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happy babble arose. Kydd was pleased: it was a little enough thing, but it would mean much to those whose freedoms were normally so few.
    Kydd returned to his cabin to take stock. Each class of vessel had its establishment—its allowance of guns, personnel, stores entitlement: he had prepared his scheme of complement against this and needed to see how the numbers were proceeding. He was only too aware that he was taking outrageous liberties in his manning but he was relying on the fact that without there being a proper naval presence—the dockyard did not count—bold and resourceful moves would pay handsomely now, with explanations saved for later.
    The most conspicuous gap in his list was that of his only officer, a lieutenant. He knew only his name—Dacres, and a Peregrine Dacres no less. He was said to be in Malta but had not left word of his whereabouts.
    There was also the lack of a sailing master, and he had heard of no one yet appointed. Kydd’s allowance of two midshipmen was now filled with Bowden and the commissioner’s nominee, and most of the key petty officers were in place, with a surgeon expected soon.
    But where could a master’s mate be found in so distant a post as Malta? It was a vital question because the master’s mate in a brig would stand watch opposite the lieutenant and without one Kydd would have no alternative but to direct the master to take over or stand watches himself.

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    Julian Stockwin
    For the others he would make shift but Teazer ’s final standing officer, the gunner, was still on his way from Gibraltar. Apparently a green, just-certificated warrant officer, he had probably been shuffled to out-of-the-way Malta where he could do little harm as he learned. Kydd bit his lip: skill at arms was the deciding factor in any combat and a strong figure at the head of the gunnery crew was an asset.
    He had no lieutenant, no master or master’s mate. They were all appointed by commission or warrant and therefore there was nothing he could do.
    He returned on deck to hear raised voices from a boat coming alongside. “To come aboard,” Kydd ordered, hiding a smile. It was the dignified black face of Tysoe, his servant, and by the appearance of things he had not wasted his time while he had been waiting in the frigate. He was jealously guarding two pieces of furniture, which looked much like an officer’s cot and some kind of campaign-drawer set.
    Tysoe was clearly determined to take charge below: the furniture was wrestled through and into the captain’s bedplace to much clucking and keen glances, and a firm promise from Kydd to invest in the very near future in cabin appointments more in keeping with his position.
    It did bring up the question of his other domestics. He would have to find a steward, not so much for serving at table but to be responsible for Kydd’s own stores, which would be separate from the rest, and in this small vessel also to act as the purser’s assistant in issuing provisions. And he would need a coxswain to take charge of his barge and stand by him when required.
    Order was coming out of chaos: the boatswain was sending below the men who had sorted themselves into messes, and getting a semblance of balance of petty officers and seamen ready for assignment to watches.
    Kydd tried not to look too hard at the men: these were the

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    seamen who would work the ship and serve the guns for him.
    The success of his command—even the life of his ship—would be in their hands. He spotted Bowden talking with one of the Tenacious hands he had arranged to be sent from the frigate and crossed the deck. “Thank ye, Mr Bowden, that was well done.
    Please to—”
    His attention was diverted as a boat came alongside and an officer swung on to the main deck and made his way over.
    “Commander Kydd, sir?” he said evenly, removing his hat.
    “It is.”
    “Then might I present myself, sir? Lieutenant Dacres, come to join.”
    A peep of lace showed at his cuffs;