out the crew list and gave it a quick search: it was unlikely that a British deserter would be careless enough to sign up under his own name, but this had happened in Kydd’s experience. He recognised the layout of a bill of lading, but it was incomprehensible. The next document was a little less oblique, but as Kydd pored over the certificate of clearance from Chioggia, which he remembered was near Venice, he sensed a sudden tension. Should they be found to be carrying cargo bound for any French possession, by the rules of war it was contraband: they stood to have it and the ship seized as lawful prize.
However, his orders were plain: they were not for prize-taking but for the acquiring of intelligence by any means, after the source had been shown to be friendly and therefore reliable.
With a smile he closed the papers, and fixed the master’s eye. ‘Fair winds, then, Cap’n, and a prosperous voyage to ye.’ The brig was obviously trading with the enemy – how else could they survive commercially in the eastern Mediterranean? It was their bad luck that the English had chosen to enter there now.
Bowden started to translate but the man waved him to silence. ‘Got luck, tenente,’ he said stolidly, and, more strongly, ‘By God grace, to wictory of the francesi, sir.’
‘Thank you, Cap’n,’ Kydd said, with a little bow. ‘Have you b’ chance seen ’em at sea on your voyage?’ he added casually, making rocking motions with his hands.
‘No, tenente. Not as after they sail fr’m Malta.’
Kydd couldn’t believe his ears. ‘They have left Malta?’
‘Certamente – all ships, all men, now sail.’
This was incredible. It was much too soon for the invasion fleet to sail back to France, but if not, where were they? He had to be sure. If on his word Nelson stopped looking around Malta for the fleet and went off in some other direction…
‘Captain, I have t’ know! Very important!’ The man nodded vigorously. ‘What day did they sail?’ asked Kydd.
‘Ah, seidici giugno. You say…’ He frowned in concentration, then traced sixteen in his palm and looked up apologetically.
Just four days previously! ‘Captain, what course did they steer when they left?’
‘Che?’
Kydd ground his teeth in exasperation. ‘Bowden, tell them.’