Tyger

CHAPTER 11

“WELL, ’PON MY SOUL!” Admiral Russell sat back in admiration. “And I honour you for it, m’ boy! It was the thing to do, to be sure. You’d never have irons enough to keep ’em all under eye, an’ without you knew who was a rogue, well, that was a rattling good catch to root ’em out, I’m bound to say.”

“Thank you, sir. I was concerned that without prisoners for the court-martial it would-”

“Never fret, sir. There’ll be no court-martial, conceivably perhaps a quiet court of inquiry. Admiralty don’t like it known there’s unrest, let alone Frenchy agents abroad.”

He reflected for a moment. “You’ll be grievous short-handed then, and lacking a third lieutenant.”

“And a sailing master, sir.”

“Quite. I see nothing for it but a quick return to Yarmouth with my note of encouragement to the Impress Service. You shouldn’t suffer botheration over a new third-there’s enough young sprigs around kicking their heels.”

“I’ll sail this hour, sir-and thank you for your understanding.”

When the anchor went down in Yarmouth Roads Kydd could not suppress a shuddering sigh. He knew so little about any of his company: both they and his ship were still largely an unknown quantity.

But now there were other things to see to.

The first was to send off his official report of events to the Admiralty, including a mention that his actions had had the complete approbation of the admiral commanding the North Sea squadron.

In a separate cover he took up their commitment to allow him to name his officers and asked for Bowden and Brice-he didn’t want to see Paddon again. And more in hope than expectation, while acknowledging that even as the rate of his ship did not warrant it, the appointment of one Clinton as acting captain, Royal Marines, to stand by his current raw lieutenant after his ordeal would be much appreciated.

There was one other he would give a great deal to secure: Dillon, his former confidential secretary. He hurriedly penned a note, regretting the lack of notice and urging him, if interested, to lose no time in joining.

There was no question of liberty ashore for the Tygers. “They have to earn it first, Mr Hollis!” he had said loudly, on deck, within the hearing of nearby hands. He wasn’t going to risk losing even more men in the nervous, febrile atmosphere that followed recent events and before he had had a chance to pull the ship together.

The first lieutenant was treating him with something like hero-worship-or was it that it was in Kydd’s power to have him replaced as well? He’d decided to keep Hollis because he knew the ship and seamen well and would probably be amenable to Kydd’s ways in the future.

Kydd stormed ashore to the impress office, leaving Tysoe to do what he could to ransack local shops and chandlers in an attempt to make his living spaces comfortable, and to lay in cabin stores as he saw fit.

“Not much of a catch locally,” he was told, on showing Russell’s letter of encouragement, “but with this authorisation, I can send to Sheerness for you. Can’t promise you’ll get your full entitling but …”

Back on board Kydd publicly railed at the purser for not moving faster in securing the sweets of the land for his ship’s company: “soft tommy”-baked bread in place of hard tack-beer, fresh beef, greens and all the little things that went far in making a sailor’s life a modicum more bearable.

When that had been put in train he called for the big Swede and put the question again.

“Aye, sir,” Halgren said slowly. “I’d like it right well, sir.”

He now had a captain’s coxswain.

On the third day the press tender arrived with barely satisfactory numbers, and later Bowden and Brice reported aboard, recounting how they had suddenly been plucked from the disconsolate crowd of petitioning lieutenants in the Admiralty and told to join HMS Tyger that very day.

Barely suppressing his delight as he welcomed them, Kydd told them briefly what had happened and they handed over orders they were carrying.

Kydd was a little taken aback as he was under the command of the North Sea squadron and therefore not normally at the disposal of the Admiralty.

In his cabin he opened the packet quickly: a single page only. It seemed it was convenient to their lordships that Tyger lay at Yarmouth at this time, for they were minded to detach her for a short but important service: he should hold himself at readiness. In the event a Mr Stuart of the Foreign Office would make contact with him in the near future for a mission of great discretion.

His eyes narrowed. Was this to be a malicious complication to crowd in on Tyger before he had worked the ship up to something like effectiveness?

But it was no use worrying about it: this Mr Stuart would reveal all when he came. Meanwhile he had other matters to attend to.

There was the mountain of paperwork he had necessarily set aside. If only Dillon … but might he be expecting too much? So little notice and the young man might have decided that the comforts of Eskdale Hall were to be preferred to the stern realities of sea life.

He took a deep breath and set to on the pile.

When the Foreign Office emissary arrived in Yarmouth he insisted he saw Kydd in the office of the senior naval officer ashore, with no one else present.

“You come highly recommended, Sir Thomas,” he said, studying Kydd with interest, “for this mission, which is of a singular importance, I might say.”

“Thank you, sir. Yet I should warn you that my ship is untried, many of her crew having newly joined. In the article of fighting I cannot be sanguine that-”

Stuart smiled thinly. “It should not come to that, Captain. A straightforward assignment but one that touches on the very core of England’s struggle against Bonaparte.”

Kydd felt irritation. “I’ve had my share of hard service, Mr Stuart. Be so good as to tell me the details directly.”

“Very well. What I’m about to tell you is for you alone. Not another soul, you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Kydd sighed.

“Then this is the essence. It is of the utmost importance to keep Tsar Alexander in the war against the French. Since the fall of the Third Coalition after Austerlitz, Russia is the only power of significance left on the continent of Europe to oppose the tyrant. At all costs we must preserve relations or we stand on alone-none other by our side!”

“I see.” This much was common knowledge and Kydd had only recently returned from a close liaising with Admiral Senyavin of the Imperial Russian Navy.

“Captain, we want you to convey to Gothenburg a subsidy due the Tsar, in the amount of one half of a million pounds in specie.”

Kydd caught his breath. Never in his life had he heard of such an amount mentioned anywhere. With his own pay recently raised to fifteen pounds and eight shillings a month, he’d have to serve something like a thousand years and more to see its like. “That’s a great deal of responsibility, Mr Stuart.”

“Your ship is the only one of sufficient weight of metal available. Now, please to pay particular attention. At seven in the morning a detachment of the Royal Horse Artillery will arrive in Yarmouth with their field pieces. In the limber of every odd-numbered gun will be concealed a number of cases labelled ‘Explosive Shot.’ These will be taken directly to the jetty where your boat will be waiting under guard from the Yeomanry. Clear?”

“I understand.”

“Once aboard you will treat the cases as experimental ordnance, to be stored in the ship’s magazine.”

“Yes.”

“On arrival at Gothenburg you will be approached by a member of the British Embassy, who will be identified by a paper that you will now sign.”

“Presumably sent ahead by dispatch boat.”

“Quite.”

Kydd scrawled his signature on the paper.

“You will then follow any instructions you are given. Do not fail, sir, upon your peril!”

The next morning the men in Tyger’s launch and a cutter lay on their oars and precisely on time two carts, guarded importantly by the Norfolk Yeomanry, ground to a stop by the jetty.

A mystified gunner stood by Kydd’s side on the rain-swept pier.

With a flourish, the subaltern in charge produced his paper and considerately held his cape over Kydd while he signed: never again would a fabulous treasure such as this be in his charge.

“Strike the cases into the launch-and be damned careful of it!” he snapped nervously.

Half a million pounds, it seemed, required seven stout chests, and as they took their place along the centre-line of the big boat, Kydd suffered a moment’s giddy vision: halfway to Tyger the weight of the gold becomes too much for the planking, which gives way and sinks the launch, putting the fortune out of reach for ever.

But he was being paid freight money, awarded to the captain of any naval vessel charged with the carriage of bullion in consideration of the worry at its presence. Lately the amount had varied, a small percentage of the value, he’d heard. And on half a million that stood to be a useful sum.

In heartfelt relief he saw the cases swayed aboard and carried forward by the gunner’s party to the main magazine. Fending off murmurings from the gunner, he turned to greet a welcome figure.

“Mr Clinton!” He started in mock surprise at the brand new epaulettes. “Or should it be Captain Clinton?” He shook hands warmly, touched to see the man who had calmly done his duty in the final days at Buenos Aires only to be cut down with a near-mortal wound at Constantinople. “You are well?”

“Perfectly recovered, sir-that is, Sir Thomas,” he added, with a broad grin.

There was no sign of Dillon but Hollis was waiting with a surprise. “The pressed men mustered and rated, sir. No prime hands but the Sheerness draft has a few that look promising.” He waited a moment, then added, in an odd voice, “And when shall you rate the volunteers?”

“Volunteers?” Kydd said, in amazement. Who the devil would sign up to join a ship recently in mutiny? Nevertheless he promised he would see them shortly.

In his cabin Tysoe was distracted with the unpacking and stowage of the new furniture and stores. Kydd left him to it and returned on deck. “So. Where are these volunteers, Mr Hollis?”

They were brought before him … Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate and fine L’Aurore seaman. Next to him, Doud and his inseparable shipmate Pinto, shuffling their feet bashfully.

“You’re right welcome, all of you,” Kydd said, conscious of Hollis’s curiosity. “As I’d never wish for a better parcel o’ hands. But how …?”

“Heard you was shipping out, thought we’d join ye, sir! Wouldn’t be right, puttin’ to sea without we looks after the barky.”

Kydd knew there would be no further explanation given.

Pinto and Doud would certainly find a petty officer’s berth but for Stirk this was another matter. He’d been a gunner’s mate, which could prove difficult as Tyger had one already, a wizened old sailor who was apparently a friend of the gunner. A comfortable situation like yeoman of the powder room would serve for now.

A little later a jolly man of some years in a characterful tricorne of a past age clambered aboard. “Cap’n Sir Thomas?” he breezed, snatching off his hat. “An’ I was tipped the wink b’ Mr Burke as y’ might be in need of a sailing master. I introduce m’self-Nehemiah Joyce, master o’ the Ramillies as was, come t’ offer m’ services.”

Kydd had reservations at the man’s age. “What recent service have you, Mr Joyce?”

“Why, not three years afore-Queen Caroline, ninety-eight.”

“I thought she was a guardship at Sheerness, and hulked?”

The man’s face fell. “As it was m’ last ship before I swallowed the anchor t’ be with m’ lady wife in Yarmouth.”

It was the way of it for a long-service warrant officer, given a soft berth in his final post in the navy before retiring. For all that, he looked spry enough.

“You’ve seen your share of service, I’d wager.”

His open features creased with remembrance. “Aye, sir! Started in Ferret, cutter, removed into Terrier, sloop, and after … No, I tell a lie, it were Crescent first, then Terrier-rare sailer, she! Nothing from Ameriky could stay with her on a broad reach. Then it was-”

“Frigates?”

“Sir,” Joyce said, affronted. “First one I has after I gets m’ paper from Trinity, an’ it were Quickmatch. Naught but a sluggard, whatever we does. In Lacadaemon ’twas another story. Why, when we had bowlines up-”

“Thank you. So now you think to abandon your good wife to return to adventuring at sea.”

“Oh, but that’s me answerin’ the call t’ duty, sir!”

“I see. Very patriotic of you, Mr Joyce. I can only offer you an acting position.”

“That’ll do me, sir.” His joyous smile couldn’t help but bring a twitch to Kydd’s lips.

“We sail shortly on a voyage to Gothenburg. See we’ve charts to suit, if you will and welcome on board!”

With the secret freight in her bowels he had no intention of delaying and, despite the hour, by the first dog-watch, stations for unmooring ship was piped.

Kydd watched discreetly. There were no visible signs of discontent among the seamen but on the other hand neither was there the peculiar mix of exuberance and rueful acceptance that usually went with a ship outward bound.

It was now entirely up to him. The heart and soul of Tyger was his to win.

Then as they tripped their anchor, just as it had happened in L’Aurore, the last boat from the shore brought Dillon, a cheery figure standing perilously in the sternsheets of a fishing smack.

It was their first night at sea and Kydd’s invitation to the gun-room came promptly. Their heads turned respectfully as he entered and took his place at the end of the table.

“So kind in you to invite me,” he said formally, to Hollis on his right, the mess president.

A subdued murmur was his polite welcome from the rest.

Kydd looked forward keenly to this time: it was the only occasion aboard ship that he could reach out and make sociable contact with the officers who would run his ship for him-and, of course, for them to take measure of the captain who would rule over them.

“Our pleasure, sir,” came the first lieutenant’s equally formal reply.

Down the table faces steadily looked his way, expectant or apprehensive, curious and guarded.

He motioned to the servants who stood behind their chairs. “Gentlemen,” he began genially, “I’d be interested in your opinion of this Frontignac from my private stock. It’s much cried up in London, these days.”

When they were served, Kydd tasted his and went on pleasantly, “I rather think I should introduce to you Tygers the strangers we see here tonight. On my larb’d side is Mr Bowden, a gentleman of long acquaintance, who was with me at Menorca when we entertained the Dons with our patent signal method of pantaloons and bloomers.”

It was gratifying to see the goggling eyes at this admission from the legendary Sir Thomas Kydd.

“And opposite is Mr Brice, who’s no stranger to the North Sea, preferring more of a blow than is offering now. It was diverting indeed to see him standing forrard in L’Aurore, scornful of the Turk that they had no bigger shot to throw at him than a marble ball a fathom around.”

This brought admiring chuckles and a tangible easing around the room.

“And at the end there you’ll find Master Dillon, my confidential secretary, a scholar and staunch landlubber, whose ancient Greek confounded not only the treacherous Ottomans but also the ship’s entire complement of midshipmen.”

This was met with relaxed laughter.

“Captain Clinton sits yonder, new-rigged and splendid, but I remember him best as a pox-doctor flamming the Spaniards in South America.”

Incredulous looks flashed across the table at the pink-faced Royal Marine.

“And, finally, our newest member who seems set fair to be our oldest-Mr Nehemiah Joyce, sailing master, who I’m sure if pressed could conjure a yarn or two.”

A babble of talk rose as the evening progressed, and while the conversations ebbed and flowed, Kydd discreetly took in the others.

Dawes, the portly boatswain, was clearly out of his depth, fiddling with his glass and confining his talk to the tight-faced gunner, Darby, who held back from the growing merriment.

Oxley, the surgeon, a portly but sharp-eyed individual, sat back with an expression of distaste, listening to a laboured tale from Harman, the shrewish purser and across from them the absurdly young lieutenant of marines, Payne, who sat petrified and mute.

There would be many more miles under their keel before this company became one.

With the arrival of the lamb cutlets, Kydd judged the time right and gave a smart ting on his glass to call their attention.

“Gentlemen-Tygers all! A traditional first night at sea. But this one-this is out of the ordinary run and by any man’s reckoning a special one. It marks a dawning, a new life-a fresh beginning. We’ve been through a fierce time, when no man may trust his shipmate, fear and dread stalking our decks-who can say where it’ll all end?”

He let it hang for a space before he continued. “But it’s over! Finished-the canker purged! Never more will this King’s ship need hang its head in shame. I for one refuse utterly to bring it to mind ever again and will hear nothing from any who can’t let it go. We’re outward bound, shipmates, to adventures and challenges we can’t possibly dream of, and I’m here to tell you, this world holds more in store than ever we can imagine.”

“Shakespeare,” murmured Dillon, and was immediately silenced with a glare from Bowden.

“Gentlemen, we’re all on notice. We in England lie under such peril as never was, since even before Trafalgar. Boney stands astride the whole of Europe, and if we in Tyger are to play our part we’re going to have to be a damn sight better than we’ve been. I’m sure we will, but each one of you must haul and draw alongside our company with a whole heart and to one purpose.”

It was reaching most, but not all.

“In token of which I can tell you that we’re on a mission of national importance, their lordships having seen fit to entrust this to Tyger and no other.”

This brought a ripple of interest and, despite himself, the gunner dared, “This special ordnance, sir. An’ what is it exactly, as must be kept from us?”

“Shame on you, Mr Darby!” Kydd came back without hesitation. “Are you not aware that Swedish iron makes the best guns there are? And what better to trade with than … I cannot go further, you must understand.”

The gunner subsided, satisfied. The Naval Chronicle had been detailed in its descriptions of all manner of new inventions, from Captain Popham’s catamaran torpedoes to Major Congreve’s war rockets, and it was not outside the bounds of possibility that a two-way exchange was taking place, with Tyger in the centre.

Kydd drew the table’s attention again. “So I ask you to charge your glasses, gentlemen, and drink a toast. To Tyger and the Tygers! And the future that both will share!”

Kydd woke early. The passage to Gothenburg was not long, some four days or so at most, but he was eager to take the earliest opportunity to put Tyger through her paces. Although he was anxious to deliver his cargo as soon as possible, he decided to take advantage of this short voyage to make acquaintance of his new command and at the same time shake the vessel down into an effective fighting force.

He knew already that she was a sturdy, no-nonsense British-built ship, with all the advantage this gave in foul-weather sailing, endurance and sheer strength of timbers, but there was more to it than that. How did she stay about in a gale? Was she a witch in a quartering breeze, like L’Aurore? What was her best point of sailing? In a fight, how much could he rely on her clawing up to the wind under topsails, true and staunch? Only a thorough exercise of her qualities in the open sea would reveal this, with other eccentricities left to discover in due course. And it would be his pleasure to bring them to light.

He was up with the morning watchmen in the last hour before daybreak, his mind alive with ideas for the day. It was a simple, straight-line course across to Gothenburg, in this southwesterly able to be done in one board. It would be comfortably far from the hostile northern European coast and it was vanishingly unlikely that they would run into anything capable of troubling a well-muscled frigate like Tyger.

Light was stealing in over the cold grey seascape, picking up the startling white of seagulls, a suffused gold in the morning haze promising a broad sunrise.

The first thing he needed to do was a series of timed staying-about manoeuvres: tack and wear, in these brisk breezes a useful indication of what could be expected in winds both greater and less. To follow would be an hour at the guns, in slow time in deference to the first lieutenant’s new quarter-bill. Then back to sail-handling-and the vital knowledge of just how close to the wind Tyger could manage with all possible measures taken.

It would be interesting as well to-

“Deck hoooo!” came an urgent hail from the main-top lookout. “Sail-three points on the st’b’d quarter!” A careful scan of the horizon as the dimness of night lifted had revealed something in sight.

Should he go after a potential prize at the small risk of his precious freight?

“I see a frigate two, three miles, an’ she’s alterin’ towards!”

The probability was that she was British but there was no harm in taking precautions. Automatically his mind meshed with the elements. The stranger was downwind from them: by now there was no land cramping their room to manoeuvre and no change in weather threatened.

“What’s her colours?” bawled Kydd, through cupped hands.

After a space a reply came back: “Don’t see none!”

This was odd. A British frigate on sighting another would fly the private signal, then, if necessary, fire a gun to leeward, inviting a correct response-and this was wasting no time in shaping course to intercept.

“Bear away, our private signal and a gun!” he snapped.

Out of consideration for the ship’s company, and assuming that their course through British waters would not meet with an enemy, he hadn’t followed the usual war precautions by meeting the dawn at quarters with all men at the guns.

“Turn up the hands, if you please.”

If the stranger was a forgetful Britisher there was no harm done but if-

“There’s another! Two points t’ larb’d, an’ heading us!”

Kydd’s senses tautened. It could be a classic French tactic, a pair of hunting frigates, and they had found prey. As they lifted above the horizon he fumbled for his pocket telescope.

He saw immediately: the new stranger running for them was big-and with its larger beam and heavier spars must be a razee. These were ships-of-the-line levelled down one deck to form powerful frigates and were rare in British service. It had to be an enemy.

Another cry came down from the lookout: the other was not a frigate but a corvette, lighter than they but rigged similarly and still of significant force.

“Clear for action!”

Kydd sniffed the wind: steady from the southwest. A bit of a lop to the sea but nothing to worry about.

It was unusual for the French to show such aggression, even at odds of two to one. Their reason for being was commerce raiding and they had every incentive to avoid unnecessary damage in a frigate duel.

The corvette was further off, more evidence that they were in a line of search but, whatever the situation, he couldn’t risk his precious freight. They would run for it.

Then everything changed.

“A frigate!” cried the fore-top lookout with an out-flung arm pointing ahead.

There, at speed, a full-rigged frigate was closing with them to cut off any escape.

This was now deadly serious. Their precautions of secrecy in Yarmouth had been in vain. Somewhere in the chain of arrangements the shipment had become known about and word had got out.

Their course from Yarmouth to Gothenburg was a direct line. Simplicity itself to mount an ambush, and the French had made the most of it, boxing him in.

Three of them: the corvette alone he could be confident of handling, include the new frigate and it would be a hard-fought match, but with the razee as well he was up against a terrible foe.

And with an untried crew. It was impossible-in some way he had to even the odds.

Far spaced on either quarter astern were the first two, still some miles distant but the one ahead was only a mile or two away, close-hauled across their course to cut off his retreat.

“Go for the Frenchy ahead,” he instructed the conn, and concentrated on his tactics.

The first thing to do was give the opposing captain something to think about-which was that while Tyger was running downwind with every choice of course, the other was hard into the wind to cross their bow.

Its captain would therefore be anxious to avoid a fatal move: that Kydd would time his approach such that at the last minute he would put over his helm and pass behind, delivering a devastating raking broadside into the unprotected stern. While it was possible to choose any direction moving forward consistent with the wind, no square-rigged ship could ever sail backwards to rectify a wrong move.

Nonetheless there was going to be one lunge only with this advantage and Kydd couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

Hollis reported the ship cleared for action. “To quarters,” Kydd ordered.

They raced over the pretty morning sea, wavelets exuberant at meeting the new day, the sky now blue and cheerful, a lone seagull wheeling and keening.

“Keep our bowsprit square on his main,” Kydd grunted. He wasn’t going to make it easy for his opponent. Tyger was under all plain sail with full manoeuvrability but the other had to think about shortening sail or risk what he most feared.

It all came down to this one pass.

They neared, the enemy now in plain sight, colours streaming and men along her deck staring at them.

The Frenchman opened fire-but Tyger end on was a difficult target.

Nearer-firing became general now and holes appeared in Tyger’s sails.

Kydd smiled grimly: his opponent was inexperienced. Any upcoming interchange would be savage and swift, leaving no time to reload the guns that were now blazing futilely.

The bowsprit spearing for the exact centre of the enemy frigate, Kydd sent his orders forward. “Helm down!” he rasped.

The long spar began tracking the length of the enemy in a giveaway move towards that unprotected stern.

The reaction was immediate-expecting it, the French captain rapidly fell away off the wind, his intention to circle around to bring his broadside to bear in place of his stern-quarters.

But Kydd was one step ahead. Instantly he countermanded his order and Tyger stopped her swing and began rotating the other way-and there presented to him was the enemy stern. In aimed shots, the raking storm took the frigate in a blast of destruction down her length that went on and on.

Kydd was not finished-as their guns on that side ceased their carnage he brought the ship over and delivered the other broadside, now at close range, into the appalling swathe of devastation.

For the first time he heard the Tygers roar in an ecstasy of victory that had been long in coming.

When the smoke had cleared and they swept past, the hapless frigate was left in a tangle of wreckage and defeated, only the foremast standing. If their captain survived he would have learned much of the importance of the weather gage in frigate warfare, Kydd mused grimly.

Now the remaining two in chase had this advantage themselves and after witnessing what had happened to their confederate there would be no easy deceiving.

Bonaparte would be merciless to any who shied away with such stakes to be won. They wouldn’t give up, that much was certain.

It was time to flee: there was no question of risking their cargo on the chances of close-quarter combat, but for this he hadn’t even the elementary knowledge of Tyger’s sailing qualities. The one best placed to advise was her sailing master, but he’d been aboard for less time even than himself.

Kydd turned to the first lieutenant. “Mr Hollis. In your experience, what is this ship’s best point of sailing?”

Hollis looked uncomfortable. “Sir, with our previous captain there was no stretching out, he not wanting to risk her sticks. I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you.”

They had to find out, and quickly, or their pursuers would catch them.

Kydd looked soberly out at the distant sails of the two.

It had been an exhausting day, under chase the whole time and, it had to be accepted, the two French appreciably nearer. Tyger had not disappointed him but she was no flyer in light winds as L’Aurore was, and while he now knew a lot more about her, it had not been enough.

He’d tried everything, from fashioning watersails under the stunsails while running large, to all the lore he could muster about dangerous clawing to windward as close to the wind’s eye as he dared contrive.

Night was coming on-some time in the morning there would be a reckoning and Tyger would be brought to bay.

With darkness came the opportunity to slip away-but this would be known to the French. It was another classic situation: if he turned away in the night a pursuer had a one in two chance of guessing which side he had taken. With a pair in chase they could cover both sides, and at a minimum Tyger would find herself at daybreak in a full-scale action with one, the other then attracted to join in by the gunfire and smoke.

Which direction to choose? It made little difference.

Unless …

It was a desperate gamble but would be the last thing they would suspect. Just as long as they were not sighted in the act.

Evening came, and with it the last chance for the French to catch them that day.

Every rope and sail taut they barrelled into the dusk, the picture of a desperately fleeing vessel not daring to take in sail by the smallest amount. Close to midnight a cloud-driven sky brought the blackness Kydd craved. It was a frightful risk but there was no other way.

Working fast, one by one, first the stunsails, then the topgallants and topsails were struck and Tyger straight away slowed dramatically, to the consternation of those not in the know.

But this was only the first act. The second was to wheel about-and as closely as possible to sail back down their own wake!

Necessarily they would pass between the two hunters but by dousing high sail they had avoided the glimmer of white canvas in the crepuscular gloom, and the headlong speed of the chase past them would ensure the danger period would not be long.

He’d given orders that not a sound was to be made. No orders shouted, no watch bell, no careless knock. Their speed was now painfully reduced to ensure there would be no betraying swash of white wake.

At one point Kydd caught a brief sight of a pale smudge out on their beam but he couldn’t be sure and held course for another breathless hour before he took his last action. Setting full sail on once more he put over the helm-for the enemy coast, the Netherlands, which was somewhere to the south and which he knew would be the last place of refuge they would think he would take in preference to the open sea.

At eight or nine knots he needed a good two or three hours southward before he could be sure he was out of sight of a masthead lookout and alter course eastwards-to ease around the vainly searching pair.

Then, as dawn broke, eyes strained across the waters and … they saw an empty sea. They were alone.

Gothenburg was Kydd’s first sight of Scandinavia.

With a pilot on board, insisted upon by Joyce, who had been in these waters in the peace, Tyger wound through an uncountable number of islands of rough cliffs and sea-dark barren rocks that completely obscured the harbour until the last mile or two.

Keyed up to be rid of his special cargo he took little interest in the unfolding seascape, the ancient medieval clock towers and waterfront bustle.

They came to anchor and, without a moment’s delay, Hollis was on his way ashore to alert the embassy. He was back within the hour, accompanied by a young man who introduced himself as Beckwith, under-secretary at His Majesty’s embassy.

“You have something for me?” Kydd asked.

“Oh, you’ll be meaning this.” It was the signed paper, all present and correct.

“Very good. You’ll oblige me by taking this freight off my hands, Mr Beckwith. It’s caused us no end of vexation.”

“I suppose it has. Well, let’s see if we can’t take delivery in the next few days. We’re awfully busy with the visit of Prince Gustaf-”

“The next few days?” Kydd exploded. “I’m damned if I’ll wait, sir! I want it all ashore this day or I’ll know the reason why!”

“Oh dear-it’ll mean extra tides for someone but don’t worry, I’ll see to it. Be ready to load it on the barge when it comes. Good day to you, sir.”

The “Explosive Shot” was mustered under guard by the mainmast well before the flat barge began creeping out from the wharf, watched over by a square of marines, a mystified gunner and a fuming Kydd.

There was no one on it to take delivery so Kydd himself and the guard went into the barge for the journey inshore.

With great care each case was landed and conveyed to a warehouse where they were lined up in order of the number painted on each, and a full guard posted.

Where the devil was the reception escort? The functionaries with documents and receipts? Anyone?

A little later a puffing Beckwith arrived, mopping his forehead. “So sorry, old chap. Didn’t realise the prince was bringing his mother as well.”

“I’m having a signature!” Kydd mouthed dangerously.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you do.” He snatched Kydd’s form and threw off a huge scrawl on it. “There. All done now!”

Just like that. Well, on return he’d now be able to claim his bullion freight money-after his junketing in London it would be a welcome easing of finances.

“Where’s your escort then, Mr Beckwith?”

“Escort? I don’t think we’ll bother with that right now. You can tell your brave fellows they can leave.”

Kydd could hardly believe his ears. “No escort? It’s your worry now but …”

The young man gave a lopsided smile. “Captain. Have you ever wondered what a half-million in specie looks like?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but went to the first case, prised apart the wooden slats on the top and stood back.

Gingerly Kydd went over to see, probably his only chance to take a peek at an unimaginable fortune.

Inside, neatly stacked together, were two neat rows of best Yorkshire furnace bricks. “You see, we took delivery of the real subsidy two days ago. A fast post-office packet that your most creditable decoying allowed to reach here in perfect safety.”