Tyger

CHAPTER 14

“DON’T CONCERN YOURSELF, m’ boy, your prize will be taken care of by Whippet when she heads off with my dispatches. Now, tell me all about it-I’m sure it’ll be a rare tale!”

Kydd knew the bluff Admiral Russell would not take kindly to tacking and veering about the actuality and opened up to him, freely admitting his motives for the daring thrust into the High Arctic. The chase after the furs had been a long shot but what had he had to lose?

There was professional talk on the suitability of Archangel as a second port-regretfully dismissed-and conditions while working ship in freezing weather.

Then Russell asked, “Tell me, why did the barky decide to give himself up from the pack-ice so conveniently?”

Kydd debated whether to claim the credit himself but answered, “Something my pilot mentioned. He said the worst danger for navigating in the north is when the fixed ice coming out from the shore meets the floating pack driven in by the wind. Any ship between will be helplessly crushed. The Hollander was safe until the wind turned onshore. Then he had the choice of being sunk and marooned on the ice as he watched us sail away or …”

“You sighted his papers?” the admiral asked, clearly keen to know if indeed there was a case for condemning Walvis as prize, given her rich lading.

“I did, sir.” Kydd went on to tell him how he’d found the ship was merely a ferry, trans-shipping the cargo to a disguised blockade-runner waiting in Tromso fjord in north Norway ready for the dash south. It must have seemed wildly improbable that a British man-o’-war of size would ever chance on Archangel, still less Spitzbergen, he added. Then he beamed. “I fancy, sir, we’ll soon be sharing in as rich a prize as any these last years!”

Russell gave a sad smile. “Not as who would say. Won’t even make the prize court, o’ course.”

“Sir?”

“Your action must count as a considerable success-at thwarting a smuggling ring. Kydd, I have to tell you, the offence for which we take reprisal with this prize is nothing but an offence against the revenue service of Russia. See if you can find in our orders-in-council where the fur of the Arctic fox is listed as contraband. You won’t. So what we see is the property of the Tsar of Russia rightfully restored.”

“So-”

“I expect the tsar will be generous in his thanks and no doubt our Dutch friends will at this moment be marching off to Siberia in chains, but as to lawful prize …”

Seeing Kydd’s crestfallen look he gave a chuckle. “It has its bright side. I dare to say we’ve a reasonable claim to salvage on the cargo, a tidy sum. And undoubtedly it affects you personally too, Kydd.”

“Sir?”

“What would our grateful tsar say if he found the Admiralty had rewarded the captain responsible with the loss of his ship? The politicals would never allow it. No, m’ boy, I do believe you’ve Tyger to yourself if you want her.”

In the solitude of his cabin, thoughts crowded in on Kydd. Tyger was his-but for how long? Despite Russell’s words, he felt it was a reprieve only. He had to go on to achieve a standing that made him untouchable by the Admiralty and restored him to favour with the public.

Actions that resulted in distinction and acclaim could never be commanded on a whim. In all his past triumphs he had been in a position that allowed various elements to be exploited to advantage-and he had had the freedom to act. In a fleet there would be little chance in the short term of coming on such a situation.

But, an inner voice offered, hadn’t his greatest laurels been won at Curacao, part of a squadron?

He grimaced. There was little of the far exotic about duties with the North Sea Fleet and far less likelihood of such derringdo in these waters but it couldn’t be ruled out entirely. His future course was now clear: while there was even the slightest chance of distinction he would make damned sure he was ready.

He would bring Tyger up to a fighting pitch such as he’d achieved with L’Aurore-forge a blade that he could take into any contest and be sure of victory.

Before, he’d not felt a rightful captain of Tyger. She’d started as a punishment ship, a place of exile, and he’d not given her the interest and attention she deserved, especially with the shadow of losing her before him: then she had been a fleeting and temporary command, which it would have been unwise to take to his heart.

It was different now and he vowed he would cleave to his new ship. There were pleasing and appealing aspects of her character that reached out to him-those bluff, no-nonsense bulldog lines, the massed eighteen-pounder great guns, her willingness to brute through head seas and fearlessly carry high sail …

He and the ship’s company had met in the worst possible circumstances and he’d not been inclined to test their limits under those conditions. Now they’d seen him in action and he’d given them a prize of sorts. It was a start but he was not naive enough to think that this meant he’d won their loyalty-that only came with trust and that, in turn, with shared danger. But time was not on his side …

He began jotting down what he must do. Gunnery, sail-handling-these prime battle-winners were top of the list.

Their brush with the frigates in the “bullion shipment” had been revealing: there’d been no flinching or hanging back but there’d been a stiffness in working the guns, betraying a woeful lack of practice compared to the fluid choreography in L’Aurore. He’d long learned the lesson that halving the time for the load-and-fire cycle had the same effect as doubling the number of guns, in a frigate duel effectively pitting the enemy against the broadside to be expected from a ship-of-the-line. Every split-second saved would translate in a long, close action to many more strikes, any one of which could be a settler.

Smart working of sail was far more than mere practice. Necessarily, there was a distancing in the layers of command. In a first-rate man-o’-war the captain on the quarterdeck would issue an order, which would go to the officer in charge of that part-of-ship and his team; the petty officers would pull the men together and make it happen, knowing their individual strengths and weaknesses and alert to any slacking or fumbling, while the officer stood braced for any external change in circumstances. It took trust by the officer, trust from the petty officers and mutual professional respect. So recently emerged from mutiny, these strands of interdependence were frayed at best and his officers must look to restoring them as soon as possible.

Bowden understood the importance of this, he felt; Brice was gifted, his men at the foremast the only ones showing positive signs, but his first lieutenant …

Hollis was from a good family, but in a ship of war that was a disadvantage. Used to unquestioning obedience from servants, his instinct was to issue a stream of directions and leave it at that. Under stress of a mutinous situation he’d become more strident, distant and critical, and while at present the men took his orders, that precious two-way reliance was lacking.

There were other elements that affected Tyger’s fighting spirit, as Kydd remembered from his own origins before the mast. Petty tyrannies could reign when bullies gained positions of power as petty officers. This would be invisible from the quarterdeck but would corrode a sailor’s loyalty quicker than anything. He knew the signs and would deal ruthlessly with any he saw. Incompetence was another real concern. The faith in authority that made men at a word go out on a yardarm in the teeth of a gale would vanish in an instant at any misgivings, and then it would be a hesitant, cautious crew.

Because he was taking over an existing ship’s company he’d had to accept the decisions of Tyger’s previous captain in the matter of who had been rated into vital positions, and this was not something he was happy with. It was, of course, the prerogative of every captain to rate any seaman petty officer on the spot-and to disrate. If any failed him he wouldn’t hesitate to act.

So much depended on the one thing he didn’t have: a first-hand appreciation of the qualities of his men.

It would probably shock the common seaman to discover just how much his captain knew of him. Restraining every instinct to join in, a captain necessarily had to pass over responsibility for the execution of his order to others, then stand back and watch. He could, without them knowing, make out who were the impulsive, the stolid, the reluctant, the reliable. He could quietly observe the interplay between leaders and followers, their character and potential, and be ready to act on it-but all this took time.

Kydd balled his fists in frustration. Their testing might be upon them without warning and a frigate could expect to be first in any action.

There was only one way forward: to show no mercy to his men or his ship in the race to succeed. From this moment on, all hands could expect blood, toil and sweat until Tyger was as effective a fighting machine as L’Aurore had been. Resolved, he jammed on his cocked hat and strode out on deck.

The squadron was comfortably in a loose extended line ahead as they ploughed the seas off the Dutch coast under easy sail, and there was nothing to challenge the afternoon watch. The men at the conn were in relaxed conversation, the others around the deck going about their business in unhurried, economic movements.

Bowden detached from the group and came over, touching his hat. “A fine afternoon, sir, don’t you think?” he said pleasantly. “We’ve-”

“You think so? What’s going on there on the main hatch?” Kydd demanded.

The men were sitting cross-legged on the gratings in companionable gossip with canvas spread over their knees, stitching sails, an agreeable task in the sun.

“Sir, the sailmaker asked for hands to complete our fair-weather suit of sails.”

“When the ship’s in such a state?” Kydd crossed to the lee main shrouds and fingered into the deadeyes, sniffing the result. “This is scandalous! There’s been no hog’s lard in here for a cat’s age. How can you keep equal strain on all parts save you grease it?”

“Sir, it’s the boatswain’s-”

“No, Mr Bowden, it’s your duty-to see the boatswain does his. The watch-on-deck is there to be employed when not working ship and I’ll have it so while we’re sadly ahoo.”

Around the helm dark glances were exchanged.

Kydd turned and glared forward grimly.

After some minutes a flustered Hollis appeared, having caught word of Kydd’s mood. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said carefully. “I rather thought we’d-”

“Just what I was thinking, Mr Hollis! We could be up with an enemy at a moment’s notice and then where would we be? Quarters at six bells, and the men may stand down just as soon as they make my times.”

In the last hour before supper the gun-crews were set to intensive drill under eye and pocket-watch.

The individual timings were dismally slow, movements awkwardly co-ordinated, and under pressure, gun-captains became flustered.

Kydd’s expression grew glacial. Their rate of fire was abysmal, the eighteens served at a slower rate than he’d ever seen before. If they went up against a well-manned and resolute French frigate, their survival could not be assured, let alone a victory. Appalled, he grunted to Hollis to stand the men down and stalked off to his cabin.

Kydd waited grimly for the men’s breakfast to finish and on the stroke of one bell the boatswain’s calls pealed out.

“All hands! All the hands! Clear lower deck! Haaaands to muster!”

They came aft-the entire ship’s company. Cooks and gunners, seamen and officers, carpenter and marines. In a sea of faces they crowded the gangways and upper deck, interest, suspicion and resentment in equal measure.

He nodded at the boatswain, who blasted out a “still” on his pipe.

The muttering and murmuring died away as Tyger’s company waited to hear what their captain had to say.

“Tygers!” he roared. “You’re hailed aft for one reason, and one reason only. I’m captain and this is my ship-and it’s yours as well.”

He let it hang for a space, looking from one to another.

“So why am I ashamed of it?

“It’s not because of what happened under Captain Parker-that’s over and finished. I don’t give a brass razoo about it. But what I saw at gun practice yesterday was a dance of cripples! I won’t have it! This is a top fighting frigate and I mean to take her into the hottest part of any battle, ready or no!”

He was not reaching them. Stony faces, folded arms and a sullen silence.

“You say we took on those men-o’-war on the way to Gothenburg. I say we ran away! No fight worth a spit and no mill man to man. Then a cruise in the ice and never a shot fired. You’re soft and useless, and if a half-good Frenchy lays alongside he’ll have us.

“So these are my orders starting today. From now on, before the forenoon watch turns to, it’ll be quarters and practice for an hour. And again at six bells in the afternoon. If I don’t see progress, and that quickly, there’ll be more in the first dog-watch, damn it.”

This was met with savage murmurs: the dog-watches were traditionally a seaman’s own time, to be spent yarning and taking leisure on the fore-deck.

Kydd looked down on the gun-deck at the row of guns being exercised. Time and time again the tons’ weight of gun was run out, sweating crews heaving wearily at the side-tackles, drawing it back in with the rear training tackle, ram-rod whirling as powder charges, wad and ball were fumbled towards the muzzle in a never-ending round.

He had been on a gun-crew himself and knew what he was asking of them but he took no pity on them. It had to be done.

Forward, Bowden was taking his gun exercise by quarter-gunner-four guns at a time, allowing the others to catch their breath.

“Compliments to Mr Bowden and he’s to know that at close quarters every gun is served,” Kydd snapped to his messenger. “I want to see all his guns in action at once.”

Only long familiarity born of the same crews working together could bring about the fluid, unconscious ballet that was a battle-winning line of guns. In combat each crew needed to ply their gun in the confines of the narrow space between the pieces without tangling with the next gun-crew, who could be counted on to be out of synchrony with them. It was something they had to sort out for themselves: whether the loading number took his charge direct from the powder monkey or it was passed to him by the side-tackle men; whether these same men ducked or stood aside as the long stave was reversed end for end by the rammer to become a sponge, stabbing deep into the muzzle.

The afternoon practice was even worse. Kydd took in the shuffling and lethargy, the creaking, stiff motions, the result of bone-cracking weariness and suffering from burning muscles and painful joints. These men were sadly out of condition, clearly not having been exercised in earnest by the previous captain. But who knew when Tyger must face her destiny?

“Feeble and pitiful. I’ll have a half-hour in the dog-watches and be damned to it!” Kydd bit out.

Bowden stared at his captain for a long moment, then, expressionless, turned away.

Three days later Alceste frigate rejoined the squadron and in turn Tyger was detached to the convoy assembly anchorage at Yarmouth Roads. Russell was at pains to explain that Baltic convoy duty, however onerous, was one they all must share in.

But it was what Kydd had been waiting for. A two-day sail as an independent and no one to see! He wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. Just as soon as the distant topsails of the squadron sank below the horizon he turned to the officer-of-the-watch. “I have the ship, Mr Brice.”

Now he would find out what Tyger was made of.

He stood by the helm. “As close by the wind as she’ll lie,” he told the quartermaster.

“What course, sir?”

“Never mind that, do as I say.” In these well-known waters there was no concern about picking up their position again later.

The helmsman eased his wheel to meet the wind, gingerly glancing up to the edge of the topsail for the least fluttering-too close and there was every risk of slamming aback.

Kydd sniffed the wind. Not bad. Sheet in a little more on the driver and an easing on the outer jib? It was done and he was rewarded by another half-point into the wind even if at the cost of an increased stiffness in the roll.

Around the deck seamen stopped what they were doing to watch.

A little care with the trim, and he could probably get another knot out of her in this steady southwesterly but this was not a painstaking investigation-all he wanted for the present was a feel of how Tyger took to various conditions.

“Shall you be exercising gun-crews, sir?” Hollis said stiffly.

“Not now,” Kydd said. “Sail-handling first. Do hold yourself ready for manoeuvres later.”

So she was capable of a workmanlike close hauling. But there was more to it than that-how did she answer while straining so? A sluggish response to a sudden helm order while in an engagement was a grave disadvantage and therefore situations involving it would need to be avoided, if at all possible, in the deadly cut and thrust that was a frigate duel.

He hesitated for a moment. “I’ll take the wheel,” he said, to the startled helmsman, taking a spoke with one hand, the age-old signal for a handover. At his nod the man released one spoke and Kydd took another, testing the pressure on the wheel as the man gradually released his other hand and stepped back.

He now had Tyger under his hands and the memories flooded back.

The last time he had been at the wheel was as a young seaman so long ago in Artemis 32, defying the Southern Ocean off Cape Horn-or was that the old Trajan in the Caribbean?

The feel of a live helm was thrilling and satisfying, the thrum and tug connecting him directly to Tyger’s beating heart.

She had a surprising amount of resistance to the little corrections he made and concentrated effort was needed at the wheel. In common with most British-built ships, her rudder was broad and deep, plenty of bite-and that translated to hard work but masterly manoeuvring.

Putting real force into it, he piled on the turns, and instantly Tyger paid off to leeward, the sudden change in heel sending men staggering.

This was a battle-winner! As the frigate steadied, he put on opposite turns and, without hesitation, she came up to the wind, under his touch willingly stretching out ahead. He glanced up, applying small corrections until he saw the sail luff begin a fretful fluttering.

In spreading satisfaction, he took in the line of deck as it swept nobly forward to her stout bowsprit lifting and falling. He was suddenly reluctant to give up the wheel-it brought memories of times when his only cares were his grog and his shipmates.

Then his eyes took in the faces looking down the deck at him, puzzled, suspicious.

He focused on one in particular: boatswain Dawes wore an expression that was anxious, sagging. The man was out of his depth in a first-rank ship of war, his age and comfortable ways unsuited to a frigate like Tyger, and he was terrified he’d be found out.

“Duty helmsman to the wheel,” Kydd rapped.

With the ship reverted to the sea watch, he went to the boatswain. “I mean to put the ship to the test, Mr Dawes. What do you say to sending down a topmast at all?”

“Sir, could be tricksy dos, the seas bein’ up as they is.” The eyes pleaded with him.

“Well, shifting one of the great guns from fore to aft-that’ll need cross-tackles and preventers, don’t you think?”

“Ah, Cap’n Parker, we never done that, not at all, Mr Kydd.”

“You can’t conceive any need to mount stern-chasers aft in a hurry? Come, come, sir, this is what you must expect in a prime frigate like Tyger.”

“Aye, sir.” There was resignation and dull resentment in the reply.

Kydd knew Dawes had to go but a boatswain was appointed to a ship by Admiralty warrant and could not be turned out by his captain. He had to be made to leave the ship of his own accord. “Then we’ll think of something else to stretch our stout crew,” he added.

Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw Bowden watching with a tight face. He shifted his gaze deliberately to his second lieutenant, who looked away bleakly.

Kydd turned to his third lieutenant: “Mr Brice. I desire to exercise the people at putting the ship about. Both watches on deck, to work sail, first one, then the other.”

“Sir.” Standing tense and wary, his expression was unreadable.

“Ready your men. Start with the starb’d watch and they’re to go about on the larb’d tack at my word. I shall be timing them.”

“Aye aye, sir.” He turned away. “Hands to stations to stay ship,” he blared.

Kydd pointedly withdrew his fob watch and held it prominently. “Carry on, please.”

Even under pressure it was as he’d seen before. Slow and deliberate, cautious. The other watch of the hands was the same. The time was not disgraceful but neither was it outstanding.

“We’ll have ’em handing sail now. Each mast separately to furl its tops’l then set it again. Begin with the fore.”

This time he could see each individual seaman at work. He didn’t yet know names but he had faces. He watched intently; the character of each couldn’t be hidden and now he was building a true picture of Tyger’s ship’s company, its strengths and weaknesses.

“Mr Hollis.”

The first lieutenant came over to the weather side of the quarterdeck, guarded and defensive.

“At the mainmast. What do you think of ’em?”

They were trying hard, the young petty officer of main-top going like a demon, flinging himself out on the yard at the front of his men in his eagerness.

“Doing well, I should have thought, sir.”

“You don’t see anything wrong, who’s to say, a failing?”

Hollis looked up, shading his eyes and answered woodenly, “They appear to be succeeding, sir.”

“I’m not satisfied,” Kydd said flatly.

“Sir?”

“The captain of the top. He means well but he’s no leader. It’s not for him to be going out on the yardarm with his men, he should stay in the tops and take charge from there. How can he see if his men are all of them pulling their weight? What if the order is countermanded under stress of battle and he needs to regroup?”

The lieutenant continued to gaze up obstinately.

“No, Mr Hollis. This man is keen but inexperienced. Better an older hand. Do you know of any such?”

Hollis glowered but did not answer.

“And the man passing the earring, do you not feel-”

“Sir! If you feel my watch and station bill is-”

“I’m saying it were well you knew your men better, Mr Hollis.”

The morning wore on. He took to asking each officer in charge names for Dillon to take down in his notebook. That knowing old salt who always tailed on to a line last so he could take it easy out of sight of his shipmates. The young and nimble lad out on the yard who was a born top-man. The petty officer at the fore-topmast stay-sail who for some reason was hanging back from driving his men.

As they laboured Kydd sensed antagonism rising, the dull animus of men driven hard beyond the normal-but he was not going to let up with the sceptre of defeat hanging over Tyger.

He was rapidly getting to grips with it, throwing Tyger into all points of sailing, feeling her strength and power, her breeding. There was nothing like L’Aurore’s delicacy in light winds but very little to complain about, and running large she hadn’t that lurching long roll and for that he was grateful. He sensed she would be at her best in hard winds: a fresh gale would have her joyously breasting the combers and he looked forward to matching her up to some of the blows he’d experienced in his last command.

All in all he was more than satisfied-especially with her striking manoeuvrability. Sweet and sure in going about and lightning sharp to answer the helm in any circumstance, this was something to be treasured-only if the sail-handling could match it. He would make sure it did.

At midday he stood the hands down for dinner.

The afternoon generally would see one watch go below, but not today. These were the only precious days of independence away from the fleet he could count on.

“The men are going to smell powder now, Mr Hollis. Both watches, gun by gun.” He’d taken the precaution of consulting with the gunner about their practice allowance. As he’d suspected, there had been no expenditure for months while Parker had struggled to keep his hold on the ship.

He could feel the lieutenant’s hostility.

“We’ll start with a little dry practice. Mr Bowden?”

Among the waiting gun-crews there was a stillness, a naked loathing that radiated out.

“Carry on.”

He let them go for three “rounds,” then casually ordered, “Sail trimmers to stand clear.”

The gun numbers detailed for going aloft in an action stood back, bewildered. To the remaining crew he rapped, “Run out your guns!”

It brought gasps of dismay for the cold iron of the big guns was a preposterous mass for the reduced men at the tackle falls.

He waited with a grim smile to let them feel the impossibility, then stepped forward. “You’ve never seen close action, you lubbers, have you? Let me tell you that calling away sail trimmers is no excuse for standing about idle while the enemy pounds us. When they go aloft it’s every man on the falls, gun-captain included, and only after the gun’s close up do they go back to their place. Let’s have it done, Mr Bowden.”

Next he would see what an eighteen-pounder could do after L’Aurore’s twelves, a good one-third smaller weight of metal.

A target was knocked up: an empty barrel with a pole nailed to the side bearing a large red flag.

It went over the side, rapidly left bobbing jauntily astern until it was a tiny red blob on the face of the ocean.

“Larboard first, start from forward. Lay us to weather of the mark, four cables distant,” Kydd snapped at the sailing master, an unnaturally subdued Joyce.

He clattered down to the gun-deck and hurried forward to where the gun-captain of the first was making preparation. These long eighteens were a byword in the navy for accuracy at a distance, if served well, and had the weight to make themselves felt.

The gun-crew readied.

“In your own time, two rounds at your target.”

Kydd saw that Bowden was leaving the loading and pointing entirely to the gun-captains and silently approved, even if the young man was doing his best to ignore him.

These eighteens were big beasts, half as high as a man and over a dozen feet long and now the skills would turn from backbone and sinew to hand and eye … and of one man, the gun-captain.

Kydd, however, turned his attention away from the gun-captains-Bowden could be relied on to pick up shortcomings in working the gun. He was interested in the results, out there where the speck of red in the distance nodded cheekily to leeward.

The first gun banged out, the slam of concussion and then the reek of powder-smoke briefly enfolding him. It was a fair shot, twenty feet to one side but reasonable for elevation, and Kydd was impressed. Not with the marksmanship but the fact that these long eighteens had such a flat arc of fire-the white plume of first-strike was close to the target even at this range.

He felt the gun-captain’s darted glance at him but he gave no notice and continued his gaze to seaward.

The second round was closer still but if the target had been extended to be an imaginary frigate it would have missed astern of it. “Off the target, complete miss,” he growled.

The gunner made much of noting the expenditure of each ball but it was within allowance and Kydd ignored him.

Other guns on the larboard side did even worse, and after he had given orders to wear ship to bring the starboard side to bear, he paced grim-faced along.

The first two guns did not improve the showing. The third gun took its time but the result was dramatic-the sudden rise of the plume within only a couple of yards and perfect for elevation. Its second round was even better, the ball within feet of the flag, so close it fluttered in alarm.

He turned to congratulate the gun-captain, who looked back at him with a controlled blankness. It was Stirk, come up from his station as yeoman of the powder room.

“Well done, that gun,” he said loudly. Stirk folded his arms and gazed back without comment.

It was too much to expect the next gun to match up. Neither did the remainder on that side.

When it was all over Kydd summoned the gunner to him. “Mr Darby,” he said acidly, knowing that his words were being overheard by all. “Pray do explain to me why the Tygers are so wanting in the article of laying a gun. With one exception, that is.”

He knew very well, of course. Not only had he kept the L’Aurores on their toes with exercises but they’d been in savage actions many times, while Tyger …

“Most would think it good practice, sir,” the gunner said woodenly.

“But I don’t. The rest of the afternoon all gun-captains will muster in the fore-bay and take instruction from the yeoman of the powder room.” He waited, then said, “And in the last dog-watch we’ll try again.”

This time there were savage murmurs and he looked around sharply until they’d subsided. “Carry on, Mr Hollis.”

It was unfortunate for them, what with all the impedimenta of live firing to set up yet again and in their own time, but he was well aware that these two days were the only ones he was going be free to do as he wished.

“Can’t do it!” the gunner said, with a smirk.

“Oh?”

“We’ve shot away our allowance. Ain’t none more!”

“Then we’ll use next quarter’s in advance!” Kydd retorted icily, turned on his heel and stalked away.

The next day was the last before arriving. With names noted previously he harried the first lieutenant to make changes, demotions, rating up the promising and reconfiguring watch and stations against the strengths and weaknesses he’d seen. Then he piled on more pressure at guns and sail.

They had to succeed!

There was some improvement, but apprehension crowded in on Kydd at the vision of a well-found French frigate circling for the kill-it was common knowledge that, with his battle fleets helpless in port, Bonaparte was taking the opportunity of sending his frigates to sea on predatory cruises with ample, picked crews against the short-handed and weather-ravaged British. The odds were against them from the start.

Kydd flopped into his chair in his cabin and held his head in his hands, thinking of his days in L’Aurore, the ship he had left so reluctantly, which had borne him to glory and distinction and in which he had put down so many memories.

“Come!” he called irritably, at a knock on the door that interrupted his thoughts.

It was Dillon, with a sheaf of papers. “Sir Thomas, they’re outstanding these five days-”

“Not now, Mr Dillon.”

“I do advise they are-”

“I said not now!”

“Sir, if another time is more convenient, I’d be happy to comply,” Dillon said, with quiet dignity.

“Damn it-just go!”

“Very well, sir.”

At the door Dillon hesitated, then turned to face Kydd. “Sir, I’m your confidential secretary and-and I think there’s something you should know.”

“I told you to leave. Now do so or I’ll have you thrown out!”

Pale-faced, Dillon stood his ground. “Touching as it does on your command of this vessel.”

Kydd shot to his feet, the chair knocked askew. “What in Hades gives you the right to criticise me?” he barked in a fury. “If you’re not out of here in ten seconds I’ll give you a spell in the bilboes, so help me!”

“Sir. The officers are convinced you’re a glory-seeker, and the men that you’re a blood-and-guts hellfire jack!”

Kydd went red and bawled for the sentry.

The marine entered, confused, looking from one to the other. Dillon slipped out past him.

“Go,” Kydd croaked at the sentry, who lost no time in making his exit.

Shaken by the episode, Kydd tried to think. His thoughts steadied as he realised that Dillon had risked a great deal by telling him what he thought-and that took back-bone. He’d felt that it was important Kydd should know the mood of the ship, and that could only have been motivated by a sense of respect and loyalty to him personally. In his black mood he’d wronged the young man.

And what Dillon had said-that the ship believed he was a despised glory-seeker, one who put personal vainglory first before the needs of the service-stung. From the choice of words he must have heard the seamen’s verdict first-hand and it was a damning one. Nothing was held in more contempt and loathing than an officer who looked to honours and glory over the bloodied bodies of his recklessly sacrificed men.

Nobody, officer or man, in Tyger knew the full story of why he’d been sent to the ship. As far as they were concerned, the Admiralty had sent a known hero to turn around a mutinous ship in the shortest possible time and he had-but he’d not left it there. His bullying haste to get the frigate to what they would see as impossible levels of perfection could only mean that his head had been turned by public adulation and he wanted more, no matter what it cost.

How ironic! He was doing it for his own very real reasons, but because of his single-minded and unforgiving drive even Bowden and Stirk, who knew him of old, must be persuaded of his glory-seeking.

Soon he’d lose any loyalty that was left, and end in the forefront of the battle waving his sword but none following. He’d seen it happen in the Caribbean to another captain and squirmed at the thought that it could happen to him.

But if he slackened off not only would he lose his chance to bring Tyger to warlike readiness but the whole thing would be put down to tyranny and nit-picking over drill times.

If only Renzi were there to calmly dissect and analyse! In fact there was no one-not a soul-with whom he could talk at the level he needed.

But he had known that when he first boarded the ship and must live with it.

He summoned Tysoe. “Find Mr Dillon and, with my compliments, if he is at leisure I should be happy to see him.”

Dillon entered, his expression set and defensive.

Kydd rose and, with a smile, indicated a chair. “I’ve asked you here to offer my apologies for my unforgivable lapse in behaviour.”

“Sir.”

“Which was not occasioned by your good self, I hasten to add.”

It was not proving easy. “A captain must have many worries.” The tone was careful, noncommittal.

“Ah, just so. As you of all must know.”

“Sir. May I speak plainly?”

“Please do.”

“What I’ve seen of you in these last weeks is not the Captain Kydd I know.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t wish to pry but I’m of the mind that a matter of great personal moment lies upon you at this time, Sir Thomas.”

“That may be so.”

He continued, in a low voice, “And of all men within the compass of this vessel there is only one who does not have the comfort of … a friend. If it is of service to you, I would be honoured to share your burden, the matter most scrupulously to remain between us alone.”

Kydd sat back in astonishment. Not at what had been said, but that Dillon had found the moral courage to risk immediate condemnation for his impertinence.

“Why, that’s handsome in you, Mr Dillon,” he found himself saying. He paused. “Do you care for a sherry?’”

There was intelligence, practicality and discretion on offer but was this friendship? He was drawn to the young man-personable, educated and with a depth of feeling. He would never be a Renzi but …

There was less than ten years’ difference in their ages, but they were a world of experience apart. Could he ever bring himself to speak freely as a friend? If he did, like his administrative confidences, he knew it would be safe with Dillon.

There was an awkward moment, then Dillon said, “You know, when I secured my position in L’Aurore in the first place, I can tell you now, it was more than a lust for travel that was urging me on.”

“Oh?”

“A young lady, of importunate ways who unaccountably set her cap in my direction. I raised the siege only by the time-honoured device of running away to sea,” Dillon added, with an amused smile.

“Ha! It was ever so,” Kydd said.

“Then when L’Aurore was no more and I had to return, the siege was laid in earnest. Only your timely summons to Tyger saved me from a dolorous fate.”

“Are you then contented with your choice? Tyger is a very different barky from L’Aurore.”

Dillon nodded, and Kydd felt encouraged to open up to him, to tell him of the misreporting that had led to the Admiralty’s set against him, the dependence of a captain on favour and interest for employment, and the inevitable fate of those who ran athwart their lordships’ hawse.

And of the last sanction: that he and his ship distinguish themselves to such a degree that it would be impolitic to take his ship from him.

Dillon listened sympathetically. After Kydd had finished he gave a twisted smile. “Ah. I have it now. A pretty problem.”

They sipped their sherry. Then, in quite another voice, Dillon said, “It does occur to me … would you wish to learn backgammon?”

“To-”

“A relaxing and harmless pursuit but a sovereign cure for solitude.”

“Why, perhaps I shall.” It was a thoughtful and practical suggestion and would provide an excuse to meet companionably.

Dillon returned quickly with the hinged box that Kydd had so often seen in wardrooms. He set out the black and white pieces and handed Kydd a leather cup and two dice. “The idea is to go point to point to bear off all your stones before your opponent. These are the points and there is your home.”

There was more to follow and Kydd took it in gravely until they were ready to begin.

“Your throw.”

The pieces began their journey around the board.

“You think I’ve been too hard on the people,” Kydd said, in satisfaction seeing off one of Dillon’s stones to the bar to begin its trek again.

“I can’t but think you have been,” Dillon answered, positioning his pieces in a continuous mass.

“There’s no alternative-Tyger has to be ready to meet the enemy.”

“I fear you’ll lose them. Even if they knew of your difficulty they’d hardly feel it warranted to haze them so for that reason.”

The massing of pieces turned out to be an effective trap, holding Kydd until he could overcome it only by throwing a high number. He was learning.

“There’s no other way.”

“Then you’re at a stand. Press on this way and you’ve lost your crew. Ease away and the French might spring on us. Yet it does seem to me in my ignorance that the last is the least probable of the two.”

Two fours and he couldn’t move. Kydd yielded his turn. “So ease off on the beggars? What’ll they think we’ve been doing this last week? I can’t back down now.”

There was an opening-instead of moving both pieces he combined the numbers into a move by a single one and leaped ahead.

It was working: simply bringing it out and talking about it was sufficient to cut through the tangle of decision elements.

“A good one,” Dillon said, in admiration, but at the next throw sent two of Kydd’s stones to the bar.

Tyger’s captain was not put out-for in that instant he realised he knew what he had to do.

“Gentlemen,” Kydd said with a broad smile, looking about his table benignly. “Our last night before we make port on the morrow.”

His officers regarded him with expressions varying from suspicion to hostility but an invitation to dinner with the captain was not to be spurned.

“Wine with you all!” he declared, raising his glass.

There were scattered murmurs but nothing even approaching jollity. It was time to make his play. “To Tyger-in whom I am well pleased!”

A ripple of barely concealed surprise went around.

“Yes-we’ve worked hard, damned hard, and don’t think I haven’t noticed. The enemy may pounce at any time, but I now declare that Tyger is ready for ’em.”

Hollis glared balefully but Bowden’s face cleared. “Sir, you mean-”

“I do. The only sure way to reach a true fighting spirit is to pitch in, heart and soul, however hard it takes, until we’re of one company and mind, and now we are.”

Their expressions held incredulity and cynicism.

“So as of this hour we step down to regular sea routine, confident we can meet anything the Frenchies throw at us.”

It was getting across: pleased smiles broke through and a dawning respect replaced the hostility.

“I’ve driven you hard but I’ve no regrets-the results speak for themselves. So I call on you now to toast our tight little frigate. To Tyger, and long may she cleave the seas!”

“To Tyger!” This time there was real feeling in it.

“In the forenoon tomorrow before we arrive I’ll speak to the ship’s company and tell ’em the same thing. It’s been a tough claw to wind’d but we’ve made it!”

It was done.

The reality was that Tyger was far from ready, his words a mockery in his own ears, but now in his officers and later the crew there would be a morsel of pride, the beginnings of a belief in the ship and her captain.

But he was taking a risk by relaxing his efforts. He was gambling that, when the time came, Tyger would not let him down and would rise heroically to the challenge.

He’d done all he could. The rest was in the hands of Tyger and her company.

CHAPTER 15

YARMOUTH ROADS WAS ALIVE with shipping-from brigs to sizeable ship-rigged vessels. In a sprawling mass at the assembly anchorage, they were protected to seaward by naval sloops and cutters of the local defences.

Kydd had never experienced a Baltic convoy-they were legendary for their size: one had set forth with over a thousand sail. This assemblage was of some hundreds. The stirring sight was a paradox: a thrilling testimony to Britain’s trade supremacy and at the same time a frightening demonstration of vulnerability for an island nation.

A frigate and a number of sloops were in the naval anchorage, the escort for this argosy.

“Pennants of Lively, Cap’n Hozier,” Kydd was told.

The frigate was the same class as Tyger but the seniority of her captain was September 1802, and therefore predated Kydd’s. He would thus have the command and the responsibility, not only for the safe arrival of this immensely valuable convoy but the heavy burden of producing the complex orders and signals, procedures and assignments, and their transcription into hundreds of sailing-order instructions. It was a tedious and lengthy task but had serious legal and financial implications, for Lloyds Insurance would be relieved of payment against a loss if a transgression of their strict provisions could be shown.

In the absence of a flag officer there was no ceremony and Kydd put out in his gig for Lively while Tyger secured from sea.

“Well, now, and we’re honoured indeed, Sir T,” murmured Hozier, eyeing Kydd’s sash and star. Kydd had hesitated about wearing them but he’d been led to understand that if he did not it would be assumed he did not value the honour.

“I was lucky enough to be in the right place,” he replied genially. “As could happen anywhere.”

“Not here, old trout,” Hozier answered, with a small smile. “Hard blows and a lee shore is all we can rely on.” He had a noble forehead and a languid, patrician drawl.

“And another month, another convoy.”

“Quite. You’ll send me a lieutenant and brace of middies to bear a hand?”

“Lieutenant you shall have, reefers I’ve none.”

“To spare?”

“In any wight. I’m appointed into Tyger at short notice and the mids fled with the last captain.”

“Oh, yes. I recollect there was some to-do that-”

“Which is over now. I’ll send my sailing master, if I may, for chart corrections and similar. Can I take it there’ll be no difficulties on passage?”

“I’d say not. The Danes are very strict on their neutrality and run the Sound transit like a business-which I suppose it is to them. Once inside the Baltic there’s nothing to fear, no Frenchy fleet or even cruisers, what with the Russians our ally and with ships-of-the-line to spare. We just let the convoy disperse about their business.

“As usual, Boney is rampaging away on some land campaign or other-the Prussians are taking a hammering, which means the southern Baltic shore is a scene of slaughter, but it’s nothing to do with us. We keep our offing well out of it.”

“So a straightforward trip, nothing to-”

From above, a terrifying bellow interrupted them.

Hozier winced. “My premier, a man of … plain manners. I’ve endeavoured to encourage a more gentlemanly address but I fear it’s a lost cause with Mr Bray.”

Kydd gave a sympathetic nod and went on to conclude the meeting: “I’m in reasonable fettle. Victualling and stores shouldn’t take long. Have you a date of sailing?”

“Five days, subject to numbers made up to my list. Shall we meet again, perhaps for dinner? I’ve a tolerably inventive cook who knows his souffles and I can promise you a capital evening …”

Piped over the side and in his gig, Kydd felt a glow of pleasure. In the past he would have felt intimidated by the man’s effortless high-born gentility but now, with his honours and distinction, he need never fear it again.

But then came a rush of bleakness. Was he facing his last days at sea? From what he’d heard there’d be virtually no chance of a spectacular and distinguished action in this voyage.

Hollis was waiting for him, stiff and tense. “You left no instructions regarding liberty, Sir Thomas, and I had to-”

“Harbour routine. At noon, starbowlines to liberty ashore,” Kydd snapped, irritated that the first lieutenant had not thought to ask before if he had concerns. “Back aboard for the forenoon tomorrow.” He’d have pay-tickets made up and send for the clerk of the cheque. Then the seamen would have something in hand to raise a wind ashore.

He was not long back in his cabin when the boatswain reported.

“What is it, Mr Dawes?” If there were defects that prevented their sailing he’d need to know at once.

“Well, it’s like this here,” the man mumbled. “I’ve got t’ think how I stands.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“It’s m’ bones, like. Never had it so bad, at me all night they is, a real trial.”

“Are you saying you’re suffering a griping in the bones? What does the doctor say?”

“He weren’t a help. See, it’s not as I can show ’im and-”

“You’re ill and worried that it’s affecting your duties,” Kydd said smoothly, grasping what was going on, “so you’re informing me now. Right and proper it is for you to do so, Mr Dawes. Well, we must get you ashore to recover. Don’t concern yourself about the ship, we’ll find another to relieve you. I’ll make arrangements with shoreside immediately.”

It worked well for both parties. The boatswain would remain “ill” ashore until Tyger had sailed with a replacement, then emerge and take a more comfortable berth.

Kydd turned to other things. “Tysoe, I’ve something I’d like you to do for me …” His stored sea furniture from L’Aurore would transform the great cabin from a bare monk’s cell into something like gentle living.

His spirits rose, and he passed the word for his first lieutenant. “Mr Hollis, I’ve a notion to priddy the ship before we put out. Kindly detail three good hands and I’ll have the figurehead put to rights, gold leaf and the rest.”

“Sir.” There was still an underlying resentment in his tone-Kydd’s necessary intervention in his first lieutenant’s professional judgements had demeaned him in the eyes of the ship’s company.

Kydd sent Bowden to assist Hozier; he had need of Brice’s good sea sense in setting up the rigging while a new boatswain was found and it would get Bowden out of the ship for a while.

After the first day he knew he’d been right to award liberty, for there were few stragglers. His bracing talk to the hands, repeating in earthier terms what he’d said to the gun-room, must have had some effect, and the prospect of losing all prize-money owed by deserting would have been an even greater deterrent.

Hozier’s invitation to dinner duly came for Kydd, along with a note that four other captains would be joining them.

It was a pleasant evening, but the drumming of rain on the deck above told of a wet and chilly night for those on watch. Kydd knew two of the guests vaguely and Hozier had a ready fund of well-practised yarns. A marine violinist played soft airs just out of sight.

The cigars had come out and the talk was languorous when there was a sudden knock at the cabin door and a dark figure in streaming oilskins thrust in.

“Sir. Silent hours, master-at-arms says lights out an’ the ladies are quiet ’tween decks,” was the growled report.

“Not now, Mr Bray, we’re at dinner-I’ve company, can’t you see?” Hozier glanced about apologetically at his guests.

“Two in bilboes, carpenter gives less’n a foot in the bilge and the red cutter still in the water.”

“Yes, Mr Bray, thank you, thank you. You can leave us now. Good night.”

Deep-set eyes flicked over the gathering. Then their owner left abruptly.

“Not as you’d say a paragon of politesse and I do apologise for him.” Hozier sighed. “Shall we broach the cognac at all? I can vouch for it, as having come from a Frenchman who thought he was delivering it to Napoleon himself.”

Kydd dutifully tasted the delicate fire and joined in the appreciative murmurs-and was transfixed by a sudden thought. It grew and took hold and he delayed his departure until he was last to leave.

“A splendid time, David,” he said warmly. “As gave me pause …”

“Oh? I do endeavour to please, old fellow.”

“Just a thought-you’ve heard Tyger’s seen a mort of pother, not to say a mutiny. My first was in the thick of it, poor fellow. A sensitive chap, comes from a good family, politeness itself and a first-class education. How he must have suffered for want of society, my other officers being of the more … ordinary sort.”

It brought a small frown, so he hurried on: “What’s more to be desired in a ship so recently in a moil is a plain-speaking, no quarter, hard horse as will brook no insolence. Rather like, shall we say, your Mr Bray?”

After a pause, Hozier smiled. “Ah, I think I can see what you mean.”

“And I was thinking that-”

“They must both agree.”

“Of course!”

“Mr Hollis,” Kydd said, as early in the day as he decently could.

The officer braced himself.

“I’ve had an approach from the senior officer escorts-that is, Captain the Honourable David Hozier, father a species of viscount, you know. For some odd reason he’s heard you’re with me in Tyger and has a desire to exchange you into Lively. Of course I had to say that I have the highest regard for your service to this ship and can’t possibly …”

The movement of lieutenants between ships to vacancies and flag posts was not uncommon and a simple exchange was even easier. Tyger’s new first lieutenant was aboard that same morning.

He was thick-set and imposing, with a ram-rod stiff bearing and restless glare.

“L’tenant Bray, Sir Thomas,” he rasped, with a quick bow, his eyes darting about the deck.

“I welcome you aboard Tyger, Mr Bray,” Kydd said politely, “and can only apologise for the haste, not to say inconvenience of your removal from Lively.”

“My pleasure,” came back an instant growl, leaving no doubt that this officer regretted it not at all.

They shook hands with the understanding that introductions and taking up of post could wait until lunch and a meeting with the officers.

It was a cool affair: Bray’s presence was large and disquieting and his dark features never once broke into a smile. His voice was a bear-like rumble. Kydd briefly wondered if he’d done the right thing but the man spoke civilly enough.

In the afternoon, accompanied by a distracted Brice, the big lieutenant took survey of the frigate from bowsprit to taffrail, watched surreptitiously by the seamen, and in the evening disappeared into his cabin with the watch and station bill.

This first was very different from the previous.

Kydd had to wait longer for his new boatswain. It was no trivial matter to summon one at such notice.

However, a sympathetic admiral’s staff did their best and a boatswain for Tyger duly arrived.

A temporary Navy Board warrant had been made out to a Mr Herne, late of a frigate undergoing extensive repair in Sheerness. He came on board the day before they sailed, a neat and seaman-like figure, grey-haired and with the dignity of age.

It was going to be hard on the man-he had to take into charge all the rigging, stores and equipment on a bare handover, then acquaint himself with the ship so that on the next day he didn’t make a fool of himself before his men.

And how would he get along with Bray? From what little Kydd had seen of Herne, he’d gained an impression of a cautious, quiet individual; Bray might want a more assertive creature, as the boatswain was a key figure in the first lieutenant’s role of running and maintaining the ship for her captain.

As was now their practice, Dillon was waiting for him at day’s end, ready to discuss events over a small repast, if invited, and subtly taking the opportunity to bring up matters for attention or diversion.

“You’ll be passing content now, I believe,” he opened, as they sat down to supper.

“How’s that?” Kydd answered, leaning over to take full advantage of the fresh butter while they were in port.

“It’s not escaped my notice that as of this day you’ve achieved nothing less than a clean sweep, fore and aft. Since coming to Tyger you’ve had every officer, the boatswain and master replaced. I dare to say the gunner is now concerned for his position.”

“I suppose you’re right. What do you think of our new premier?”

“Mr Bray? The gun-room thinks him a hard man and are giving him a broad lee.” It was gratifying to find Dillon striving for the sea lingo even if it did sometimes come out a mite curious.

“I asked what you thought of him, Edward.”

“So … I find him a stout enough specimen of the breed of mariner whose bite is undoubtedly worse than his bark.” He hesitated for a moment. “Which is all to the better so far as your own good self is concerned.”

“Yes, I must admit it’s a rattling fine thing to give an order and know it’ll be carried out in every detail, even if it may be at the cost of the men’s feelings.”

“I was rather thinking of another advantage-that from now on it will be Mr Bray who shall be reviled for his slave-driving ways while his captain stands back in saintly detachment.”

It was a good point, and a dry observation uncannily like those from the Renzi of old. Kydd nodded. “As is right and proper in a first.” In quite another tone he added, “Have you that account of our taking of the Dutchman squared away yet? It’s legal evidence and I want it on the mail-boat tomorrow.”

“It’ll be ready, sir.”

Their orders came later that night. Tyger was given the seaward approaches for the convoy assembly and sailing, which suited Kydd well. It meant an earlier sailing but his duty would be merely that of the slow cruising up and down several miles out to sea on deterrent patrol while the convoy was at its most vulnerable, forming up.

The morning saw more than the usual scurry and tension before putting to sea, a tired Bowden returning on board at the last minute and boats plying to and fro even as the hour for departure approached.

Kydd thought it proper to give his new first lieutenant a chance to take the ship to sea, a straightforward enough exercise in Yarmouth Roads, and soon the deck was spurred into hasty activity by a series of uncompromising roars.

He stood back while all customary preparations were put in hand-there was every indication that Bray knew what he was doing and Kydd began to relax.

“Sir.” The gunner came closer and spoke quietly. “Sir, I have t’ tell you. My mate’s not on board.”

“Your gunner’s mate? This is a strange thing, Mr Darby.”

“I-I went to his berth an’ found he … he’s run. Taken his gear and skinned out, like.”

“He deserted?” Kydd said in disbelief. A gunner’s mate was not a common foremast hand with nothing to lose but a well-respected warrant officer.

“Seems he did, sir,” Darby said uncomfortably.

“Then you’re in a pretty pickle, I believe. Why did he do it, do you think?”

“Ah, I asked about, an’ some o’ the hands heard him swear as how after this convoy we’re going into the ice again, an’ he’s not having anything t’ do with that.”

“You know we’re not going to get hold of another gunner’s mate before we sail.”

“Aye, sir. Don’t really know what’s to do.”

“Put your mind at rest, Mr Darby. Are you not aware that your yeoman of the powder room was a gunner’s mate? Let’s see if Mr Stirk feels he’s equal to the task just for now.”

Two hours later, Tyger put to sea without incident and settled to routine.