The Baltic Prize

Chapter 8

Heart thudding, Christopher Rowan gazed up at the big frigate from the sternsheets of the cutter bringing him to be one with her company. Tyger – her lines were strong, uncompromising; this was a pugnacious fighter, which had achieved daring feats that had set the whole country talking.

They were close enough now that he could see figures moving about the decks, one smartly swinging into the main-mast shrouds, another sitting astride a fore-royal yard, hundreds of feet up, apparently working a splice.

He gulped. Could he ever think to match up as one of the crew under the famous Captain Kydd?

‘Aye aye,’ bawled back the bowman, in answer to the hail from the quarterdeck. It would be a long time, if ever, that this cry would be for him, signifying an officer in the boat demanding due respect to his rank.

He felt strange and awkward, almost as if he was in disguise, for it was only his second day in uniform, that of a warrant officer no less! It had been a miraculous transformation from the insignificance of a volunteer with no formal duties, apart from that of keeping out of the way of every single man aboard, to this, someone who could roar orders at any, short of the exalted beings who strode the quarterdeck.

Roar orders – he cringed at the thought. Would they laugh at him? Would Captain Kydd regret taking him aboard?

Closer still, and the majestic lines of the frigate took on the fullness of a living structure, details of scrollwork, gun-port lids and well-tended rigging all complementing the underlying sweep of sturdy timbers and wales fore and aft.

In a practised curve, the boat came alongside and hooked on at the main-chains. A bluff, unspeaking lieutenant had shared the journey out and Rowan sat rigid and unmoving as the officer rose to leave the boat. He wasn’t about to make the cardinal blunder of getting out first: it was the inviolable custom for the senior to board last and leave first and he duly waited until he could mount the side-steps.

At the top he swung clumsily over the bulwark, his dirk scabbard catching in something as the drop to the deck was less than he’d anticipated after Brunswick. He straightened and looked around. No one seemed interested in his arrival but he knew his duty and marched smartly up to the officer-of-the-day.

‘Midshipman Rowan reporting as ordered, sir,’ he announced.

The officer, in comfortable blues and faded lace, looked at him with a faint curiosity. ‘To join ship?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Well, well. They get younger every day. Get your chest and we’ll find you a berth.’

Rowan hesitated.

‘Out of the boat and on deck, here,’ the officer said, as if to a simpleton.

Face burning, Rowan went to the side and looked down into the boat. Heart in his mouth, he hailed down to the upturned faces, ‘Er, send up my chest, there, you men.’

They looked at each other in astonishment.

‘That is, this instant, you – you blaggards!’ he shouted as loudly as he could.

It got attention, but not from the men. Watched by the frowning officer, one of those talking at the main-mast bitts detached himself and went over to him.

‘Now, m’lad, we does things properly in Tyger,’ he said kindly. The jolly-faced man must be the sailing master, for he wore their newly introduced uniform with the stand-up collar. ‘We rigs a whip an’ hoists our dunnage inboard in one, saves the men straining their backs, like.’

‘Thank you, sir, I’ll remember.’

‘Miller, see to it, will ye?’ he threw at an idle seaman.

A little later two men hefted his chest as though it was a feather-weight and, taking it down the main hatchway, they deposited it before the polished door in the centre of a sweep of panels that partitioned off the after end of the ship. Brunswick had a wardroom, but he knew enough that a frigate had a gunroom, which this would be and which he had no right to enter. The more humble compartment set out to one side would be his home – the midshipmen’s berth.

It was panelled only to half-height, with drawn curtains for the rest and another serving for a door. He could hear the murmur of conversation within. Tucking his brand-new cocked hat under his arm he took courage and went to the curtain ‘door’ but then found himself at a loss – how did you knock? He compromised by tapping hesitantly on an upright.

The voices stopped.

‘Come!’ The voice was manly and commanding. Rowan pulled the curtain aside and stepped in.

There were just two sitting at the table, a splay of cards in front of them.

‘Good God! A ghost – an apparition!’ cried an older midshipman of about sixteen, goggling at him in mock horror.

‘Um, my name’s Rowan and I’ve come to join Tyger,’ he stammered.

‘It speaks! Ye gods and little fishes, it speaks!’

‘Can I put my chest here?’

‘Why?’

Unable to think of a reply he didn’t move, feeling foolish.

‘Come on in, then, apparition,’ the older said, with a sudden grin. ‘Sit y’self down and tell us all about it.’

The compartment was all of twenty feet in length, mostly occupied with a long table and lit by a single guttering lamp. Homely implements were hung on the bulkheads and a colourful but grimy print took pride of place at the forward end.

Self-consciously Rowan came forward but there were no chairs.

‘We use our chests to park our arses.’ There was no hostility in the tone but no warmth either.

He dragged in his sea-chest, aware of their gaze on him.

Once seated, he looked up to meet their eyes.

‘I’m Daniel.’ It was the other, younger, midshipman. ‘Daniel Teague, that’s Tilly to you. And this is Neb Gilpin. Where are you from?’

It wasn’t his home town they were asking after. ‘Brunswick, 74, Captain Graves.’

‘My, you’ve done well to be quit o’ the old hooker into a crack frigate.’ Gilpin looked genuinely puzzled. ‘As our sainted captain swears he can’t abide snotty-nosed reefers aboard his ship, how did you swing it, whatever-your-name-is-again?’

‘I … I wrote him a letter.’

Gilpin’s face hardened. ‘Don’t flam me, fish-scut! You got family or what?’

‘No, no – that’s how it happened, honest!’

‘I don’t believe you, but we’ll leave it for now.’

‘It’s as I said, er, Neb – and my name is Christopher.’

‘Kit Rowan? It’ll do. Methinks we need to drink to it.’ He fished around under the table and came up with an anonymous brown bottle. Three chipped china mugs were found and coarse red wine gurgled out into them.

‘Tyger, as never a finer frigate swam.’

‘Tyger!’

Rowan had never drunk wine before: his father was abstemious and disapproving. It nearly made him gag.

‘Another!’

‘Thank you, no. I have to report to the captain and-’

‘Not aboard till sundown. We’re a hard-drinking crew in the middie’s berth, aren’t we, Dan? So drink up. Now, who’s family?’

‘Oh, my father’s a well-respected articled clerk with Hanson and Hanson and-’

‘That’ll do. Mine’s something in stock-jobbing. Never could work out what he did for his cobbs but it pays him well. Dan’s folks are-’

‘My father has the living of Bicknoller, which is in Somerset.’

Gilpin was about to retort when the curtain was yanked aside and a gleeful messenger poked his head in. ‘New mid. Desired to report t’ the cap’n right now! An’ he’s in a right taking he’s to wait upon your leisure!’

Stricken, Rowan got to his feet and raced for the upper deck and aft to the august and fearful quarters of his captain. In the confines of the lower deck he hadn’t heard the boatswain’s call piping him aboard for, unlike Brunswick, there were no guns and therefore no open gun-ports. Of all the disasters possible to start his time in Tyger!

Breathlessly he entered the coach and announced himself to the marine sentry, who half opened the door to the great cabin and blared, ‘Midshipman Rowan, sir.’

Inside a muffled voice called something and the sentry closed the door and grunted, ‘Busy. Will see yez shortly.’ Without expression, he resumed his vigil.

The waiting was hard to take and Rowan tried to occupy himself coming up with an alibi. Then he remembered Perrott’s gruff words. ‘In the navy you can have y’r reasons but never an excuse. Tell it like it was, an’ take it like a man.’

It steadied him, and when the time came, he marched in, cocked hat under his arm, and stood rigid before Captain Sir Thomas Kydd. ‘Reporting aboard, sir!’ he blurted.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Kydd said mildly, giving something to what was presumably his secretary. So much for the messenger’s dire prophecy – he’d made sport of him.

‘Um, yes, sir.’

Kydd looked him over politely. ‘A fine showing, Mr Rowan. We’re to sea very soon, however, and I’d suggest a seaman’s trousers more the thing than breeches. Have you found your berth?’

‘Sir.’

‘Then we must see about your duties. You shall be under Mr Bowden for divisions and he will be responsible to me for your instruction. Make yourself known and he’ll take care of the details.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Good. You didn’t say where you come from?’

‘Chilworth, sir, which is near-’

‘Yes, where they make the gunpowder as gives us our bite and roar. Well, Mr Rowan, you’ll be very much occupied so I won’t delay you further. Good luck, apply yourself diligently, and we’ll both be satisfied. Off you go, now.’

In a gust of relief, Rowan made his way back to his berth. But it was now a different place: at the far end of the table in the unnatural quietness sat a master’s mate, who was writing at his journal, while the two midshipmen sat opposite doing the same – Teague industriously scrawling, but Gilpin leaning back, glassy-eyed and sucking the end of his quill.

The master’s mate looked up sharply, then laid down his pen. ‘Ah, Johnny Raw now aboard,’ he said lazily. ‘I’m David Maynard – Mr Maynard to you. And I’m to welcome you to the Tyger Cockpitonians. You’ve made acquaintance with …?’

‘I have, sir.’

‘None o’ that, fellow. Only when I get my step to l’tenant, which has to be soon. Now, tell us about yourself, curly-top.’

All his personal details were laid bare: that he was not of noble ancestry, apparently an asset, and that he came from the same part of the country as Kydd was accounted his good luck. As advised, he kept his time at the Kydd School to himself.

‘You’ll do. I see Mr Gilpin has yet to finish his journal so I call on young Tilly here to take you on a grand tour of our noble barky – and if you can’t tell me where everything is a-low by the first dog, you’ll do it again in the last.’

‘Yes, Mr Maynard.’

‘And square away your chest and ditty bag first. Mr Bowden has the deck – you can see him after eight bells.’

The tour was thorough but, in a way, an easing of anxiety: all rated ships were largely the same. Tyger, as a frigate, lacked a poop-deck and had only one line of guns instead of two but, apart from small things, he could find his way about just as easily as he’d learned so painfully in Brunswick.

More useful was the information he was absorbing about her company.

Captain Kydd was as fierce and demanding as any crack frigate commander and all that he’d heard about his audacious exploits was true. And, if Tilly were to be believed, even in this unpromising fleet situation their captain could be relied on to snatch an adventure or two.

The frightening first lieutenant thankfully found midshipmen beneath his notice and the other two lieutenants were good sorts, but strict.

Maynard was a square-sailing cove, who didn’t stand for young gentlemen to disturb his quiet, but Gilpin would bear watching. Older, confident, his seamanship had brought praise even from the well-seasoned boatswain but his navigation was an ill-tempered trial. For the rest, he would find out in due course.

As foretold, in two days the fleet put to sea.

On the quarterdeck in his new uniform and dirk, Rowan was thrilled to the core as Kydd rapped orders that had them weighing anchor, men leaping to the shrouds and doing incomprehensible things that would be his study from now on.

Standing erect, and under every eye, he witnessed Tyger taking station seaward on watch and guard while the great fleet assembled in two lines, the commander-in-chief’s flagship, the famed Victory, in the van. If only his father could take in the scene now! The majesty and consequence of a ship-of-war putting to sea, the colours, salutes, the deadly purpose of prows cleaving the seas on their way to claim their rightful supremacy – it was electrifying, magnificent.