Free Command by Julian Stockwin

rose in him as the swell from the open sea caused the first regular heaving and the deck became alive under his feet.
    On either side grim fortresses guarding the entrance slipped past until the coast fell away and Teazer —his very own ship—felt the salt spray on her cheeks and knew for the first time the eternal freedom of the ocean.
    She was a sea-witch! Her lines were perfect—her willing urge as she breasted the waves, and eagerness in tacking about, would have melted the heart of the most calloused old tar. Kydd’s happiness overflowed as, reluctantly, they returned to moorings in the last of the light.
    But there were things that must be done. He had learned much of Teazer ’s ways—every ship was an individual, with character and appeal so different from another. As with a new-married couple, it was a time to explore and discover, to understand and take joy, and Kydd knew that impatience had no place in this.
    There was not so much to do: the lead of a stay here, the turning of a deadeye there, redoubled work with holystone and paintbrush. His mind was busy: the ship’s tasks included, among other things, the protection of trade and it would be expected that he begin showing the flag at some point, the ideal excuse for an undemanding cruise to shake down the ship’s company.

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    Julian Stockwin

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Kydd found time to go in search of cabin stores: it was unthinkable for a captain to go “bare navy”—ship’s rations only—for there would be occasions when he must entertain visitors. It seemed, however, that “table money” for the purpose of official entertainment was the prerogative of a flag officer alone, and therefore he must provide for himself. Fortunately he had been careful with his prize-money won previously, knowing that prospects of more were chancy at best.
    He was no epicure and had no firm idea of the scale of purchases necessary, but he knew one who did. The jolly-boat was sent back for Tysoe, who had been previously in the employ of a distinguished post-captain. It was an expensive but illuminating afternoon, which left Kydd wondering whether the cherries in brandy and a keg of anchovies were absolutely necessary on top of the currant jelly and alarming amount of pickles; Kydd hoped fervently that the wine in caseloads would not turn in the increasing heat of early summer, but he trusted Tysoe.
    Kydd took the opportunity as well to find some articles of decoration: the bare cabin was stiff and unfriendly—it needed something of himself. Diffidently he selected one or two miniatures and a rather handsome, only slightly foxed picture of an English rustic scene. These, with a few table ornaments and cloths, made a striking improvement—the silver would have to wait: his substance was reducing at a dismaying rate. Later, if he had time, he would do something about his tableware. If only his sister Cecilia were on hand . . .
    There was no one of naval consequence to notice the little brig-of-war as she slipped her moorings and made for the open sea.
    No one to discern the bursting pride of her commander, who stood four-square on her quarterdeck in his finest uniform, her brand-new pennant snapping in the breeze, her men grave and

    Command
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    silent at their stations as they sailed past the bastions of the last fortress of Malta, outward bound on her first war voyage.
    Kydd remained standing, unwilling to break the spell: around him the ship moved to sea watches, the special sea-duty men standing down as those on regular watch closed up for their duty and others went below until the turn of the watch. The boatswain checked the tautness of rigging around the deck while the ting-tinging of the bell forward brought up the other watch, the shouts of a petty officer testily mustering his crew sounding above the swash and thump of their progress—it was all so familiar but, at this moment, so infinitely precious.
    “Mr Bonnici,” Kydd called, to the figure in the old-fashioned