Inferno

Chapter 32

Sheerness, Isle of Sheppey, England

It seemed he was not to be suffered to rejoin his ship without the most punctilious ceremony. Watched by a gathering crowd, and accompanied by the martial thump and clash of a military band, Captain Sir Thomas Kydd boarded his barge at the steps of the harbour.

The boat was new varnished, picked out in scarlet and green; even the oars were delicately tipped in white and the tiller worked with decorative knots. The boat’s crew were kitted in smart black and yellow striped jerseys, blank expressions on each sea-weathered face. His coxswain Halgren’s usual characterful sea headwear was now a smart low-crowned black hat, with an elaborate Tyger to the fore, picked out in gold thread.

Kydd stood for a moment to acknowledge the crowd’s adulation, then gave the order to put off for the stirring vision of the powerful frigate at anchor by the point.

Tyger was in such different shape from what she’d been those weeks ago when she’d faced three of her kind in a battle to the finish. Given priority by a gratified Admiralty, her hurts had quickly been made good and no expense spared to bring her to a distinguished splendour – bright-sided, gun-port lids in scarlet, new bunting, and her figurehead a dazzling white and gold.

Such a contrast with the mutiny-ship he had first come aboard. Now there was no row-guard slowly circling, no boarding nettings rigged to deter desperate men from deserting, no dowdy neglect or decrepit makeshift: she was the picture of a prime frigate in the first line of securing freedom of the seas for Great Britain’s widening empire.

When Halgren’s answering bellow, ‘Tyger!’ had formally advised the frigate of her commander’s approach, there was an instant response. To the urgent rattle of drums men swarmed up the shrouds in a disciplined rush. Reaching the fighting tops, they extended out along each yard-arm and, clasping hands, stood motionless.

Coming aboard, from the corner of his eye Kydd took in the figure of Stirk, standing with the side party. There was a tiny flicker of conspiratorial recognition on the hard face, then a return of the blank countenance. They’d had rare times ashore in Scotland but it was clear that this would never be touched on. Kydd was the captain, back in his rightful domain; Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate, just where he wanted to be.

There was a moment’s stillness. Then the figure at the mainmast head, the highest point of all, raised his cap and whirled it about with a cry. From two hundred throats came an answer: the full-hearted roar of a cheer – and another, and another.

Kydd stood bare-headed, his mind charged with emotion as the noise volleyed and echoed in the anchorage. This was his ship, and he and her company were now indisputably one with her.

As he entered his cabin Tysoe, with impeccable bearing, took his boat-cloak and gold-laced bicorne. Kydd settled with a sigh into his favourite armchair at the stern windows. As if by magic a plate of delicate caraway biscuits had appeared on the occasional table at his side, with a single glass of Manzanilla Pasada.

The great cabin was transformed. The stored furniture from L’Aurore, his previous command, had been sent for, the Argand lamps, miniatures, ornaments – even the ornate multi-compartmented escritoire. Silver gleamed on the sideboard and the central table shone in a deep lustrous mahogany. His bedplace now held a proper cot, and the washstand was equipped with all of the conveniences that a gentleman of fashion could possibly desire.

Another sigh escaped. In the short time that had passed since L’Aurore had been in the Caribbean, Fortune had both smiled and frowned on him.