Tyger

CHAPTER 9

IT TOOK HOURS ONLY to reach the rendezvous line of the squadron on the front line of the defence of Britain.

Vice Admiral Russell’s force of a handful of sail-of-the-line came into view off the treacherous and hostile Texel and Scheldt. Their task: to keep the seas in all weathers and deny Bonaparte any chance to break out. A no less vital role was the tight blockade on the Netherlands coast and all the enemy ports either side to choke off trade in this new economic war.

The squadron was part of the strategic North Sea Fleet under Admiral Keith, with responsibility for the entire eastern approaches to Great Britain. With the Channel Fleet they’d succeeded in keeping England inviolate for more than a dozen long years.

Admiral Russell was welcoming. A frigate with its multiplicity of possible roles was the most valuable reinforcement a lonely commander might wish for. And at this remove Russell seemed not to have heard of the turbulence following Popham’s court-martial.

“You’ll stay for supper, my boy?”

“I thank you, sir, but there’s a matter of urgency I need to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“My ship Tyger was lately taken in mutiny.”

“I know about that. I’d hazard you’re going to tell me you’ve an entire new ship’s company and wish to train ’em to satisfaction. I can give you a week, that’s fair enough.”

“No, sir. Her company is the same as rose up.”

Russell frowned. “Not dispersed among the fleet at all? A rum do, that. The Admiralty knows b’ now what’s needed in such. I’m supposing they’re hard pressed for men-ha! Ha!”

“Ah, yes, sir. It’s just that-”

“I do apologise, Kydd. I didn’t mean to make light of such a drear affair. So all the officers the same, Captain Parker sent away and you hoisted in to sort it all out?”

“Sir.”

“So. I don’t envy you, old fellow. Are they settling, at all?”

“This is what I wanted to speak to you about. They’re as fractious and discontented a crew as ever I’ve seen and show not a sign of being reconciled. I don’t wish to revile Captain Parker’s commanding but-”

“You can take it I understand what you’re saying, Kydd. And a hard thing indeed when you know not a soul of your seamen, their temper.”

“I should tell you now, sir, that my judgement was to get to sea as quick as I could, and sadly therefore had to put aside much in the way of paperwork-handover accounts and similar until I’m in better position to give them attention.”

“Quite right.”

Relieved, Kydd went on, “Sir, what I ask is that you give orders as will see Tyger in action against the enemy just as soon as we may.”

“Done!” Russell agreed. “The inshore flotilla. Hard sea conditions but you might even snap up a prize or two, you never know. First, you’ll have to satisfy me you’re in a right and proper state for it.”

“The ship’s new stored, no powder and shot expended, and my boatswain’s survey gives me no concern for her sticks. It’s her crew only-that they’ll fight when called on. If they do, I can’t think of a more sovereign medicine for what ails ’em.”

“And if they don’t?” Russell frowned. “I admire your spirit, Kydd, but you’re taking a risk, m’ boy. Can I interest you in taking a fair-sized detachment o’ marines who-”

“Thank you, sir, no. They’ll not pull together if they see they’re under guard, and when they finally do, they’re to see it’s all their own efforts.”

“Well, anything I can do, give me a hail. Go now, you’ve things to attend to. I’ll have Flags get your orders and signals to you as soon as I can. Then it’s up to you.”

Unfamiliar with the waters, Kydd carefully scanned the charts. He had a frighteningly short time to get to know them enough to risk throwing his frigate into action.

The Texel, their nominal blockade station, was an island with the naval base of Den Helder that lay strategically across the main entrance to Holland’s inland waterways. North of it were the Frisians, an endless stretch of sandy islands in a continuous chain to Prussia, nothing but low dunes and mud-flats. South of it were the fertile plains and main population centres of the Netherlands-Amsterdam was beside the waters of the Zuider Zee, safely inland halfway to Rotterdam in the south, itself not far from the great port of Antwerp and the Scheldt river.

He summoned the master, the only one in the corrosive atmosphere he felt able to turn to. “Mr Le Breton. As you know, I’ve not seen service in these waters and I’d value your advice concerning likely objectives for our operations.”

“Of course, sir,” he said politely, but with an odd avoiding of Kydd’s eye.

Was this a reluctance to be drawn into the often dehumanising confidences of preparations for warfare? What Kydd was asking was irregular: a master had no part in operational planning and he was in effect opening a discussion about a course of action, a matter more properly for his lieutenants. But Kydd didn’t feel inclined to rely on them at this time and continued, “I have it in mind to give the men a taste of action, a chance to pull together.”

“Sir.” The guarded reply gave nothing away.

“And what I’m thinking is, to do the Dutch a mischief on their own doorstep. Tell me, how does shipping go about its business in these waters?”

Le Breton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The larger ships may never put to sea for fear of the blockade and cruisers offshore, and only a gale of wind from the southeast will release them. The smaller-well, with the coast so risky for ships as we, these are really meat for our inshore squadron, the sloops and cutters.”

“I know that, but times are strange and we’ve a need to prove ourselves. So-what game is there for the taking?”

The master looked away, then turned back with an aggressive gleam in his eyes. “The coast trade, this is in sizeable fluyts, which are flat-bottomed with leeboards and can take to shallows that vex our sloops. They are then safe, for no lesser draught cutter or similar dare approach a vessel of such size.”

“So these then sail up and down the coast without being troubled by our cruisers?”

“A considerable trade. When they sight same they head inshore where we cannot follow and continue on. But if we could just …”

“I can see what you’re saying, Mr Le Breton. If we could …”

He traced the depth figures for the coast south of the Texel. It was certainly hazardous: sandbars marked that were twenty miles or more out to sea, reversing tidal currents and worse, but if they were bold and conditions were right …

Nearly halfway down, the five-fathom soundings closed with the shore until at one spot they were within three miles. If they dared everything they could be within full view of any watcher ashore.

It was what he wanted.

Kydd had at one time been a privateer master and knew the tricks. Now what he was after was a nearby cove, an inlet, perhaps, or a creek. There were few but there was a small river issuing out at a place called Breesaap and well within the area.

“Here,” he announced, tapping the chart. “And this is what we’ll do. I mean to cruise along the five-fathom line, give ’em all a fright, as we’ll be plain within sight. They’ll think it a lunatic captain to bring a frigate in so close, and to take no chances with such they’ll go to ground somewhere safe, which I’ll wager will be this pawky river here.” He smiled. “And then it turns into a cutting-out expedition.”

“Sir. The hazards are many. We draw twenty-two feet aft and in anything of a sea …” In a five-foot swell, at the lowest point there would be just the length of a man’s arm depth of water under their keel.

“Indeed so. But mark that we have at the moment a slight swell only, a fair sou’westerly as goes with the coast, and not forgetting that these depths are chart datum only. Should we have the tide in our favour I do believe we must attempt it.”

The full moon would bring spring tides, in this part of the world a good six, seven feet.

They had a chance.

“We go in, Mr Le Breton. Keep it quiet for now while I complete plans-and thank you.”

“You’ll be acting soon, sir?”

“That you may believe,” Kydd said firmly.

“Yes, sir. Then might I know what you have in mind until then?”

“With these winds, I’d think to press on north. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just that I’d give it thought for anything I can suggest to you, sir.”

It didn’t take long for Kydd to work up the plan and he asked the first lieutenant to come to his cabin.

“This is by way of a bracer, Mr Hollis.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve a notion we’ll be seeing some action against the enemy this night. We’ve some preparing to do.”

The man jerked upright in astonishment, banging his head on a deck beam. “You can’t be serious, sir!”

“Why not, pray?”

“The-the men, they’re near mutinous, out of discipline!”

“All the better to find something to give ’em heart, don’t you think?”

Hollis looked incredulous. “How can you know they’ll fight? This is rank lunacy and-”

“Yes, Mr Hollis?” Kydd said dangerously. “Am I to believe you’re not in favour of taking the war to the enemy?”

“Well, I-”

“Then don’t you think we’d better begin our preparations, sir?” He pointed to the chart. “We close with the coast to the five-fathom line and cruise north. Then-”

“To … to five fathoms?”

“Yes. Tide’s with us from into the dog-watches-there’ll be fifteen feet or more under us. The Dutch run their fluyts inshore-you knew that, o’ course …”

“As you say.”

“We give ’em a fright by being so close, and they go for the nearest bolt-hole to wait it out until we’re past. That’s just what we want ’em to do, for that night we go in with the boats, cut out any we find and … What is it ails you now, Mr Hollis?” Kydd finished irritably.

“I can’t help remarking it,” the first lieutenant said stiffly, “we’re officers in the boats without marines, trusties? This is begging for calamity! The ship’s in a state of mutiny and we’re inviting anarchy. Have you never suffered mutiny? I have, and-”

“Enough!” Kydd grated. “There’s one damn good reason they’ll follow and you’ve not the wit to see it, sir!”

“Oh?” Hollis’s face was now a mask of hostility.

“This is not a yardarm-to-yardarm smashing match with a butcher’s bill to follow, all for the honour of the flag. No, sir! In this little exercise they stand to make a fat bag o’ prize guineas each, but only if we return to write their tickets.”

Kydd had the satisfaction of seeing the dawning of respect and continued, “I want the barky on a long board to seaward, to return on the starb’d tack to meet up with the coast at fifty-two twenty latitude where we’ll begin our cruise north.”

“Sir.”

“Carry on, then, Mr Hollis.”

After the lieutenant had left, Kydd reflected on what had been said. He, too, had suffered mutiny, the biggest the navy had ever experienced, but this was quite another species. At the Nore there had been good and clear reasons for the rebellion but here in Tyger …

He couldn’t put his finger on it; this was not how he’d foreseen things developing once they’d put to sea. There’d been no healing that he’d been able to detect. The same closed faces, silent and sullen working together, whispering, off-watch hours spent below instead of the usual hum of companionship on the fore-deck-all was profoundly disturbing.

Having served before the mast himself, Kydd knew what it was: the dire portent of a deeply riven ship’s company, the sign of “us and them” that was at the root of the most violent surges of discontent.

And it was unbridgeable. The worst thing he could do was address them with words to try to allay it, for that would be admitting his anxiety. Through his lieutenants he might have been able to spread a message that things were on the change for the better but with Hollis in open confrontation with them, his second, Paddon, retreating into himself and the third, Nowell, terrified and next to useless …

This united front against him, undiminished and sustained, implied that ringleaders were still at large, planning and co-ordinating. If so, what in Hades did they expect to get out of it? The most probable was that his sudden dash to sea had caught them by surprise, but that would suggest the rising was just to be deferred, almost certainly to when they got back to port. There was precious little time left to him to bring about a miracle.

None of it made any sense. But what he was about to do was the best course: to conjure some prize-money for them.

So much hung on the next few hours. If his reasoning was wrong and they came away empty-handed, it would be a serious matter. But in his bones he knew he was right: this was the way merchantmen behaved under threat.

Sitting alone in the bare great cabin, he hailed for Tysoe. There was no refinement such as a summoning bell yet. He waited. “Tysoe-ahoy there, you rascal!”

His manservant appeared at the cabin door. “Sir Thomas?” he said thickly.

Kydd started in surprise. Tysoe had a bloody scrape on the side of his face, his nose was battered and he moved awkwardly. “You’ve …”

“A disagreement only, Sir Thomas, not to concern yourself.”

“Who did this?” Kydd demanded harshly.

“As I said, sir, there’s nothing that may disturb you. Is there something I can do for you?”

“This is abominable. I want to know who did this to you, understand me?”

In dignified silence Tysoe made ineffectual gestures of tidying up; Kydd knew he was going to get nothing from him.

They closed with the coast and began their cruise northward soon after midday. Tension rose as they took up parallel to the shore. A handful of miles distant only, the low and featureless coastline was plainly visible and, pitilessly revealed by any with a telescope, near useless for navigation.

Here the shape of the seas was disordered, toppling and confused as they passed over the notorious sand-waves below, mighty tide-shaped subsea hillocks that directed surging currents vertically as well as to the side.

The day was perfect, however, and the wind fair and brisk. Sail was seen up against the shoreline but their rig quickly identified them as small fry.

What Kydd was after were the substantial two- or three-masted vessels seeking to break blockade. Hopefully Tyger had been quickly sighted and they had scuttled in haste to their hideaways. Or was he wrong in his reasoning? After all, the Dutch had their spacious inland waterways and canals: why risk the open sea?

And would his men obediently man the boats for the dangerous pull inshore on a hostile coast, or would it bring on what he feared most? As far as he could see, preparations were going ahead without the men balking, even if there was still that same surly reluctance. Was the prize-money bait working? He allowed himself a stab of hope.

Later in the afternoon a sharp-eyed lookout swore he’d seen a three-master close inshore in the haze far ahead but it had then disappeared. This was in the area more or less up with Breesaap but the vanishing act was worrying. It might indicate anything from sail being doused, to invisibility as it snugged into its bolt-hole, to the casual alignment of the masts of two lesser craft.

He would have to take the chance.

For their expedition the launch and red cutter would make the assault and the barge and blue cutter would lie off to seaward, with extra men if needed.

What had been a simple enough drill in L’Aurore was turning into a gravely difficult task. In any close-quarter fighting it was vital to have good fighters to the fore, to press on courageously and without hesitation so others would follow in good heart. Weak or timorous men leading would hang back at the first opposition and all would be lost. Where was he going to find these good men?

He’d decided he would lead in the launch and Paddon would follow in the cutter. It was usual for the captain’s coxswain to take the tiller and stand by him in the action to follow. Aboard Tyger none was yet rated, but Kydd knew whom he wanted. And he’d tell him to muster a boat’s crew he could trust. It would be very much in his interest to go for good men to fight beside him-and thereby Kydd would have his picked men.

The one he had in mind was a fair-headed giant of a man, part of the fo’c’slemen and therefore a tried and reliable seaman. He was quiet and, like so many big men, moved lightly. He carried himself with dignity, almost aloofness, which Kydd put down to his Scandinavian origins. It would be too much to expect him to be completely unaffected by the malign influence of whatever was behind Tyger’s malaise but at the least he could be relied upon to be steady.

He entered the great cabin warily to stand before Kydd, shapeless cap in hand but with a direct and fearless gaze.

“You’re Halgren. A Dansker-Norwegian, perhaps?”

“Strom Halgren of Kristianstad. A Swede, sir.” The voice was deep but soft, the manner wary.

Kydd had an instant taking to the man, the silent strength in his character reaching out to him. This was a seaman who would be an asset in any man’s watch.

“Halgren, I’ve a mind to rate you up. To captain’s coxswain. How does that suit?”

To his surprise, the man dropped his head and shuffled his feet without answering.

“You don’t want the rate? I can’t force it on you.”

Halgren remained doggedly silent and didn’t look up.

“Very well,” Kydd said, trying to keep the bitterness from his words. “Carry on.”

Nonetheless he’d see that Halgren was at the tiller when they went in.

As dusk settled, any anxious eye ashore would have spied Tyger giving up her audacious but fruitless inshore cruise and making for the open sea. But Kydd knew that no master worth his salt would hazard his ship by resuming his voyage among the shoals in the hours of darkness-their prey would still be where they’d been driven.

The frigate sailed hull-down offshore in the gathering dark, then hove to. Conditions were unequalled for what they were about to do: calm seas, a little night breeze and complete darkness until they struck. Then there was the rising of a full moon to aid their carrying to sea a strange vessel.

The only unknown was Tyger’s men.

Boats were manned, arms handed down and stowed, a massive axe new-sharpened for cutting the cable. Paddon in the red cutter embarked and lay off, a shapeless shadow on the gloom of the sea. Kydd couldn’t help noting that there’d been none of the familiar nervous bravado and black humour as they boarded, only a sly and secretive murmuring. But, thank God, they had obeyed his orders and were on their way.

For all that, he was taking no chances, waiting until the barge and other cutter had been filled and pushed off. Then he swung over the bulwark and dropped into the sternsheets of the launch.

It was too dark to make out faces properly but he felt reassured at the sight of Halgren’s bulk at the tiller and the stolid mass of men at the oars.

“Give way,” he ordered, then added loudly, “and stretch out-we’ve a purse o’ Dutch gold each to collect this night.”

This brought an immediate ripple of comment and the occasional chuckle. He’d been right: there was no doubting what had them obediently at the oars now. Dare he hope that this was the turning point?

The boats headed in; he was following a compass bearing to Breesaap and the unnamed little river.

With all his heart he willed there to be a fluyt lying there …

Dimly ahead he could see the occasional line of white at the edge of the sea and he strained to make out features in the low coast, anything that pointed to a river mouth. He couldn’t see one that did-and there was no time to be flogging up and down looking for it. When the full moon rose, the alarm would be raised and then there would be no chance.

They had to turn either up or down the shoreline. Which was it to be? It couldn’t be far off-the compass bearing would set them in the right area-but if he chose the wrong side they could be uselessly pulling away from it.

He concentrated furiously. The bearing was right but if the slight breeze from the southwest had taken more effect over that mile or two, then …

“Larb’d, follow the coast,” he snapped.

The tiller went over and, snatching a glance astern, he saw the other boats conform. If he’d guessed wrong-

There! A clump of bushes and another distant from it and nothing between.

Heart bumping, Kydd made motions for the other boats to come up.

“Lay off. I’m going in to reconnoitre,” he whispered urgently.

It was a modest enough river, easing out to sea through the dunes but with depth of water enough to take a reasonable-sized vessel.

There was a bend to the right; they eased up to it to see around and-lights!

Not one but two ships lay at rest by the bank, quiet, unsuspecting.

“Back!” Kydd growled, hoping his elation didn’t show.

Quickly he came alongside Paddon’s boat. “Two of ’em and I want both. Merchantmen, shouldn’t cause you problems. I’ll take the further, you the nearer. Be sharp about it-moon rises in half an hour.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Paddon said, with irritating detachment.

The men bent to their oars and the launch surged forward, the cutter not far behind. Pulling like madmen they entered the river and started around the bend. There was no time for stealth or elaborate cunning-this was an assault by storm!

It worked. Only when within a hundred yards or so did an urgent cry go up from the nearer vessel and dim figures boiled up from below.

“Lay out like good ’uns, lads!” Kydd roared, slapping his side with the intensity of his feeling.

They passed the first ship as several muskets banged off, a derisory defence in the blackness. They came up fast on the further one, hearing harsh shouts behind them as Paddon’s crew prepared to board.

It was happening: they were going to do it!

Forcing coolness, Kydd concentrated on the approach. There were figures active on the quarterdeck but none forward-they’d board by the fore-chains.

The launch curved in and in the same moment that the bowman hooked on the rest were swarming up, screeching and yelling, effortlessly swinging over on to the little fore-deck. Caught up in the excitement, Kydd did likewise, adding his battle cries to the others.

At the sight of the boarders the Hollanders wasted no time. In a body they splashed into the water and struck out for the shore.

They had the ship! Against all the odds, they had taken a prize.

Something caught his eye. A rocket soared from Paddon’s ship and burst overhead with a huge lazy sparkle. What did it mean?

But Kydd had no time to think about it.

“Cable party-do your duty!” They loped forward with the big axe.

Inland and not so far away came an answering rocket, curving balefully across the sky. And another, further away.

“Topmen, lay aloft!”

There was canvas bent on the yards as he’d known it would be-with a small merchant-service crew it would not be a popular move to send it down when they’d be putting to sea the next day.

He sniffed the wind. A cast to starboard should do it. At this rate they’d get away well before … An indistinct figure was standing before him. “Sir, can’t cut the cable.”

“What? Get on with it, man!”

“It’s made o’ iron. Shackles an’ all.”

“Well, cast it off, damn it!”

“As it’s secured t’ a strongback an’ we can’t make it out in the dark. Two on ’em, too!” said the unknown voice, resentfully.

Kydd tried to think.

In one stroke the tables had been turned. Even if they found the tools it would take hours to cut through a wrought-iron cable link and this showed forethought: the cable would be doubled around the bitts and taken ashore again with its final securing hidden in the darkness. But if it were not released …

On the night air came the faint but urgent sounds of a martial drumming. Somewhere a militia had been called out to resist the English pirates.

He should have known! The inshore squadron of sloops and others would have made this coast a fearful place through cutting-out expeditions of their own. This was only the Dutch taking measures to deter them, and he had blundered into it.

Gulping down his bitterness he bowed to Fate. He must abandon their prize and return empty-handed, and with the militia on their way, he would not even have the satisfaction of properly setting fire to the ship.

“Into the boat,” he said dully.

Was there nothing he could do? Valuable articles to be seized at all costs were the navigation charts and papers that could provide precious intelligence.

“Keep alongside until I get back,” he called down to the launch, and hurried below.

The master’s cabin was easy to find but in the darkness impossible to ransack. He lunged outside to find a lanthorn but the haul was miserly. Outdated coastal charts and papers in Dutch that could mean anything.

He clattered up the companionway to the deck-already there was an appreciable ghostly lightening as the moon began lifting. Running to the ship’s side he-

The boat was not there!

He looked about frantically and spotted it disappearing into the murk after Paddon.

They had deserted him, left him to be taken or killed! The realisation shook Kydd.

A trumpet call sounded in the blackness, much nearer than the other.

He had to do something! But … what?

If he made it to the shore and blundered about looking for a path he’d quickly be found by the locals. And in full uniform what chance did he have in the open country?

Seething with rage and hopelessness, he could do nothing but wait for capture-or some militiaman cutting him down with a musket.

Then, with a catch in his throat at the unfairness of it all, he saw a miracle: out of the same blue river haze, the launch, pulling fast for the ship. They had come back for him-but, in God’s name, why?

Now was not the time to question it and he swung down into the fore-chains and when the bows of the launch touched he jumped in, knocking the bowman aside.

“Back-water!” It was Halgren’s voice, now harsh and commanding.

Kydd made his way aft clumsily through the rowers just as shouts erupted on the opposite bank.

“Hold water larb’d, give way starb’d.”

Through the reeds there was a vivid gun-flash of a musket and then another.

The launch was curving around and unavoidably nearing the bank. Half a dozen gun-flashes came at once, the whuup of a ball close, but Kydd knew that they had destroyed their night vision by firing too early and there was little to fear.

He thumped into the sternsheets seat and sat back, breathing deeply with tension and relief.

He got back aboard no wiser as to why they’d come back for him. Was it Halgren, or was it a general consensus with his agreement? The big seaman disappeared quickly and Kydd decided against calling him back for explanations.

But he felt a tiny stab of hope. At least someone cared about what happened to him.

On the other hand, there was no denying the mood was ugly. In the darkness he heard savage shouts, sour rejoinders.

Hollis barely concealed his contempt and Paddon needed prodding to admit the fact that he’d even had one deserter, leaping ashore to vanish into the night. He’d pleaded confusion as to why he’d left Kydd to his fate. Most likely he’d made away without seeking orders just as soon as the situation had become plain.

Only the sailing master showed any kind of sympathy, asking for details and commiserating quietly.

The boats were hoisted in and the ship reverted to sea routine, heading out under easy sail.

Kydd took a cold supper, still shaken by events. Too keyed up to sleep, he decided to take his customary turn around the upper deck even though it was well into the night.

It was chilly and he hugged his coat to him as he left the group around the helm and made his way forward.

The ship heaved at an increased swell. Cloud had come up to blot out the moon-there’d be heavy rain before morning.

Jumbled thoughts raced through his mind as he slowly paced along, the darkness now near absolute, the white of wave-crests almost luminous out in the blackness.

He reached the fore lookouts and returned down the opposite side, trying to come to a conclusion. But nothing made sense and things were getting worse.

Turning at the taffrail aft he began another pace forward.

The officer-of-the-watch, Nowell, and the quartermaster stood silently, watching in blank curiosity.

Passing the boats on their skids amidships Kydd felt the beginnings of despair. There was only a short time to pull off a miracle and he didn’t have anything. If he couldn’t …

At the sound of a sudden scuffle behind him he twisted round. A blow aimed at the back of his head took him on the side instead. Disoriented, he fell to his knees-and they were on him.

Instinctively he seized a rope and clung to it, lashing out viciously with both feet, which connected solidly with two of the assailants. They staggered back, the third irresolute.

Kydd let out a choking cry, then a shout.

His attackers turned and fled but in the dark he hadn’t been able to see their faces clearly.

Gasping, he waited for help-but then, in sudden dawning realisation, he understood: he was succeeding. He now had conclusive proof that there was an evil mind behind the whole thing, holding his crew in thrall by some means but now so desperate to stop him that he’d taken the grave risk of having him attacked on his own ship-because he was getting through to the seamen.

In a haze of relief that overcame his pain he heard running feet and the quartermaster, followed by Nowell, arrived.

“Sir-what …?”

Kydd was ready for it. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr Nowell. I tripped and hit my head. That’s all. A bit of a sea tonight, don’t you think?”

If he could just find this devilish plotter and put an end to him-he’d cleanse the ship of the man’s malign sway over the Tygers.