Tyger

CHAPTER 19

THE SHIP WAS ALREADY CLEARED for action, the men at quarters and guns run out. Even if he desired it, there was no time for Kydd to call the men aft for a rousing speech and the martial thunder of the drums had long since ceased. His Majesty’s Ship Tyger was about to sail into her greatest time of trial without the smallest ceremony.

Should he go below and put on his sash and star to be like Nelson at Trafalgar? It would hearten the men at the guns but single him out to the enemy sharpshooters in the tops in just the same way. Then he recalled that the great admiral had only worn them because there had not been time to go below and shift into something else.

This was going to be a ferocious struggle and he needed every advantage he could contrive.

Usually a frigate duel began with a lengthy period of sizing up one’s opponent, detecting weaknesses in sail-handling, their poorest point of sailing, over-eagerness or reluctance to engage-all quirks that could be noted and exploited later in the deadly game of war.

But he didn’t have that luxury, for his action was of quite a different kind. The stakes were not winning or losing an encounter but the successful protecting of helpless transports. At all costs he must draw off the pack from their killing.

And for that he needed-craved-sea-room.

The enemy were under full sail, arrowing downwind headlong for the helpless transports with only Tyger between them and their prey. He could take on one but while they grappled this would allow the other two to begin their slaughter.

Only a bold move would-

“Helm alee, hard by the wind close as she’ll lie on the larb’d tack!”

Heads turned in astonishment.

“Sir, that would take us-”

“Yes, Mr Bray-I know!”

In the face of the onrushing enemy they should be shortening sail to topsails and placing themselves firmly in their path ready for the fight. Kydd had just ordered them to head off straight out to sea, away from them, leaving the transports wide open to the charge.

Tyger began filling and standing out to sea, heeling in the stiff breeze and steadily putting distance between her, the transports and the enemy.

He watched carefully: there was no alteration of course in the three frigates, which sped on towards their objective, leaving Tyger to continue her tight close-hauled run ever further out to sea. Aboard the enemy, there would be shrugged shoulders and the despising of a frigate that had fled rather than stand and fight. This was exactly what he wanted.

A bulldog of a ship, Tyger excelled in the weather. Losing hardly an inch to leeward she met the increasing seas exploding on her bow with exhilarating bursts of spray and a purposeful roll.

Ignoring Bray’s sharp stare at him, Kydd concentrated hard on angles, wind pressure and what he knew of the longshore current. At what he judged to be exactly the right time he snapped, “Hands to ’bout ship!”

She went round like a top and on this tack ended angled back towards the coast-but very neatly astern of the racing frigates. They had fallen for it!

Now they would know that not only was Tyger upwind and ready to turn on them, but as well could dictate how the action would be joined. And he had thrown them a conundrum: they could never know which of them Tyger would single out, and thus there could be no occupying him with one while the others set about the transports.

If they decided to continue with their attack, any who did would leave an unprotected stern to be exposed to Tyger’s guns in a brutal raking. It was a risk no sane captain could take-so they had to turn about and deal with Tyger first.

One by one, they braced around and took to the wind close-hauled after him, two on one tack and one on the other.

Kydd gave a grim smile. He had achieved his first objective, drawn them away from the helpless transports. But now Tyger was a hunted creature. He had to find that vital sea-room.

He had two advantages. Tyger was still upwind of them, the weather gage, and could manoeuvre in a way that forced them to respond to his motions. The other was that while he was at some miles distance there was no danger from a battle-losing crippling shot. While he had this freedom there was a chance.

Odin was making good speed but the other, Preussen, was lagging. They would want to stay together to concentrate their force and therefore be constrained to the speed of the slowest. Albatros, the light frigate, was visibly chafing at the restraint. Until the wind freshened, conditions were perfect for her and, like L’Aurore, she had the legs on anything present and would know it.

Colours were now a-fly on every ship. All three of his opponents had French tricolours aloft. Tyger had the ensign of the North Sea squadron at the mizzen peak and Union flags bravely streaming from the main-topmast stay and fore-topgallant stay. Would they be hauled down by the close of day?

Over miles of sea the chase continued and, with satisfaction, Kydd looked back and saw that Dart and Stoat had had the sense to stay with the transports and keep them moving while they could. The first of them had already put out, presumably with a full loading; a second came in to resume the evacuation. If only he could keep up the luring away …

It couldn’t last, of course.

At some point the commander, probably in Odin, would realise that Tyger was leading them a merry dance, and that by turning about to resume their descent they would force Tyger to follow, to be left far behind.

There was no other recourse: sooner or later Tyger must face all three.

Albatros came about with all the vitality and liveliness of her breed. She took up on the other tack well before the others and slashed ahead in an exuberant display-and Kydd saw his chance.

“On my order, we brace around and run large.”

None of the men who raced to their stations could have been unaware of what that meant: Tyger was now turning right around and, with a brisk wind behind her, was running down to meet her pursuers.

“Helm up-move!”

The deep, broad rudder that gave her such sure-footed manoeuvrability did not let Kydd down. Under its impetus she rotated as fast as the men could haul on the braces and, under full sail, she was heading straight for Albatros, separated by half a mile from the others.

As Kydd expected, the less experienced captain hesitated-he was now presented with the choice of taking on Tyger or turning tail and running for his larger brethren. The last would take time and for all of that his stern would be offered to Tyger’s cruel broadside as she came up.

When he decided to run, Tyger’s gunners had been tracking their pieces, and even at long range, when the guns spoke a forest of plumes shot up all around the light frigate, bringing hits on the distant squared-off stern, which must have caused havoc inside.

The first shots of the engagement had drawn blood.

Kydd put the helm over and allowed a minute for gun-captains on the opposite side to lay their weapons, then let them loose.

Nearer, more shots must have told among the white gouts, but he was quite unprepared for what happened next.

Gently turning, Albatros came up into the wind and stopped, caught flat aback and lying helpless.

Joyce tumbled to it first. “Aye, and he’s had his rudder struck off!” he said happily, as cheers and shouts of jubilation erupted from all about the ship.

In a stroke of sheer luck the vessel had been knocked out of the fight without firing a shot in return!

Kydd was tempted to continue and finish the job but he resisted: it was enough that the odds had shortened to two against one, and in any case he could never take possession of it.

Now to the real contest. He was confident that in an equal fight with either, even against a bigger foe, Tyger could win, but against two, not only did it divide his fire but the necessary manoeuvring would be hideously complicated. To avoid being caught between two fires yet lie alongside one or the other without interference would be his chief problem.

Meanwhile Tyger was closing fast, head to head with the two enemy, which sailed close together in mutual support for the coming exchange, Preussen to starboard, Odin opposite.

The valiant frigate charged down to confront her adversaries. This was the moment of truth, when fates and destinies would be decided.

Kydd raised his telescope. Aboard each of the enemy the courses were taken in, the big lower sails drawn up out of the way of gun-flash and burning wads.

“Shorten to topsails, sir?” came an anxious enquiry from Bray. Unless they did so, they would be caught with men still aloft when the guns began firing.

But Kydd had no intention of conforming to expectations. He was going to put his ship to the test as never before and issued his commands calmly but firmly.

Under a press of sail she raced onward. It would be a near-run thing but if it succeeded …

They would be expecting Tyger at the last moment to decide on one or the other, then range alongside on her outer side, backing sail to come to a stop and begin a furious cannonade as they lay locked together, the other forced to circle around before coming in to join the fight. He was going to disappoint them.

Still under full sail, he careered on, his bowsprit exactly centred on the narrow gap of sea between them as if delaying his decision to the last moment.

As the frigates closed at the speed of a galloping horse time seemed to hang breathlessly. Not a soul moved on deck, hypnotised by the onrush-and then it happened.

Kydd did not choose one or the other. He plunged directly between the two, facing the very thing he should avoid-being caught between two fires.

And it worked.

Expecting the outer battery to be engaged on either ship the wrong-footed French gunners had to cross the deck to man the inner-but were then presented with a sight picture of their consort. To fire on Tyger would be to maim and kill their own side.

The English frigate swashed into the gap and as she hurtled through her guns smashed out in a devastating sequence, at point-blank range impossible to miss. Smoke briefly filled the void between them, the sound of the guns echoing back in a cacophony of thunder-but only to the starboard side. To larboard there was silence as Tyger’s gunners held their fire and Preussen was unaccountably spared.

But not for long-clearing the gap, Tyger wheeled round to catch Preussen with a raking blast from her larboard guns, but her captain was quick-witted and put his own helm over. Nevertheless she was caught by savage close-range fire as her stern rotated past, smashing and splintering her ornate windows and carving as the balls created their hell within, muffled shrieks and cries testifying to their work.

Now there was no escaping it: they must suffer.

Kydd had done what he could-now it was close-in, brutal pounding and Preussen had her outer broadside at the ready. While Tyger’s guns were reloaded with desperate speed these guns thundered out.

In an appalling avalanche, balls smashed across the short distance and into the ship in savage thuds felt through the deck, the storm of shot shrieking through the air, sending splinters that whirred viciously to find human flesh. From above, a rain of debris tumbled down, bouncing and falling on the netting over the quarterdeck.

He paced slowly along the deck, conscious of muskets in the enemy tops but a torrent of thoughts and calculations left him no time to dwell on them.

The wash of enemy gun-smoke engulfed them briefly as it was driven past by the stiff breeze, dry and reeking.

Kydd took stock of the first impact. Mercifully no serious hit that he could see, no ceasing in the furious activity around the guns, the boatswain thrusting forward with his mates to stopper a parted shroud, all sail drawing, though now blotched and scarred by shot-holes.

There was no pretence at broadsides now. Tyger’s guns crashed out as they readied at the bigger frigate barely thirty yards away and closing in a frenzied cannonade. Black holes were appearing in the enemy side, the gun-crews in a fierce race to load and fire first.

Kydd’s earlier manoeuvre had deliberately placed Tyger to leeward of Preussen, commonly thought of as the inferior position, but he’d seized on something as they’d approached: Preussen was high in the water, probably because they’d stored for only this brief voyage and hadn’t bothered with compensating ballast.

And now he was turning it to advantage. To be close-hauled in the brisk winds meant a distinct heel to leeward-fine for targeting the enemy but it hid a crucial flaw that a more experienced commander would have expected.

On a level deck, guns fired and recoiled inboard, placing them neatly for sponging out and reloading. Preussen now was finding she did not have that assistance: her guns after firing rolled out again under their own weight and must now be hauled uphill bodily and held while recharged with powder and shot, throwing out of rhythm any well-drilled sequence.

By the time the first reply came, Tyger had got in two, three shots-a massive advantage. Her weary hours of gun-drill were paying off. Preussen was finding she was facing not a lesser 32-gun frigate but one with the equivalent of sixty to ninety guns, that of a ship-of-the-line!

She was taking real punishment now, damage visible, ominous dribbles of blood coming down from beaten-in gun-ports. In any other circumstance Kydd would have allowed a feeling of triumph, but not now, not with what had to be endured still.

It was a short time only before the other frigate would emerge to turn the tables. He had to get in a settling blow before that happened or …

The roar of guns was a continuous din and he had to shout at a trembling youngster: “Odd numbered guns to fire high, target the enemy’s rigging!” The lad scrambled off to the gun-deck below to pass the message to the hatless Brice, maniacally shouting at his gun-crews.

It was British practice to smash and hammer at the hull at close range. This took time-the real battle-stoppers were masts falling, spars carrying away and this was what the French generally tried for. It had its own drawback: there was a lot of empty air between ropes and the chances of dealing a settling blow were slim and, of course, sails could still draw with holes in them.

Kydd had compromised but at the cost of half his guns taken from the task of battering the enemy into surrender.

His senses registered the sea darkening off Preussen’s bow and with a tightening heart knew what it was: the shadow of Odin at last entering the contest.

She burst into view and Kydd was left with a last decision: to leave his duel with Preussen unfinished and face a fresh adversary-or stay locked together and fight the two simultaneously.

As Odin curved about, the decision was taken for him. As though swept away like a spider’s web Preussen’s fore-topmast staysail was shot away and with its gear it fell to the fore-deck, the lines entangling and smothering.

Kydd reacted instantly, giving the orders to get under way.

It was not a deciding blow but it was a reprieve. Until Preussen could make repair she was unable to manoeuvre and her guns were falling silent as men were called away and she shivered into the wind. Now he had what he wanted: an even match, one on one.

This was no time for subtle navigating-Tyger had to be brought around to face Odin in the most advantageous way, which meant falling off the wind and putting distance between them and Preussen.

Odin reacted immediately and warily shaped course to intercept. Her captain could be counted on to be on the alert for any trick-he had seen what Kydd had done to Preussen-but he would know as well that Kydd needed to bring on the encounter as soon as possible, if he were to have any chance at a conclusion before Preussen rejoined the fight, her repairs complete.

They circled each other like prize-fighters, looking for an opening, but this gave Kydd precious time to reload guns on both sides.

He knew his men must be desperately tired and would recognise that they were up against a fresh and vengeful opponent, but any doubts he had vanished when a roar of cheering spread through the ship-some even hanging on the rigging and shaking their fists, shouting, goading their rival unmercifully.

It couldn’t last and the two ships came together under topsails in an oblique fashion, making it impossible for either side to open fire on the other until they met, for their guns could not be pointed so far forward.

They straightened at fifty yards opposite each other and fire was opened simultaneously in a hell of shot and noise. Again the cruel hits and rain of debris-and Kydd saw a ball take one of the midships guns in a welter of splintered carriage and upturned barrel, the gun-crew brutally thrown aside.

Beside him, Dillon walked slowly, his face a mask of control, Bray on his other side, his expression tigerish. At the headrails of the quarterdeck Kydd could see down into the infernal regions of the gun-deck where men strove and fought on in a nightmare of pain and fatigue.

At the wheel Halgren was blank-faced and calm. He was chewing tobacco, which Kydd had never seen him do before, his gaze fixed on some tranquil world beyond Tyger’s bowsprit. His eyes flicked up to the sails from time to time. Although in idleness, as they fought it out, he nevertheless had a duty to counter any wind flaw in the backed sails that might compromise their position.

With all his heart Kydd wished the man should survive the day. In this time of courage and death, the helmsman’s duty was both the most dangerous and the most helpless.

It went on and on-it was almost impossible to think. Kydd snatched a quick glance at Preussen, receding on their quarter. She had men swarming over her forepart-how long before she could rejoin the fight?

But Odin drifted closer, her fire telling, and on both ships casualties steadily mounted.

The frigate loomed-was she closing in for the kill?

Tyger’s gun-crews never faltered, in a manic frenzy serving their iron beasts to pound the enemy in a fight to the finish. It was grit and tenacity, fearlessness and pugnacity on a heroic scale, but in war this was seldom enough. So often fortune dictated the terms: one fatal ball, a worn rope giving way, a stray spark to powder-any could alter the course of the fray and put at nothing the valour of men.

And so it was that day. A chance eighteen-pounder ball shot from a gun with quoin removed to give maximum elevation fired up in the vague direction of the delicate tracery of lines and rigging found a mark: Odin’s foreyard, near the tops. The ball gouged and splintered and, with a massive crack that sounded above the din of battle, the big spar, with its brailed up fore-course, broke in half and gracefully hinged down in a chorus of twanging from severed ropes.

In itself it was not a catastrophe. The fore-course was not set and had little effect on manoeuvrability-the fight could go on. It was what followed that ended the contest.

The doused sail, loosed from its restraints opened and spread as it fell, smothering in canvas the first three guns of the frigate. Even this was no calamity: the sail and tangle of rigging could be cut away readily enough. It was the action of a single gun-captain that ended everything.

Knowing that his reloaded piece had, seconds previously, just been laid on the enemy, he’d fired the gun blindly through the fallen canvas.

In the heat of battle it was understandable-but it had fatal consequences.

The wads seating the powder and shot flew out of the muzzle with the ball but were caught in the loose canvas. Instantly there was a flaring up, spreading fast.

It had all happened so quickly. Kydd was held in horrified fascination as he saw the fire leap and catch in Odin-and then, without warning, there was a muffled whoomf and the entire fore-part of the vessel blazed up.

He knew what had happened and was sickened. Somewhere, trapped under the tangle, a powder monkey had been sent sprawling by the falling wreckage. His salt-box with its cartridge had been knocked open and when the flames reached the struggling boy it had gone off, incinerating the child-and dooming the ship.

As if in recognition of the awful moment Tyger’s guns fell silent and men stared at the spectacle, the increasing roar of the fire easily heard as the tarred lower rigging caught and spread paths of fire aloft.

“Get us out of here,” Kydd demanded hoarsely, aware that to leeward of the conflagration they were in deadly danger.

Tyger bore off slowly and, as the wind caught, slipped ahead, leaving the charnel house to its fate, for a reckoning was waiting.

Preussen was under way-she had set to rights her forestay by some epic feat of seamanship and now was to weather of Tyger, altering towards for the final sanction.

They couldn’t abandon the scene for the enemy frigate was quite capable of single-handedly causing the destruction of the transports. And at the same time Preussen could not achieve this while Tyger remained at large to prevent it.

Logic demanded that they meet in single combat to decide the issue.

Kydd gave orders that saw Tyger fall off the wind and away. This was not flight, it was buying time, for the ship desperately needed relief to tend the wounded, clear the decks of the debris of battle and prepare an exhausted crew for a new onslaught.

There were few preliminaries. Kydd ordered Tyger to wheel about. The two ships approached to grapple, like two punch-drunk pugilists.

They met and the battle began again. This time it was clear that Preussen’s captain was determined on a quick finish. Closing inexorably, the frigate opened fire with all it had-great guns, swivels, muskets-a deathly storm of evil that staggered Kydd with its ferocity.

He forced his mind to absolute concentration-so much depended on it and this was too hot work to last long. Side by side, the ships moving at a slow walking pace while pounding shot into each other, it was a chaos of noise and destruction that beat at the senses, and out of it death could come at any instant.

Every detail of the enemy frigate could be seen through the eddying powder-smoke: the frantically labouring figures behind the gun-ports, the sadly scarred scroll-work and the glitter of blades as a boarding party readied.

Then her deck erupted in a lethal spray of splinters, scattering the assembled party in a welter of screams. His last order to fire high was sending shot upwards through the higher enemy deck.

It went on but Kydd could see that the tide of war was shifting. Tyger’s skill at arms-her matchless rate of fire-was telling. And with her guns charged double-shotted it must be near unendurable on the enemy decks.

Quite unexpectedly the picture changed: Preussen was slowing, slipping back! Amidships there was some sort of tangle of canvas where the staysail had been. In a wild leap of desperate hope he watched men struggle to deal with it. If this was another of Fortune’s hands dealt against the enemy, then …

The ship slowed further and Tyger increasingly pulled ahead. In a glorious surge of feeling, he knew that this was the defining moment of the contest and made ready to act. But the reek of the gun-smoke was making his throat dry and the words stuck in his throat.

His glance happened to flick to the after end of Preussen and saw it was no lucky stroke that had crippled Preussen-it was a deliberate and clever ploy to end the fight!

The big fore and aft driver sail on the mizzen was being hauled out by tackle to the wrong side, against the wind. In sudden understanding his gaze shot back to the midships shambles. He focused carefully and saw what it was-the whole thing was a mockery, the men heaving and tugging aimlessly and achieving nothing.

They had nearly got away with it, but Kydd had their measure. Their captain was intelligent and cool-he was falling back in pretence of damage but using the occasion not to disengage from a bloody duel: at the right point he would abruptly put over the helm and, aided by the backed driver, slide around Tyger’s stern. And there he would be in a perfect position to send a broadside in a brutal raking fire down her entire length, a mortal wound.

Kydd hesitated but only for a moment. If they turned away it would make things worse, presenting her stern so much the quicker. There was only one course to take.

“Helm up! Put us across her bows!” he croaked urgently.

The quartermaster stared unbelievingly-Preussen’s bowsprit was only just passing opposite but Halgren at the helm acted instantly, the spokes whirling as he wound on turns.

Tyger obediently swung towards the enemy frigate, closer and closer and at an ever steeper angle until she was madly sheering across the bows. Preussen’s jib-boom speared across Tyger’s quarterdeck snapping and splintering in a crazy progression-but what Kydd had trusted to happen, did.

One by one, as they passed across, Tyger’s guns spoke in an endless hideous sequence, the balls smashing into the naked bow-he had turned the tables and raked Preussen instead.

His officers and men had nobly risen to the occasion and, on their own initiative, had held fire in anticipation of this crushing blow.

They passed to the other side but Preussen did not attempt to wheel and follow. She could not: the epic repair to the forestay had been shot through and the frigate once more was helpless.

With bursting emotion Kydd knew the day was theirs. The enemy was at his mercy.

Coldly, he gave the orders.

Tyger circled around until the angle was just right. Then she went in for the kill, arrow straight for Preussen’s stern.

There was nothing to stop him from pass after pass of raking fire into the helpless vessel until there were only corpses, but this was war and a battle could only be won by one side.

There were figures at the taffrail, brave men who could do nothing. They were waiting for release-death or their commander hauling down their flag in surrender.

Colours still flew, therefore the dread logic of war demanded Kydd do his duty and begin the slaughter.

Sail was shortened to bring Tyger to a slower pace to prolong the battering-but Kydd couldn’t do it. These were men as brave as his own and deserved a better fate.

He sent word to the guns to hold their fire and sent for a speaking trumpet. As they passed the high stern he bellowed in French, “Strike your flag, sir! You have done enough this day for the honour of your country.”

There was a thin cry in return and with a sinking heart Kydd heard the unknown captain passionately refuse.

They were past by now and he wore around slowly and came down once more on his mission of destruction but again held his fire and hailed-with the same refusal.

Bleakly Kydd brought Tyger round for the last time.

This then was the final act. He must perform his duty and-

“He’s struck!” Bray roared hoarsely. “The bastard’s dousing his rag!”

Kydd saw that he was right: the proud tricolour at the mizzen halyards was slowly descending to half-staff.

The last frigate had surrendered to Tyger.

In a tidal wave of emotion he looked round at the sea battlefield that had seen so much blood and heroism, agony and death, and rocked with fatigue and relief.

Far off, the disabled Albatros drifted while over on their beam the wreck of Odin still burned fiercely. Nearby he could see Stoat and boats picking up survivors from the water.

And there, lying under their guns, was Preussen, fairly beaten in as harsh a combat as he’d ever in his life known.

“My barge, Mr Bray. And I’ll trouble you for the butcher’s bill on my return.”

With his coxswain at the helm, he stepped into the boat, still in his battle-stained dress. He settled into the sternsheets, barely hearing the quiet orders Halgren gave that had it bearing off and making for the enemy.

His towering exhaustion gave rise to a feeling of unreality, a floating of the mind outside the body that brought a calmness, a strange tranquillity. The men at the oars pulled slowly, their red eyes in pits of white against the grey of smeared powder-grime, their clothing torn and stained.

No one spoke. There was no exultation, no cheers as they approached the vanquished. Too much had happened.

The bowman hooked on at the main-chains and stood aside to let Kydd mount the side-steps.

This close, the marks of the recent encounter were stark and plain. Great shot-holes in the wales, an infinity of lesser scars, the brightness of shattered timber against the black hull, a snarl of forlorn ropes and blocks dangling from above and trailing in the water.

Weighed down by fatigue, he pulled himself slowly up the lacerated sides. On deck he found a group of officers, grey-slimed and red-eyed, but one held himself erect, thin-lipped and grim.

Kydd recognised the lace of a frigate captain and crossed to him, ignoring the others. The man’s arm was in a sling and blood seeped but there was nothing in his cold, hard expression to betray his feeling.

For a long moment they faced each other without speaking, then the Frenchman bowed painfully.

“Capitaine de vaisseau Jean-Yves Marceau. I have the honour to command the French National Ship Preussen.” The voice was husky, controlled, the eyes coolly taking Kydd’s measure.

“Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, of His Majesty’s Frigate Tyger.”

The expressionless gaze held, then eased a fraction. “I should say that you have been favoured beyond the ordinary by the gods of war, Sir Thomas.”

Kydd inclined his head and waited. Behind him Halgren stood loosely, huge and impassive. Next to him were Clinton and three marines.

“But I will not. It has been a hard-fought action and against great odds-but this contest has been fairly won by you, sir, and I honour you for it.” There was a glimmer of a smile, then a sigh. “So I do invite you to take possession of my ship, for it is yours by right of conquest.”

A lieutenant stepped up with rigid control, thrusting out a sword and scabbard.

Kydd ignored it. “Sir, your ship fought to the very end. The outcome could have been very different. I cannot take the sword of a brave man.”

An unreadable shadow passed across the hard features, then wordlessly the man snapped to a low bow, which he held.

“I must nevertheless ask you for the key to the magazines, Capitaine,” Kydd said formally.

Another boat was already on its way. The rest of the business of the yielding of the vanquished could be left to others.