Tyger

CHAPTER 20

BRAY GRAVELY HANDED KYDD a folded paper and Tyger’s captain sought the privacy of his cabin.

He’d instantly known what it was, the butcher’s bill. Those who had turned to that morning after a tense sleep had been doing their damnedest for their captain, their messmates and their ship and had seen the day go against them. Some had been touched by death, others suffered mutilation, many condemned to … The rest of their shipmates had life and a future. Where was the meaning in all of this?

Kydd held the summary rigidly. In Bray’s hasty scrawl were numbers that clutched at his heart-thirty-six of Tyger’s crew had been chosen by Fate: eleven killed, nine wounded severely and sixteen who in some way would be reminded of this day for the rest of their life.

The list was baldly stated and in no particular order.

Digby, the young and bright quartermaster’s mate, who delighted in races to the tops-right leg shot away, an amputation. Even if he recovered he could now only look on as others raced by.

Borden, master’s mate. Head taken off by a round-shot. Kydd recalled cursing his absence at one point and felt a twist of guilt.

Dawkins, a long-serving able seaman whose work with sennit was legendary. His seamed face had been the “sea-daddy” memory that countless young seamen would take with them. A splinter in the lower abdomen, he’d lived for an hour.

Others …

The boatswain, Herne, had been savagely lacerated. Kydd had seen him imperturbably going about the bloody decks looking for damage. Twice he had spotted him through the smoke, steadily going aloft into the lethal storm on some urgent mission.

A carpenter’s mate, Gordon. Taken by a splinter to the bowels while stemming a shot-hole with Legge, the carpenter. Kydd knew they were fast friends, always to be seen together stepping ashore. Not expected to live.

Legge himself had been wounded, probably by the same ball bursting into the dark of the hull. He was marked as continuing duty but what grief he would be carrying.

Three marines dead. Eight wounded. They had plied their muskets without flinching and had paid the price.

The master, Joyce. Wounded in the ear. So that was the bloody bandage he’d seen on him. His cheery attitude had never faltered.

Three gun-crew of number-five gun dead. He’d seen the ball strike and dismount the gun, the sprawling bodies. The gun-captain had been transfixed by hundreds of shards from the shattered gun carriage and was now below in the most hideous pain, craving death as a release from his torment.

Then … Stirk, gunner’s mate. Kydd froze, his eyes pricking. Not Toby Stirk! The big-hearted tar who’d known him since those unbelievably distant days when he’d been a raw landman in his first ship.

He blinked convulsively and read further.

Gravely concussed, still unconscious. If he lived there was every chance he’d end in Hoxton, the asylum for lunatics maintained by the navy for cases like his. What an end-and to the bravest, truest man he …

Kydd couldn’t go on. Racking sobs seized him. He buried his face in his hands and wept like a child.

When it was over he sat back, shuddering waves of emotion receding-then he saw by his side a single glass of whisky. His eyes stung again at the realisation that Tysoe must have seen him in this state and left it there, then quietly withdrawn.

It pulled him together. This was no time to indulge his feelings: his ship needed him. He had no idea how much she had suffered: he had to find out urgently and act decisively.

“Tysoe,” he called. His valet was before him in seconds, grave and attentive.

“Desire Mr Bray to attend on me at his convenience.”

The first lieutenant arrived with suspicious promptness.

“The ship-I’ll have a report by part-of-ship concerning all damage and-”

“Sir. I’ve the heads of the matter here. We’re takin’ water into the hold, the carpenter’s down there now. The mizzen’s in sad state-we’ve fished with capstan bars above the tops but I doubts if she’ll-”

“Anything else as will cause concern, Mr Bray?”

“We can’t set any sail on the mizzen-the backstays are both stranded. Mr Herne is taking hawsers to the masthead and swears this will answer. The larb’d main-wale has sixteen shot-holes as are being plugged now, there’s a mort of splicing and we’ve only the barge and pinnace will swim.”

It could have been far worse. No grave structural damage, but the leak was worrying.

“So nothing as will see us embarrassed in the article of getting under way again?”

Bray went to speak, then looked away.

“What is it, Mr Bray?”

“Sir. I … that is, there’s a mountain o’ work needs doing afore we’re square … but the people, they’re dropping as dead with lack o’ sleep, there on the decks, work in their hands and … well, I-”

A hot flush of shame washed over Kydd. A fire-eating driver like Bray caring more for his men than he. “Leave it with me,” he snapped.

Dart and Stoat were summoned alongside and in short order they were secured astern and every man jack of their company was haled aboard to relieve the Tygers.

Head swimming, Kydd summoned their captains to his cabin and learned the full story.

They had correctly interpreted his actions and had stood by the transports, which had successfully taken off the army who were now marching to Konigsberg from Pillau.

“And the rearguard, have they been retrieved?”

“No, sir. They’s to be what stops the Crapauds from interfering with the embarkation. They’re still there.”

“Still there?”

“That’s to say, they’s all dead, sir.”

A wave of desolation swept over Kydd.

“To the last man. Their captain, never forget him. Rode a white horse, full kit an’ all so everyone can see him, the enemy as well. Got around to the men, they heard him an’ followed him whatever he did. Brave as any I’ve ever seen.”

“Still there.”

“Aye, sir. I met the beggar several times. Seems he was somethin’ in Headquarters, safe and all, but volunteered for the job.”

“What was his name?” he asked, with a sense of foreboding.

“Oh, it was Gussan, Gusten, something like. A right valiant sort, I’ll give you that.”

The pity of war. The crying, howling pity of war.

“Th-thank you, gentlemen, for all your assistance to Tyger at this time. I find I’m overcome by fatigue. I beg you’ll forgive me but I really think I should rest …”

HMS Tyger, under jury mizzen and an hour at the pumps every watch, took her leave of the Baltic shore. Her sick bay full of moaning, agonised humanity, splints and lashings keeping her sails aloft, she set course for home.

At three knots she painfully passed through the Sound, unchallenged by the officious Danes, and in lowering, blustery winds, sailed around the Skagen and into the wider world.

Days later they raised the North Sea squadron and Kydd reported to Russell.

“… and I pressed redcoats to do duty as prize crew until we could get ’em to Pillau.”

Russell leaned back, his eyes alight. “And your Prussians, what do they think of it all? A right glorious occasion, I’d say!”

“They’ve other worries now, is my thinking, sir. Boney is making moves as will see him at the gates of their capital within the month. There’s nowhere left they can run to, and what then?”

“Well, that’s not our concern, of course. We keep well out of such, thank God. You’ll be off to Sheerness for survey and repair, I believe. I can give you Stoat as escort, enough do you think?”

If Tyger foundered on her way, that was just a cutter to take off all her crew. “I’d be happier with another, sir,” Kydd replied.

“Very well, you deserve the best. We’ll ask Lively, even if it leaves me short a frigate.”

“I’m indebted to you, sir.”

The weather had not improved, and the blustery, ill-tempered easterly had set Tyger to an edgy roll that was trying their temporary repairs to their limits.

As so often in these waters the weather then changed. The clouds scampered away and sunshine beamed down as if to speed the injured vessel on her way.

But before the sun had gone to its rest it had changed again.

In cold gusts, the easterly took charge. Flat and hard, it had the feel of the unknown regions of the limitless landmass of Asia about it. Coming in from astern, it strained the jury backstays and the multitude of other patches and repairs.

There was nothing for it but to take sail off her, but this brought other dangers. The pumps were holding for now but the carpenter had not yet found whatever other wounds Tyger had suffered in her bowels below the waterline. In the bracing weather in which the action had been fought, the ship had been rolling, exposing her hull, and shots would have struck between wind and water.

The ship with the wind aft and less steadying sail had a lively roll once more-and this was bad news. As she heeled to whichever was the side of the shot strike, the wound would be plunged deeper, and on each roll the ingress of water would change from nothing to a hard waterfall directly into her innards.

It was a race against time and the weather.

Kydd remembered the harrowing struggle after Trafalgar when a storm had overtaken the battered fleet and their prizes. Victory herself had been threatened and battle-weary men had gone to their doom as shattered prizes foundered in the night.

For them, however, the reassuring bulk of Lively was out on their beam, heaving and lifting as she conformed to their reduced sail. He glanced up at the shot-torn sail that still fluttered and bellied and eased his thoughts. It would be an uncomfortable several days but they’d make harbour.

Only two hours later it was a different story. The sharp blow had turned to a fresh gale, something that Tyger would have scorned in normal circumstances-but these were not normal.

A gale-driven swell had risen with it and this had increased her movement and, therefore, the whipping strain on damaged shrouds and stays.

Kydd gave the order to take in more sail-there was little else that he could do.

This sent seamen up in grim conditions with more than the usual dangers. High aloft there would now be severed footropes, lines giving way that men placed their trust in, shattered spars with cruel timber spikes gouging their bellies while they reefed, and always the sullen roll.

As night fell there was no sign of the gale easing.

Lively sent lanthorns to each masthead telling of comforting human presence nearby, but aboard Tyger there was misery and hardship. The galley fire could not be lit, and without good hot food the men must face the labour of saving their ship with hard tack and cheese on a mess-deck that swilled with water entering through so many shot-holes.

The glow of lights that were Lively’s lanthorns receded to pinpricks as the frigate kept at a cautious distance for it was all too easy in such a night to come to a disastrous encounter. Lookouts were posted in both ships with the sole duty to keep the precious lights in sight.

And those aboard Tyger endured.

Men whose bodies ached from their heroic exertions at the guns were now being asked to go to the pumps, the dreadful clanking monsters that needed brute force even to overcome the friction of the many valve parts, a heart-breaking grind.

For long hours Tyger heaved and fell in the increasing swell, the hard battering and dismal moan of the gale always with her as she fought on. On deck the watch stared into the night, slitting their salt-sore eyes into the storm.

Then came driving rain, in a hissing, stinging and miserable cold, invading oilskins and foul-weather gear.

Just after midnight the worst struck.

Kydd was with the group at the wheel as the middle watch coped with a split sail when, clear above the storm rack, a vicious crack sounded, followed immediately by a heavy slither as a hawser fell in a sprawling pile. Another quickly followed. Instantly Kydd bellowed, “Forrard-go for your lives!” They fled just in time. With a sickening splintering, like a falling tree, the fished mizzen topmast tumbled, driven awkwardly across to fall on the starboard side.

In the blackness of night and hammering rain, the tangle of ropes and canvas had to be brought under control. From nowhere the boatswain appeared, a nightshirt under his oilskins, roaring for men to douse all sail before setting about the fearful snarl.

Tyger, without steerage way, began a helpless wallow broadside to the sea. A party got out a sea-anchor over the bows that brought her round, head to sea, but at the cost of halting their progress to safe harbour.

There was nothing for it but to await the dawn to see what they could do.

The report came up that the water was gaining in the hold. There was only one course left.

“Watch and watch,” Kydd ordered, condemning tired men to man the cranks continuously.

There was a chance that if the weather moderated he could get men from Lively who would spell them but until then they would know their labour and pain were saving the vessel.

In the cold grey of early light the full extent of the damage could be seen: the long spar lying on deck seeming so massive close to, had taken the driver gaff with it and in so doing had torn the big aft sail down to ruin.

The frigate could no longer cope with basic navigational matters, like a change in wind direction, for without leverage aft she could not tack about and most probably neither wear around.

“We’ve got to get sail on her aft, Mr Herne,” Kydd said, to the dull-eyed, exhausted man. “Whatever it takes.”

He waited impatiently for the first sighting of Lively. They were so desperately in need of fresh men.

The report never came. Instead it was the age-old hail from the lookout at first light that normally would stand men down from the guns: “Clear! On deck there-I have a clear horizon!”

When they’d lost the topmast and come about to lie to a sea-anchor it had been in heavy rain and it was clear their plight had not been seen by their consort, who had sailed on.

It was no use to expect to be found eventually: the hard truth had to be accepted. They were on their own. If Tyger was to be saved it would be only themselves to do it, and if she wasn’t, her name would join those recorded to history as having vanished at sea.

The boatswain, sailing master and carpenter huddled with Kydd in his cabin to try to find a way out of their situation. It was vitally necessary to get under way again, which meant some kind of rig on the stump mizzen with the same functioning as the driver.

It was Joyce, looking grey and old, who came up with the most promising plan.

A staysail secured at its peak to the topmast cap and reversed. At its lower end it was the clew that was affixed to the lower mast and the tack spread by a lower stunsail boom pressed for the service. A species of traveller could be contrived with two tackles at its end.

The new “driver” could be goosewinged and, with other tricks, it would see them tolerably well placed to resume headway west.

After all, Herne remarked, they were before the wind the whole way … should the weather hold.

By mid-morning the strange-looking rig was spread abroad and the sea-anchor hove in. They wallowed around and took up on their old course under small canvas.

There was no sighting of the sun, and with their erratic movements dead reckoning was chancy, but a voyage to the Thames estuary was straightforward enough, no more than lying along the line of latitude of fifty and a half once they’d won their southing.

That wasn’t Kydd’s main worry. It had to be how long he could expect men to keep up the grinding toil at the pumps. There was a day or so to safe haven but to men on the edge it was an eternity-and there was not a thing he could do about it.

At the extremity of fatigue, men walked about the decks in a trance, staring at bulkheads, dropping where they stood. Yet not a word of complaint.

The following morning it was difficult to make out anything in the racing murk to leeward but the low coast of Kent could not be far off.

Then at last the carpenter formally reported that the water flooding in had overtaken their ability to pump it out.

Tyger was done for: at some point the rate would suddenly increase as the lower ports submerged and the gallant ship would sink beneath the waves for ever. And in this filthy weather, with no ships in sight, still less land, each and every one would go to his death unseen by the world of men.

The pitiless sea had won.

It was unbearable! To have come so far …

Kydd flogged his tired brain mercilessly but in the end it always came back to the same thing. Even with men giving their all, the pumping was not enough: the callous equation was final.

Then from somewhere his mind presented a desperate idea. If the capacity of the pumps was not enough, what if the speed of their operation increased? The net flow must, of course, increase-but this was crazy thinking!

Doggedly he pursued the thought: what if he sent every man jack aboard to do a trick but this for only ten minutes at a time before spelling him, but at the same time expect a more furious rate?

His imagination visualised a long line of men waiting their turn. There were four places at the cranks along the main shaft. If each man was spelled in a staggered sequence the momentum would be kept up.

Yes-there was a chance!

In a short time he had explained it to Bray and the boatswain and left it to them to organise a means to work the ship from those coming off the pump before resuming their place in the line.

Meals? What could be held in the hand? Sleep? Snatched there and then on the deck. Respite? None!

“Form the line!” Kydd roared.

The first man stepped up ready.

It was the captain, who threw off his jacket and stood flexing his hands.

There was shuffling nearby-Bray, pushing aside Bowden. Behind him was Brice-the first four on the cranks would be the ship’s officers.

“Take hold!”

Each grabbed a pitted iron handle and braced.

“Start!”

It was astonishingly difficult, winding up the long chain with the drag of their leather seals and Kydd’s muscles burned with the effort. Panting, he drove around the cruel bar, now heaving it up, next pushing it down, in a dizzy cycle that left no room for thought.

“Faster!” he gasped, throwing himself into it.

Reluctantly the muffled rumble of the drive chain rose in tone a little, and then more. Sparing nothing, he worked like a madman until the note rose higher still. It was furious labour and a mesmerising rhythm took hold.

Standing by with a watch in his hands, the quartermaster called, “Spell one!”

It didn’t register in the flailing grind and Kydd felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Sir.” It was the boatswain demanding he yield his place.

Kydd fell back exhausted, tripping over and ending on his knees.

Half a dozen hands helped him up but his eyes were only for the pump.

Herne had caught the rhythm quickly and was bulling the crank around, now whirling at an astonishing speed.

Staying to catch the next handover, he prayed it was working. If anything was going to deliver them, this was it.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him in a dizzying flood. Just as he had so long ago, as a common foremast jack, he sought the ship’s side and sat down, leaning against it. Folding his arms he put his head on his knees and let go of consciousness.

The morning brought two desperately desired things. The water had not only been halted but was down a full eight inches-and land was sighted, the low mudflats of Essex. They were just to the north of the Thames, with small miles to go. It was impossible, incredible, but release was only hours away.

But they were not home yet. Ahead were the notorious sandbars of the estuary, said to be the worst a seaman could face. Low in the water, Tyger would touch at the slightest mis-navigation and she could leave her bones within sight of her rest.

In the hard easterly there was little shipping and the pilot cutter came streaming out promptly, the grizzled old pilot mounting the side in astonishment.

“As you’re Tyger an’ all?” he said breathlessly.

“It is,” Kydd said wearily. “You’ll get your fee, never fear. Now I’ll have you know we’re well down on our marks, four feet or more, take mind of this, sir.”

“Tyger, begob!” He snatched off his sou’wester and looked at Kydd in open admiration. “An’ the country’s in a rare moil t’ hear of your great fight. And to think I’m here to-”

“Sir. We have to make Sheerness with the greatest urgency. Do you-”

“So you shall, sir! You’re grievous mauled an’ will make port or I’m to swing for it!”

“One thing.”

“Anything you wants, sir!”

“Your cutter. Do send it into Sheerness dockyard directly and I want a hundred fresh men ready for me the soonest. Compree?”

Tyger crept ahead in the white slashed seas, the familiar bleak outlines of Sheppey firming with the dark silhouettes of the ships of the Nore in a long cluster to larboard.

What did he mean, the whole country alive with news of their engagement? It would have to be Admiral Russell sending an immediate dispatch by fast packet, which, with their slow progress, had given time for the news to spread.

A desolate curtain of rain enveloped them and drove down on the distant cliffs and marshes, obscuring the shoreline. When it lifted it revealed an astonishing sight. From Garrison Point, the fort, all along the foreshore there were people, hundreds, a thousand. Scorning the rain and winds and, without question, there to welcome them home!

The pilot cutter must have brought the exciting news and the whole town had turned out.

A firework soared up, then several. From the fort came the crump of guns-no naval salutes would greet a mere frigate. Boats could be seen putting off and by the time they’d rounded the point to reach shelter they were surrounded by yelling well-wishers, soaked to the skin.

Tyger came to and picked up moorings even as dockyard boats were putting out, filled with men.

“Get those men to work this instant!” Kydd bawled. It would be a sorry end after all that had passed to sink at their moorings.

He turned to the master shipwright, who stood respectfully but held up his hand. “I’ve orders that give you the highest priority for a docking, sir. The master attendant is turning out Hibernia as we speak.”

“Thank you. I desire you will allow me to make use of your boats.”

“By all means.”

From below came a procession. Stretchers with wounded, pale and bloody. Some moaning, some very still. They were handed down into the boat with the utmost care and it put off.

Another piteous procession followed them. Five canvas shrouds. These were sent down with equal tenderness as Tyger’s company lined the side, taking off their hats. The milling boats quietened as they made way for men taking their last journey back to the land that had given them birth.

“Sir. The men are now all relieved at the pumps. We’ve … we’ve made it, sir.” Bray’s voice had turned husky and Kydd was nearly overcome, it coming from such a lion-hearted soul.

“Ah, yes. You’ve just an hour to write liberty-tickets for the whole ship’s company. They’ll go ashore at once, do you hear?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was all so unreal, so dreamed of but never expected.

“Sir?” Bowden seemed to sense his mood and spoke quietly.

“Yes?”

“It’s the admiral. Came aboard without we knew he was here. Will you see him?”

Kydd blinked. Admirals only came out to ships with much fuss, fanfare and good warning. Was this a matter of some urgency? Kydd hurried to greet him.

“Ah, Sir Thomas! My, are we glad to see you. Word from the North Sea squadron was that you were sore injured, and when Lively lost you, we thought you’d gone down.”

“I’ve the entire ship’s company to thank that we didn’t, sir.”

“I’m sure. Now, I know you’re much overborne with matters but I can’t allow that you will refuse me if I desire you to come to dinner very soon and tell me all about your great action.”

“I’d be glad to, sir, should I be at liberty to do so.”

“Splendid! Perhaps at-”

But Kydd’s first lieutenant had come up and was standing by impatiently.

“Yes, Mr Bray?”

“Could I have a word, sir?”

They went to one side and Bray coughed in embarrassment, saying, “I’ve never heard of it in all my years in the service.”

“What’s that, then, Mr Bray?”

“It’s like this, sir. When I told the clerk to prepare the liberty-tickets he said as how he’d been approached by the men who said they’d be damned if they’re to take their rest before the barky does. They’ll not set foot ashore afore they sees Tyger’s safely at her ease in dock.”

“Thank you for telling me this, Mr Bray. They shall in course be allowed to stay aboard.”

The admiral looked on in concern and, when Kydd returned, asked, “Not a case of worriment, I trust?”

“No, sir, just … nothing as can’t be arranged.”

“Well, sir. If there’s anything I can do, please tell. You’re to be indulged, I believe, sir!”

In a surge of feeling, Kydd replied, “Yes, sir, there is one service that would gratify me in full measure.”

“Do fill and stand on, sir!”

“The people conceive that they will not step ashore while Tyger awaits her rest. Their wish is to stay aboard until then. We’re at a stand for comforts and so …”

“Yes?”

“I ask that you do send out the marines to every tavern, ordinary and hostelry in Sheerness. They’re to bring back to Tyger a piping hot pie or similar, enough for all our company. This to be to my expense, of course.”

The admiral looked at him in astonishment, then leaned forward and barked, “Impossible!”

“Sir?”

“I won’t have it!”

“Sir.”

“This will be done-but to my expense.”

After Kydd had seen him over the side he called for Bray once more. “The men to remain aboard. There’s only one thing I can do.”

“Wives and sweethearts?”

“Just so.”

The word was passed and spread ashore. In a remarkably short time a joyous armada of boats put off and Tyger was invaded by a gay throng of womenfolk.

Kydd watched from the quarterdeck, his heart full. The mortal tiredness had receded and it was time to take joy in the hour.

He especially rejoiced at the news of gunner’s mate Stirk. The tough old seaman had come to and, with no sign of derangement, was able to let his views be adequately known about being landed from Tyger.

Then across the thronging decks he saw a pair threading through, moving purposefully towards him-and rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

“Nicholas! Cecilia! Wha’?”

“Well, we were just passing by and-”

“My love, don’t chouse Thomas so. Dear brother, your hero fight is known throughout the land these last days, since those dispatches. We heard even in Wiltshire, and Nicholas put a carriage on the road in the same hour, you must believe! He worked out that the nearest dockyard you’d make for would be Sheerness and he was right, the darling man, and here we are!”

To see his sister and her noble husband, his sea companion of years, was touching to a degree. He’d sent a terse message before he’d first joined Tyger under a cloud and they would have had no news since then.

“So this is your new ship, Thomas,” Cecilia said, looking around her curiously. Her striking dark good looks were arresting in such bare surroundings. “It’s so much bigger than L’Aurore.”

“Yes, sis. An eighteen-pounder o’ the first water,” Kydd said proudly, then led them below to his cabin

She saw the needlework sampler on the bulkhead and rose to read it.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

“How intriguing!” she said in admiration. “Who wrote these words, I wonder?”

They turned simultaneously to Renzi, who held up a hand and gave a wry smile.

“It was written while we two were in Seaflower cutter in the Caribbean. By a gentleman who was taken up for sedition on the eve of Trafalgar for saying, ‘Damn the King. The soldiers are all slaves!’ Your William Blake is not to be claimed by those who set at an eminence England’s crown and sceptre.”

“But Thomas’s ship was named after this, I’m sure of it!”

“I feel that it is rather more the stout Tyger of Sir Francis Drake, as mentioned by Shakespeare, my love.”

“I’m keeping it anyway!” Kydd said rebelliously, and shepherded Cecilia back to her chair.

Tysoe entered with refreshments. The silver salver had an ugly twist and scoring on one side. “My lord, I do apologise for its appearance. We did not entirely escape the malice of the enemy as you may see.”

“And I didn’t like to remark it, Thomas, but your ship is sadly out of countenance. She must have suffered, poor creature.”

“No more than our gallant crew, Cec,” Kydd said, in a low voice. Then in a stronger tone he declared, “But she’s blooded now, and when she’s set to rights we’ll take the tight little barky out to meet the enemy and bid Boney do his worst!”

“I’ll drink to that in a bumper!” Renzi said, raising a glass.

The three did so, then Renzi regarded Kydd with a quizzical look. “Knowing you, old trout, I’m sanguine you’ve given no thought to what it is you’ve brought to pass.”

“We came through it without disgrace, Nicholas. That’s all I desired.”

“As I thought. I beg you will understand that the world will no longer remember Sir Thomas of Curacao. From now on, the frigate captain who faced three frigates and bested them will be ranked with Pellew and Blackwood, his name coupled with his ship, like Keats of the Superb, to the glory of this kingdom. It will be by his bare name that Kydd of the Tyger will be spoken of henceforth.”

Kydd coloured, but muttered darkly, “As will give the Admiralty something to choke on!”

Renzi smiled gently. “Dear fellow, forgive me if I point out some home truths. Your contretemps with Lord St Vincent is as nothing in the eyes of the world now. No one is listening to the old gentleman these days, for the navy and the world are quite changed and his views are sadly set at naught.”

“His friends their lordships, the damned villains, have a lot to answer for, Nicholas. Why, when-”

“A mort of perspective will ease your ire, my distinguished friend. You’re as yet untutored in the dark arts of politics and power-do believe me when I say there are tides of animosity and adulation both of which swish about figures at an eminence. There are cabals and conspiracies, alliances and antagonisms that ebb and flow with the fevers of the hour.

“Inevitably you will be perceived as owing allegiance to one or another and therefore an enemy to the rest. I counsel you to accept your lot and pay no mind to the shrill cries of the other side, for at the height of your fame you may assuredly count on a quantity of the envious, the mal-prepensed, the petty to take pen and wit against you.

“Rest on your laurels, dear friend, for they’re hard-earned, and do scorn these lesser creatures.”

Kydd reddened again, then looked up and spoke softly. “Nicholas, my dear and true friend. Those times we were watch-on-deck together in Artemis, even through to the old Tenacious-do you remember? I took in a hill of your advice and it brought me to … to here, to this hour. How can I not hoist it aboard?”

There was a muffled sob as Cecilia got up and ran to Kydd, crushing him to her. “You wonderful, wonderful man!” She gulped, tears starting.

“Er, sir?” It was Bowden, standing at the cabin door and somewhat at a loss at the sight.

“Yes?” Kydd managed to disengage himself.

“So sorry, sir, but you’re wanted on deck.”

“What is it that …”

His words died away at the sight before him. Every one of the Tygers was silently standing there.

“Off hats!” roared the boatswain.

Bowden stepped forward. “Sir Thomas, I’m desired by the ship’s company of HMS Tyger to make presentation of this loyal address to you, captain of their ship and commander of same in the late battle.”

Dumbstruck, Kydd just had the wit to doff his own hat as Bowden unrolled the parchment written in a hand uncannily similar to Dillon’s.

In ringing tones he declared:

To his honour, Captain Sir Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy. May it please you, sir. We, the dutiful and loyal ship’s company of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Tyger hereunder subscribed, do wish it known and witnessed our true and humble duty to you, our worthy and well-beloved captain, and pledge our undying devotion and obedience in whatsoever perils and adventure His Majesty commands his ship doth perform. In this, our expression of fidelity and loyalty, we trust you will always be attended by success and happiness in the years to come. Signed this day …

He concluded with an elegant bow, which Kydd jerkily returned. The scroll was formally presented.

“Th-thank you, Mr Bowden. And I do thank you for this, the Tygers. From the bottom of my heart. I’ll never forget you all-”

But Kydd couldn’t go on and had to turn aside as his vision misted, for he now undeniably had the greatest prize he could ask for: Tyger’s heart and soul.