Tyger

CHAPTER 12

TYGER REJOINED THE NORTH SEA SQUADRON in light rain and a listless grey calm, which barely lifted the signal flags that indicated their station in the line.

Kydd left the deck to Brice and went below to his cabin. He looked about. Tysoe had contrived a certain homeliness with a scatter of small Swedish landscapes and a charming miniature of an unknown young lady. A modest collection of silver now graced the bluff sideboard and colourful covers hid the shabbiness of the two armchairs. His new heavy frigate being denied him, this would be his home for some time. But it didn’t speak of him-it didn’t proclaim that this was where Sir Thomas Kydd lived.

“Come!” he called, in reply to a hesitant knock. It was only the weekly accounts due the flagship regularly each Friday at the routine captains’ meeting. He toyed with the paperwork, his mind straying to the hundreds of men and officers under his command.

Was he winning their souls? After the brief taste of action he’d noticed a distinct loosening of attitudes, and there was a pleasing hum from the mess-deck at meal-times that could be heard through the hatch gratings. But the mockery of the gold shipment had destroyed much of what had been won. At best there was now only a respectful wariness, at worst a cynical turning away.

Nothing like an effective ship’s company should be. They were doing a job, nothing more. How could he bring them together, infuse and inspire them with the spirit that drives men to heroism in storm and battle for the sake of their ship?

Kydd saw there was now no chance of seizing a prize, and the prospects for action were dim, with the enemy retiring to lick their wounds. Ahead lay only the boredom of blockade as summer moved into the miseries of winter.

Two days later the usual cutter from Yarmouth fussed up to the flagship and Admiral Russell’s routine dispatches were transferred into it. No doubt a bag of pettifogging Admiralty and Navy Board correspondence would pass the other way but there would be very little in it to disturb the motions of a crucial blockading squadron.

On Friday captains were signalled aboard the flagship as usual and their small business conducted quickly and efficiently. Kydd had been greeted politely but for some reason the admiral avoided his eye, and when boats were called alongside, Russell quietly asked him to stay behind.

“Sherry?”

Kydd declined politely.

“So you’ve men?”

“Pressed is all, and a few volunteers.”

“And the barky’s tight-found an’ all a-taunto?”

“Not all as I’d wish yet, sir,” Kydd answered carefully.

Russell found his chair, patting the one that faced it. “You’ve done well, m’ boy. Damn well. Can’t imagine how you did it, an’ I honour you for it.” He fiddled with his glass. “So it grieves me more’n I can say to have to tell you this.”

A sudden stab of alarm shot through Kydd.

“Y’ see, I’ve orders to tell you that when you make Yarmouth again you’re to give up your ship.”

There was a moment of disbelief, then a wave of anger. He’d been pitchforked into an impossible situation and when, against all the odds, he’d succeeded, they’d cast him ashore?

“No mention of another, I’m afraid.”

Kydd stuttered his acknowledgement in sick dismay. They’d not succeeded in their object of seeing him fail but now they were turning over what he’d achieved to another.

“I’ve heard from one o’ my officers about your falling athwart St Vincent’s bows over the Popham trial. A sad thing when a sea officer like y’self gets drawn into politicking.”

“That cursed rag! I never said what-”

“Doesn’t signify-it was published an’ that’s that.” Russell gave a small smile. “I’ve a guinea to a shilling that this’n is their way o’ thanking you for your labours. I’m sorry, Kydd, truly I am.”

It was extraordinary that an admiral would criticise the Admiralty before one of his captains and Kydd was touched. But now he had to come to terms with the fact that his remaining sea service in the navy was to be measured in weeks only.

“M’ dear fellow, we both came aft the hard way. If’n there’s anything I can do …?”

“That’s kind in you, sir, but I can’t think what,” he muttered.

After an awkward pause, Russell said doubtfully, “If you’ve a mind t’ stay in your ship for as long as y’ can before …”

Kydd’s first instinct was to get it over with, put it behind him, but he knew in his heart he had to keep the seas for as long as he could, before the inevitable caught up with him. “I’ll stay with Tyger-she needs me.”

“As I thought, m’ boy. Well, I’m a mort reluctant t’ put it to a first-rank cap’n as you are, but it’s in my gift to extend your cruise a while longer. Just a trivial bit o’ work-I’d normally send a sloop or such, but my orders say ‘send a vessel,’ which leaves the choice to me. Nothing to set before a prime fighting captain but-”

“I’ll take it.”

“It won’t be without its interest, but don’t think on prizes, or sport with the enemy.”

“Sir. Where?”

“North. As far as you may go. The High Arctic.”

Blinking in surprise Kydd waited for him to continue.

“Through the Arctic circle to the polar regions. Their lordships wish a man-o’-war sent right around the north o’ Norway into the Barents Sea and to the Russian port of Archangel.”

“Wha’?”

“There’s good cause, while the season allows, to make a neighbourly visit, simply to assure ourselves that His Majesty’s interests in the area-which’re pretty slim, incidentally-are safe and in order, but mainly t’ reconnoitre if the French have made any moves into the region.”

“I see.”

“We know for a fact they’ve not been spotted, but that’s not the point. This is only to give good public reason for you being there while you get on with a much more important and discreet task.”

Kydd listened quietly.

“You probably don’t know it, but less’n a century past, Russia had only one port connected directly to the outside world. Just the one, and that was Archangel. Then your tsar, Peter the Great, built St Petersburg, and it took most o’ the trade. Why? Because it’s mainly ice-free and Archangel is locked in pack-ice anything up to eight months in the year. And Petersburg is much closer to Moscow and the heart of Russia.”

He gave a grim smile. “Well, now we’ve got a problem. While we’re allies of Russia we’ve a concern to keep their ports open and trade flowing free, but Boney’s latest victories are giving us a parcel o’ worries.

“St Petersburg is at the head of the Baltic. When he’s finished with the Prussians there’s little to stop him sending his army north into Denmark-and then he’ll have seized the entrance to the Baltic and can choke off all access. We stand to lose our vital naval stores and Russia will be isolated-unless she can find another port. This is really why you’re going north. To see if Archangel can again be that port.”

Kydd shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t just-”

“Easy enough, really. All they want is a report on the depths mid-channel, working length of wharves, repair, warehousing-you know the sort of thing. It’s not your job to make judgement-there’ll be people in London to do that. So, no more’n a week or two at most-don’t delay leaving, you wouldn’t want to be iced in for half a year.”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a useful exercise you’ll be doing but it probably won’t come t’ much. Even Bonaparte would hesitate over attacking a strict neutral like Denmark, but we have to look to all possibilities.”

“Sir. May I-may I thank you for-”

“Be damned-it’s little enough! Off with you, m’ boy. I’ve a notion I’ll be receiving my letter concerning you tomorrow, too late to stop you going …”

Kydd decided to tell nobody of his personal blow. It was hard enough to face up to it himself, let alone to bear any awkward sympathies. In any case, it would not be in Tyger’s best interests to learn that they would have yet another change of captain.

For him their mission would be a tough challenge: to penetrate the God-forsaken wilderness between the extreme north of Russia and the polar regions where very few naval vessels had ever been-but for the seamen it would mean the harshest conditions that sea life could throw at them and Tyger was not prepared for it.

He’d keep quiet about where they were headed until he had to admit it and trust he could carry the men with him.

His orders were brief and to the point. They required him to put into Gothenburg where he would take aboard an Arctic pilot provided by the British consul. He was further authorised to secure a limited amount of clothing deemed advisable at that season for a voyage to the daunting latitude of seventy degrees north.

The rest was up to him.

The outlines of the Swedish town hove into view. They moored in the outer roads and Kydd wasted no time in getting ashore.

The British consul was fat and expansive and read the admiral’s request with interest. “Well, now, and I won’t enquire what in Hades the navy’s doing in the far north but I’ve got just the fellow. Greenland whale fisheries, married to a Finnish lass. He’s a knowing cove but won’t stand for nonsense. I’ll see if he’s available to you and send him out.”

It was no use delaying any further. The man’s arrival on board would give the game away and there was much to do.

He summoned his officers to his cabin. “Gentlemen, I’ll not have you in doubt any more about our detached service. It’s to the north-the High North!”

Briefly he explained that they were on a mission to show the flag and assure themselves there was not a French presence, without mentioning the real reason.

There was an immediate ripple of dismay.

“Sir, we ain’t equipped! I’ve charts for naught but-”

“Then get some, Mr Joyce,” Kydd said bluntly.

“It’ll be mortal cold, we’d best lay in some-”

“We’ve tickets to ship enough foul-weather gear for all the people. Any more questions?”

Bowden looked concerned. “As far as I’m aware, Sir Thomas, there are none aboard who’ve been to the Arctic regions. How are we to navigate in ice and similar?”

“A pilot is on his way out to us, who will also be in the character of a guide in these matters.”

“He’d better be good,” muttered Joyce.

“The man is from the Greenland whale fisheries and is accounted a taut hand, well experienced. And he’ll be berthing with you, sir.”

The man standing in the door of his cabin was of an age, wiry but with a steady gaze from his soft grey eyes. “Cap’n? Kit Horner, an’ I hear you’re wanting a pilot.”

Kydd motioned to a chair. “Tell me of your experience in the High North, Mr Horner.”

“As I’m spliced to a Sami,” he said, as if it explained everything. Then he added, “An’ thirty years on the Greenland coast, I know the north …”

“Very well, I’ll take you on. You’ll be-”

“Ah, it’s four shillun’ a day, an’ five after we crosses the Ar’tic circle.”

Kydd agreed with a tight smile. “You don’t come cheap, if I might remark it.”

“An’ all found.”

Then it was down to details of the voyage.

Horner rubbed his chin. “Archangel? Bit late in the season, but shouldn’t be a hard beat. Merchant jacks do it every year, o’ course. Could meet wi’ some ice islands but you’ll find the White Sea clear o’ drift ice this time o’ the year.”

“At seventy north?”

“Cos there’s an up-coast current from the Atlantic passes right round an’ into the Barents. We’ll be snug if’n we sail soon.”

His quiet certainty was reassuring and Kydd encouraged him to go on.

It seemed greenstuffs were essential, although scurvy grass could be collected on some islands Horner knew of and provisions were to be had if necessary at certain remote Norwegian coast settlements.

There would be no need for real Arctic clothing for this voyage but a chaldron or two of coal in place of firewood was a good plan to ensure a hot breakfast for the hands-and spirits were a sovereign cure against the cold of a night watch.

Horner had his own rutter, which he would bring with him, and there were charts available from the chandlers, the Dutch being the best. As to the ship, no particular mind need be paid to her fitness in view of the small likelihood of ice but if the cap’n wished he might consider bringing along the makings of a Baltic bowgrace, reinforcing at the bows to shoulder aside small floes to save a constant battering at the hull.

But Archangel was a run-down parody of its glory days. Timber and furs-and not so much of those. Located at the mouth of the Dvina river, it would be beset by ice in a few weeks and then there would be nothing happening for at least six months.

Despite this, Kydd felt a thrill. Few naval officers would ever see what he was about to: the very top of the world!

“Sir, eight have deserted,” Hollis reported, with an expression of rebuke at Kydd’s having granted liberty to men who hadn’t earned it.

Kydd looked away, frustrated. This was more than an offence, it was a violation of trust. Were the Tygers still in a defiant mood, disaffected and hostile? “Who?”

Hollis named them.

All good men, no dregs of the press. And gone off in a body-this was no idle straggling. There would be more soon, for Gothenburg was a lively international port and they would have no trouble finding a berth on an outgoing merchantman.

“Stop all liberty,” Kydd said heavily. This was punishing the innocent but he couldn’t risk losing more. He knew the reason: their destination had got out and they wanted no part of the hardships of an Arctic voyage.

Only one of her company was rejoicing-Dillon, whose desire to see something of the world was about to be fulfilled beyond expectations. On ship’s business ashore he’d picked up more worthy tomes, some in Russian, for despite having the tongue he’d never heard it spoken in its native land.

They sailed two days later, into the teeth of a northeaster straight from the Arctic, a bitter foretaste of worse to come.

Leaden skies and white-streaked grey seas added to a feeling of unease at leaving the world of men for the boreal realm where they did not belong. With winds dead foul, only a hard clawing far to seaward would clear the long and formidable Norwegian coast, to be followed later by a board inwards to high latitudes to clear North Cape and into the Barents Sea.

Tyger heaved and laboured, the spray driven aft, spiteful and stinging. A bitter wind cut into the muffled figures about her deck and the watch hunkered down behind the weather bulwarks. With canvas taut and hard as wood, the straining rigging strummed fretfully, a mournful drone rising and falling, like a funeral dirge.

Kydd could feel the old canker. Them and us. The tyrants and the slaves. But in these conditions, at the very time it was needed, there was no possibility of bringing the officers and men together in traditional ways-at divisions, a church service, light-hearted competition mast against mast, an impromptu entertainment around the fore-bitts for seamen and officer guests.

Instead there would be weary and bone-chilled men going below to take out their frustrations in cursing the fate that had sent them to Tyger. There was little he could do about it and virtually no chance of the ship’s company coming together as one to face the enemy. Tyger was as divided as ever.

As the latitude grew higher, so did the ceaseless, long and immensely powerful seas charging out from their polar heart, a strength in them that made it a folly to confront. Taking them on the starboard bow one after another, Tyger reared and writhed to avoid their punishment, but in relentless, heedless succession they seethed past in a roar and clamour that had her twisting back as if in pain.

It was hard, bruising work. Then they reached the same latitude as Iceland, out there far to their lee-but this meant only that they were less than halfway on their northward odyssey and now in waters near unknown to men.

And further still, with the same battering onrush, on and on, until three things happened.

During the night the seas eased and in the morning, like a miracle sent by gods relenting of their savagery, the skies cleared to a vast, innocent blue. At midday meridian altitudes were taken and, after careful correction for height of eye and refraction, the word came out: during the night they had passed the defining limit of their familiar world, the north polar circle, and were now firmly within the Arctic regions.

But it was so unreal and unexpected-a placid, glittering sea and the sun with real warmth in it.

The watch shed their coarse dark wadmarel pea-jackets for gear more in keeping with the south; fair-weather habits took over and, in wondering relief, Tyger surged on into the north.

Now there was a hard, actinic edge to the light, a glare that had men shielding their eyes as it was reflected up, and the blue of the sky had a strange remoteness, an unearthly purity.

The most eerie of all was after the last dog-watch was relieved and the sun began to set-but then it slowed and stopped. The middle-watchmen had the singular experience of seeing it rise again without setting.

Kit Horner remarked drily, “The midnight sun-you’ll not see a shadow o’ night for another month or so. I’m thinkin’ you’ll save a bushel o’ money on candles an’ such.”

Joyce came up from below, shaking his head. “The glass at thirty an’ a half. It ain’t Christian, begob!”

The weather held. In a week they’d reached seventy-five degrees north and Horner allowed that it was safe to go about, to round North Cape.

When at last they raised land it held everyone in thrall.

A steel-hued row of massive headlands and bluffs with not the tiniest scrap of vegetation visible, or any hint of humankind. A stark, petrified wilderness with only the unceasing fringing white of the sea’s assault on the iron-bound shore.

North Cape appeared out of the blue haze one morning, vertical cliffs plunging into the icy-green sea and desolate flat-topped mountains, but it was the turning point: they were leaving the Atlantic to pass into the Barents Sea. On their right was the great continent of Asia, on their left nothing but the frigid polar sea until it met the edge of the ice pack reaching all the way to the fabled North Pole.

That night they crept along under reduced sail to be ready in the morning to make entrance to the White Sea.

The barren shore was riven with dark fjords, white streaks of snow showing stark in the fissures of desolate cliffs and peaks as they entered. The winds turned fluky and unfriendly, a frigid bullying down from mountainsides, which had all hands reaching for greatcoats and mufflers.

Picking up the opposite shore it was then a matter of shaping course for the southeast and the head of the White Sea, where the drab brown of a great river delta appeared. Horner refused to leave the deck for hours as he conned them into the right channel, anchors ready for slipping fore and aft and a leadsman in the chains.

Here at last were signs of man: cleared expanses of corn, recognisable orchards among wild flowers and birch woods down to the water’s edge, even grass, a thing of wonder after so long at sea.

It brought other things: insect clouds, the rich stench of peaty vegetation, the fetid miasma of barely thawed bogs-and the first settlements of low, shabby huts.

They rounded a point, and as it opened into a bay, Kydd saw at least thirty vessels at anchor. They glided in, the biggest ship by some margin.

“Mud’yugsky, and as far as we go, Cap’n,” Horner said laconically. “There’s a bar an’ shoal water stops us going to Archangel, as is another four mile. Get the hook down an’ wait for our welcome.”

A boat detached itself from a jetty at the tip of the point and bustled up to them.

“Two to come aboard, Mr Hollis,” Kydd said, noting the florid officer standing in the sternsheets staring up at the big ship, another beside him.

The little man spoke up immediately in passable English. “The Kapitan Voronov. He want your business, pliss.”

While the dragoman translated, Kydd tried to think of an expression of military courtesy. There were no forts visible with flags proudly flying to receive and return gun salutes but neither was there a single warship in sight.

“We are honoured to visit this port and, as an ally of Russia, His Majesty wishes me to pay our respects to the-the governor in charge.”

It was received with puzzlement and dismay but Horner came to the rescue. “There ain’t any such thing in this place. A mayor or such, but nothin’ else as would stand next to youse.”

It was apparently so outlandish for a warship to appear that there were no procedures the good kapitan could think to apply. Port clearance, merchant papers, manifests and, of course, Customs appraisal were the usual but in this case …

“Kapitan, he say welcome an’ he report to his superior.”

It was clear there had been no French or any other naval visit of significance here for some time. The open reason for their voyage therefore was answered, but he had the other discreet task to complete-and for that he had to get to Archangel itself.

The boat put off and Kydd turned to Horner. “I’m supposing I should pay a visit to your mayor or someone.”

“He won’t thank you for it.”

“Pray why not?”

“Cos he’s a Dutchman an’, like most of ’em, hates your kind.”

“How can this be? They’re an enemy of Russia as they are of us.”

“They’s merchants who sit on all the trade hereabouts and t’ stay loose buys their papers as a Russky.”

Kydd’s heart sank. What with shoals, a bar and channels unnavigable by vessels of size, the prospects of Archangel as a port to rival the Baltic were not promising before he’d even started, and with the Dutch in a position to obstruct and disrupt he might as well sail for home now. “Nevertheless, I’m going. Mr Hollis, my barge.”

“That’s not how it’s done here, Cap’n. They likes you should use their traps. Hoist a red flag on the fore an’ see what happens.”

It brought a peculiar craft beetling out from the shore. A wide, shallow-draught boat, it had a flat railed-off area raised on posts above the rowers with banks of seats atop.

Coming alongside, a hinged gangway swung out neatly and Kydd could step directly from his ship to the platform. In the shadows beneath the anonymous figures of rowers were still and bent, in pitiful rags. Were they convicts or serfs?

“Carry on, Mr Hollis,” he instructed, and took his place at the front, Bowden beside him and Dillon in his best secretarial garb behind. He’d had to refuse Clinton’s offer of a ceremonial marine guard: in any foreign land it was a provocative act to land an armed party without due permission.

Their progress through the marshy landscape was slow but methodical. They finally turned around the last point to reveal Archangel, port city of the High North.

A mile-wide peninsula set out into the confluence of countless muddy streams and rivers of the delta, it was perfectly flat. The waterfront was lined with warehouses and at one point there was a lengthy grand building with a fat white tower. Further inland, Kydd could see a peculiar lofty building of many storeys, sharp curves, rickety balconies and a spire, and to the left a quaint five-domed church with a distinctive bell-tower.

He looked about carefully. A number of ships were working cargo but all were of a modest size, and as they drew nearer the high, angular jetty, the whole prospect resolved into one of shabby decay. Any thoughts of diverting the great Baltic convoys were rapidly dwindling.

Kydd wondered whether it might be possible to dredge a channel for deeper-draught ships. The wharfage looked capable of some hundreds of ships, especially the timber yards to the left. Could they separate in- and outbound?

They stepped off to the stares of labourers and nearby stallkeepers, heading for the long white building, Gostiny Dvor, or Merchants’ Court, that Dillon had been assured was every captain’s first port of call.

Kydd was thankful he’d thought to wear sea undress uniform without star and sash: with their naval accoutrements they stood out enough already. But then they quickly discovered to their dismay that everywhere was a sea of dark-brown mud.

There were no paved avenues-only roads laid with timbers along which carts with tinkling bells jolted and swayed. Peasants trudged by with impossible loads and a boy in bare feet driving geese stopped to stare at them.

It was a strange, forbidding place.

Their entry into the Merchants’ Court stopped the hum of activity and half a hundred eyes stared at them from behind tall, ancient writing desks.

“Tell ’em it’s Sir Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy come to pay his respects to their mayor.”

The man Dillon addressed looked at him in consternation, then let it be known that Mayor Vasiliy Popov was not to be troubled on minor matters as he was a figure of some consequence in the town.

Kydd explained that he was in Archangel on matters touching on trade and would appreciate a little of his time.

Doubtfully, the man got up and went to an office at the back. There were angry words and suddenly at the door stood a giant of a man with a monstrous black beard.

“Come!” he roared, beckoning to Kydd. “You’re Ingliss?” he said, in a voice of thunder. “Vot you doing here?”

After an elaborate courtly bow, Kydd suggested they discuss matters further in a more private situation.

Popov hesitated, then pushed past and led them to a low room with dark, varnished panels and smoke-grimed portraits. It smelt of boiled cabbage and strong tobacco.

They sat at an old-fashioned meeting table and Popov boomed something unintelligible out of the door, then closed it and took his seat.

“Now. You come in man-o’-war? Why?”

Kydd explained their mission to uncover any French threat, careful to refer to him as our good Russian ally.

The door opened and two others entered, glaring suspiciously at Kydd as they sat opposite. Close behind, a servant came, bearing a coarsely made brown glass bottle and small glasses.

“No French here,” rumbled Popov, leaning back to let the servant pour out the colourless liquor before each man. “None since the peace finish. So?”

He glared about him, growling, “Za zdorovje,” and downed the contents of his glass in one savage gulp.

Kydd was not going to be caught out and took just a sip of the rough potato liquor.

“Drink!” Popov demanded, miming a full toss.

Kydd replied, “Sir, this is far too good a potion to down carelessly,” peering up at his glass as if it were a rare claret. Bowden and Dillon followed his lead.

“So, no French. You sail now, hein?”

“Perhaps later. My orders are to let the flag of His Majesty be seen by any of his subjects in Archangel as a comfort and support in a foreign land.”

“None. No Ingliss here.” Swift looks were exchanged between the two others.

It had to be a lie: somewhere in the trading community there would be seamen or merchants. Was Popov too anxious for them to leave?

“And, of course, after such an arduous voyage my ship requires repairs, water, victuals.”

“You get-you go.”

“My men will be grateful indeed to take liberty ashore,” Kydd enthused. “To spend their hard-won coin on the simple pleasures.” He got no response beyond a glower. “I do believe I’ll take rooms for a day or two and enjoy a promenade around your beautiful town.”

Popov looked as though he would object but fell to muttering. He rose to his feet. “Season nearly finish. Ice come, you trap!” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.”

It wasn’t hard to locate the usual seafront hostelry catering to ship’s captains that could be found in every port. Dingy, reeking of the ever-present cabbage and tobacco, it would serve.

Kydd sent Bowden back with instructions to the first lieutenant to award liberty to half a watch under the direst penalties for behaviour. He knew Bowden was intelligent enough to let slip that offenders taken in riot by the locals would find themselves choked up in a Russian gaol as Tyger sailed. It would give pause to the most dedicated joyster.

It was not simply a humane gesture on Kydd’s part. In this hostile and uneasy place he wanted men within hail about him-those who, like Stirk, could be trusted to see that the hot-headed were kept in check.

He had a duty to complete his mission, as unpromising as it was turning out to be. The alternative was to return with nothing. And he supposed he should find any Englishmen here and let them know they were not forgotten.

In the absence of a British consul how was he going to locate them? In any other port the sheer presence of a smart frigate anchored offshore would signal his presence, but Tyger was well out of sight.

Then he remembered an offhand remark by Russell’s flag lieutenant while rounding up the paperwork: it was not impossible that the venerable Muscovy Company might still have representation there.

He sent Dillon out to enquire, and his secretary returned quickly. “Still here, Sir Thomas, but at a remove.”

They set out for the southern part of the town, an older but more picturesque district of quaint timber dwellings with sharply inclined roofs and parquetry eaves, tradesmen’s workshops and tiny vegetable plots.

Set back from the muddy road, a larger dark-timbered building had seen better days-but over the low doorway there was a sign with a faded shield that incorporated a galleon with an inscription in Latin.

Inside they found an Aladdin’s cave of goods piled here and there in glorious confusion in the gloom, with a pungent whiff of hides, raw mahogany and the dust of ages.

A man emerged from behind a counter to come to a stop, wide-eyed.

“You-you’re English!” he managed. Elderly, he was in a well-worn long frock-coat, breeches and an old-fashioned wig.

Dillon stepped forward. “Sir Thomas Kydd, captain of His Majesty’s Frigate Tyger. And you, sir?”

The man bobbed hurriedly and spluttered, “Jeremiah Blunt, proprietor.”

“Of?”

“Oh, the Muscovy Company of Merchant Adventurers Trading with Russia.”

“The very man we seek,” said Kydd, encouragingly. “I’d be obliged should you tell me of the British in Archangel as you know of them, sir.”

Blunt ushered them to a back room as cluttered as the store and flustered about until a tea samovar appeared, borne by a curious beady-eyed woman in traditional dress.

Sipping black tea, Kydd knew there was no hurrying the man and sat back to listen.

Most improbably, Archangel had been founded not by the Russians but by the English. In 1551, in the last few years before Elizabeth I came to the throne, two courtiers, Willoughby and Chancellor, had set up an enterprise: the Mystery and Company of Merchant Adventurers for the Discovery of Regions, Dominions, Islands, and Places Unknown. The first voyage selected was to uncover a trade route to northeast China and a small fleet had duly sailed to the top of the world.

Only Chancellor reached safe haven, here in the maze of muddy channels where the green of larch and willow beckoned, while Willoughby, beset in ice, froze to death.

Alert for any mercantile possibilities, he saw that the lucrative fur trade was being hauled south overland all the way to Moscow, and knew that here was an opportunity. He made the journey himself, arriving to great astonishment at the court of Ivan the Terrible, introducing himself as an ambassador from Queen Elizabeth of England. Chancellor left the tsar well satisfied with a sea route now to Russia, and when he returned home he was granted a monopoly on the market. The Muscovy Company was born.

Apart from one distraction, when Good Queen Bess had unaccountably declined Ivan the Terrible’s proposal of marriage, the Muscovy Company went from strength to strength, dealing in furs, English wool and other profitable lines.

But when in the next century it was heard that Charles I had been executed the then tsar expelled all English merchants, except those in Archangel. Into the vacuum stepped the Dutch, who by the end of the century had toppled the British monopoly.

It was the establishment early in the eighteenth century of Tsar Peter the Great’s grand Baltic port of St Petersburg, open to all, that finally relegated Archangel to a backwater.

Where before the bashaws of Elizabeth’s day had held court, now all that remained was a little emporium of knick-knacks from Britain’s industrial enterprise. The Dutch held the town, with the still considerable timber trade and the White Sea Company whaling concern, and did not welcome outsiders.

“For our gewgaws we take by return seal skins, walrus tusks and down of the eider duck. Some flax and hemp, a trifle of tallow, on occasions wax and pine resin.”

“And furs?”

“Ah, the sable and ermine,” sighed Blunt, “and, of course, your glorious Arctic fox. Grey-blue over-hair, soft and deep, much prized by the knowing. In times past Archangel shipped the best there was, but now …”

“Finished by over-hunting?”

“I’m supposing so. There’s been none at all shipped from here for some years, even if the prices in London are beyond a prince’s commanding. In these dolorous times of revolution and the mob, you might think such fine trappings would be frowned upon but, no, they must have their-”

“Mr Blunt, I really came to discover whether Archangel today possesses subjects of His Majesty as would welcome the sight of the flag at all.”

“Very few, and those only of a quality not to be noticed.”

“Then I thank you for your-”

“Ah, there is one. A respectable merchant on a failed venture here. A Mr John Bellingham of Liverpool, a factor in timber and iron.”

“Where might I see him?”

“In the Solombalsky prison.”

“Did you say …?”

“Yes. A difficult man,” Blunt came back, “not to say vexatious. Yet he has reason. He defied the Dutch cabal and paid for it. I cannot tell of the details. In truth I feel sorry for him-he has a wife and little ones who even now are in St Petersburg praying for his release, and I visit him when I can. If you could find it in your power to show that he’s not forgotten it would be a mercy.”

“I shall do so. I thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

On the way Dillon expressed reservations at visiting a Russian prison, but as a civil debtor, the man was apparently entitled to a better class of confinement.

“Mr Bellingham, I believe?” Kydd said mildly, as they were ushered in. The small room had a window, high and barred, that shed light on worn furniture and faded carpet.

“Good God! I never thought to see you!” A painfully thin man scrambled to his feet, his face working. “They’ve heard my petition? That damned crew of politicals finally moved, did they? Justice at last-”

“Mr Bellingham, I’m sorry to say I’m not here to attend your release.”

“Then why did you come?” The fevered eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be here without you had a reason. Who are you?”

“Sir Thomas Kydd,” Dillon intervened. “Captain of Tyger, frigate, of his own good will come to visit an Englishman in reduced circumstances, sir.”

“Ah, but what’s he doing here in Archangel?” Bellingham leered. “Never seen hide nor hair of any nob worried about this arse-hole of a place.”

“I’m in this port to assure myself that the interests of His Majesty are respected, sir,” Kydd said stiffly.

“Ha! Then you’ve found the Dutch-run Archangel-precious little interest left to His Knobbs hereabouts.”

“I see my presence is not welcome to you, sir. I’ll take my leave if I may.”

“You’re like ’em all, aren’t you, Sir T?” he sneered. “Come here, see nothing of notice and get out as fast as you can.”

Kydd made to go.

“Wait! I know what goes on here, all of it! And there’s something afoot as I can tell you of!”

“What is it?”

“Ah, well. Come here, we don’t want to be heard now, do we?”

Kydd sat reluctantly at the small table as Bellingham leaned across. “Archangel, the town’s run by the Dutch, in with the mayor and all on ’em.”

“I know that.”

“What you don’t know is that it’s a cesspool of corruption. They run fancy schemes between ’em and split the cream.”

“What’s this got to do with-”

“The whole town is in on it. All of ’em!”

“Mr Bellingham, this has gone far enough. You-”

The little man gave a confident smile, which turned into a smirk. “Nobody knows, but I do!”

Kydd got up to leave.

“They’re trading with Napoleon Bonaparte hisself!”

“What did you say?” Kydd said sharply.

“Knew that’d get you! Yes, indeed. See, I know what they’re doing.”

He leaned back and cocked his head to one side. “Ever wondered why the fur trade dried up? Great shame-some of those blue-fox pelts would sell for their weight in gold, should they ever get to London. Why, ermine at-”

“Yes, sir. I know about this,” Kydd said, with heavy patience.

“Don’t you feel for the lords and ladies, paying a ransom for their precious furs? They do, you know. Smuggled in from the continent, prices that’d set your eyes to watering.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“That the fur trade is never better! I heard it from the timber loggers-they’ve seen cartloads of furs heading here. Don’t it tell you something?”

“Well, Mr Bellingham?”

“The Dutch have cornered the market, taken the lot, none left. They’re shipping ’em out to their kin back in Holland and making a hill of money outfitting Boney and his crew! Any that’s left over he lets go over the Channel to the fools in England who can be relied on to pay any price. See?”

If this were true it would be at a prodigious loss to the City traders and a serious breach of Britain’s blockade, let alone the wealth being diverted to Bonaparte’s coffers.

“How do they do this?”

“As I said, the whole town’s in it together, the mayor and all the officials, and they keep it secret, all to ’emselves.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I didn’t say that. What I can tell you for certain is, the furs arrive here, they’re stored and then get shipped out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“One of my runners thought it proper to tell me of furs he saw stowed in a shed. I went there on the sly and saw for myself. Next day they were gone. They never came on the market-and there’s no sense sending them back to where they’d come from, so they must be shipped out.”

“Where is this shed?”

“Hard by the whalers. There, it stinks so much nobody’s going to wander by ’less they have to.”

“Did you spy furs being loaded aboard any ship?”

“And let the world see what they’re up to? I tell you, they’re all in it, mayor, Customs, military-all of ’em taking a share. Stands to reason they want to keep it out o’ sight.”

“It only happened the once?”

“More. When they’ve got a shipment, it goes quickly. None o’ my business, o’ course, but it’s been several times this season I’ve seen ’em at that shed. Like I said-”

“Thank you for your information, Mr Bellingham. I shall look into it. Good day to you, sir.”

“Sir, the man is unhinged. Surely you’re not going to-”

“I’m not, Mr Dillon. Even if what he told us is true, this is Russia, their laws, and we would have to show there’s been a crime committed against us personally for them to act.”

“I see, sir.”

“And if the town is all hugger-mugger together, how far do you think we’d get? No, we let it go.”

“All the same, it’s-”

“Here’s my lodgings. You’ll want to wander abroad. Pray do so, if you wish.”

The little room with its plain furniture was dreary, as was the view of the flat marshland through the grubby window.

A wave of depression began to settle. This last venture before he relinquished Tyger had turned out bleak and pointless. Archangel was humid, midge-ridden and not in the least an exotic destination.

The voyage had failed: he had shown the flag but found few English subjects to encourage. On the other matter of opening up the port to rival the Baltic, with the natural conditions he had seen, it was a lost cause.

And there had not even been the rumour of French activity in these remote parts, no prospect of action or excitement. But given what was in the future for him he wanted to spin out the remaining time as long as he could.

He threw off his coat and boots and lay on the wooden bed.

The first men on liberty would be arriving soon-the least he could do was stay another day to give the other watch a chance to go on a frolic. Then he would have to leave.

As if in rebellion his mind began casting about for a reason to delay.

What if Bellingham was right, that there was in fact clandestine fur smuggling going on? It would be a fine thing indeed to put a stop single-handedly to the business, return with something of real value achieved. But here in Russia he was powerless to interfere.

His mind refused to let go. Just how could such smuggling be organised?

Ironically the biggest single obstacle was breaking the Royal Navy’s blockade of the continent. Even if they got to sea Russell’s vigilant inshore squadron would pounce and the valuable cargo would be seized. This had never happened that he’d heard of, so there must be another way.

It had to be by ship-but how the devil was it done that none could see?

A faint raucous cheer came from the first Tygers arriving. There’d be sore heads in the morning if there was nobody to tell them of the potency of Russian liquor.

Idly his mind wandered back. If he were in charge of the fur smuggling he wouldn’t trifle with piecemeal shipments, any one of which could tip off a naval boarding officer to the existence of the operation. But only small brigs and sloops could make it up the Dvina as far as Archangel. Trans-ship at sea? Too risky and open to spoilage.

It was a conundrum … but then something Bellingham had said flickered into an idea. He’d said that the shed had been near the whaling-ship grounds, the White Sea Company, controlled by the Dutch. What if …

Yes! It made sense. The whalers returned from their hunting grounds with their oil, which was landed, and then they went back to their hunting grounds-with clean, empty vats! If the furs were stored in those, suitably protected, who would think to stop a whaler on its way out?

So this was a method to get the furs away-but what advantage did it give? Whales were taken at sea and brought to their shore station to be flensed and tried. What better than to use this base as a depot to consolidate the shipment? If so, they could be picked up all together by a ship of size only once a season with much-reduced risk. And at such a place, necessarily remote and inaccessible, they would be perfectly safe …

He sat up suddenly. All this was quite possible-but that didn’t prove a thing.

He could do nothing in Archangel. Once at sea he could stop and search a whaler on its way out, but that had two problems: those ships were flying the flag of Russia, an ally, and any such interference would cause an international incident-and if he did board one, he would get only a small part of the trade. It made more sense to find the base and, with it, the entire shipment.

However, he had no right to set one of His Majesty’s valuable frigates charging about searching for a fairy-tale haul of furs without solid evidence. All he had were the ramblings of a deranged prisoner of the Russians.

He had to have more.

A passing burst of noise showed that the Tygers were not wasting time. He gave a twisted smile in acknowledgement of times long ago when he had stepped ashore with his shipmates in foreign parts. They’d found the grog-shops and roystered happily with mariners from all the seven seas regardless of creed or language.

He remembered once when he and Stirk had … That was it!

Impatiently he waited until his confidential secretary returned. “Mr Dillon, I have a task for you-that is, if it is not too great an imposition.”

The young man heard him out, then beamed. “It shall be done, Sir Thomas.”

An hour later, in the third one he tried, Dillon finally found Stirk and his shipmates, gleesome and happy amid the din of a press of humanity in the smoky tavern.

The grizzled gunner listened in amazement to what Dillon was asking. Then, laughing together, they went outside and around to the back of the dark-timbered hovel.

Minutes later, Stirk returned in the company of a rollicking young Jack Tar in smart sea rig who rolled as he walked and looked right primed to blow out his gaff.

“Arr, me hearty!” chortled Stirk, slapping him on the back. “Yo ho ho, an’ a bottle o’ the right true stuff!”

Inside Doud and Pinto started with astonishment. Before they could say anything, he roared, “Mates, this skiddy cock is me old shipmate off the Saucy Sue as was, come t’ see how we Tygers has a good time.”

They blinked at him, speechless.

“Bring y’ arse to anchor, lad,” Stirk insisted, making a place for him.

A black leather tankard was shoved into Dillon’s fist. “Beer is all, we has no truck wi’ the Russky cat’s piss.” Leaning forward, he whispered hoarsely, “This berth do ye? Or?”

Dillon paused, pretending to swig his beer, and decided. “Er, I’d rather I sat in Ned Doud’s place.”

“Outa there!”

Muttering, Doud was made to change places.

“Orright now, cock?”

It had worked! Kydd could barely suppress his elation. Not only did he know for certain that the furs went out with the whalers but he had the priceless additional piece of information that the last shipment of the season was about to depart!

The whaling men in the tavern would never know that among the jaunty British sailormen on the ran-tan there was a scholar of modern languages, only too eager to round out his education by overhearing what they were saying.

There was little point in staying any longer in the town so Kydd returned thankfully to his ship and Tysoe’s ministrations.

In a hot tub he settled to think about what he could do with his new-won knowledge.

From casual talk with Horner he’d discovered that, while Britain kept to the Greenland whale fisheries, the Russians and Norwegians hunted in the seas around the appallingly remote and desolate icy fastness of Spitzbergen.

As a storehouse and base it would be perfect. The whalers could earn good money on the empty outward voyage and that was all they needed to do, as usual returning with oil. So far removed from the shipping lanes there would be no chance of unwelcome visitors, and the actual taking up of the furs for entry to Europe would be more than two-thirds through waters never cruised in by any man-o’-war.

The final passage through the blockade would no doubt be achieved by some means but if Kydd was to make his move it would be well before that.

The elements were clear: he could not move against the whalers. Spitzbergen was Norwegian territory, nominally controlled by Denmark and thus neutral territory. He could not land a party and seize the goods.

That left the one course. He had to intercept the ship sent to pick up the season’s furs-after it had loaded and sailed, and was on the high seas.

The chances of being in the vicinity when that happened were too ridiculous to contemplate-except for one thing: Dillon had learned that the last whaling ship of the season from Archangel was about to sail, which implied that the year’s haul of furs would be ready to pick up in Spitzbergen and there would be no reason for them to delay. In fact, it was more than likely that the ship was waiting there at this very moment for this final consignment before sailing.

This was now a very real possibility and a flood of renewed energy went through him.

Tysoe brought his robe and Kydd paced up and down-he was now seriously contemplating a voyage to the true Arctic, to the very edge of the ice pack and the spawning ground of ice-mountains. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such a venture and, apart from Horner, there was no one aboard who had been there.

If he was wrong in his reasoning the whole thing would end in failure. Did he have the confidence in his own judgement to go ahead? The worst they could do was strip him of his command, which they were doing anyway.

But would Tyger and her crew back him in his last great adventure?