Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures)

by Julian Stockwin

  The second lieutenant, Paddon, seemed mature enough but returned his look with defensive wariness. The third, Nowell, was young, barely into his twenties, and appeared lost and frightened.

  An equally young lieutenant of marines, Payne, nervous and edgy, completed his commissioned officers and it was time for the ceremony.

  “Clear lower deck, if you please, Mr Hollis,” Kydd said crisply, and while the pipes pealed out at the hatchways and companions he walked slowly aft to take position and waited, watching while the ship’s company of Tyger came up to present themselves to their new captain and hear him formally take possession of his command.

  Kydd had done this before and knew what to look for in an able and trustworthy crew but he did not see it. The men came slowly, resentfully, hanging back, surly and suspicious, crowding the upper deck but with none of the half-concealed banter and out-of-routine jollity of seamen in good spirits. He could feel in the stares and folded arms a dangerous edge of defiance and he tensed as he took out his commission and stepped forward.

  “‘By the commissioners for executing the office of the Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom of Great Britain …’” He read loudly and forcefully, conscious of an undercurrent of muttering that the dark-jowled master-at-arms did not seem to notice.

  The time-honoured phrases, rich with meaning, rolled out in a measured rhythm ending with the customary “‘… as you will answer to the contrary at your peril.’”

  It was finished. At the main masthead his pennant broke out, taking the wind and streaming to leeward where it would stay night and day until it was hauled down at the end of the commission or …

  Now was the usual time for a new captain to address his ship’s company, to set the tone, inspire and give ground for confidence in the man to whom the seamen must trust their lives.

  But this ship was on the edge and he knew nothing of the men or their mood.

  “Officers and warrant officers, my cabin, fifteen minutes. Carry on, Mr Hollis.”

  He left the deck, feeling a need to claim at least some part of the ship as his own.

  The great cabin, with a table big enough to seat eight, was broad and spacious, the sweep of stern-lights square-patterned and plain, the curve of side timbers restrained but massive.

  Pathetic traces of its last occupant remained: a wistful miniature of a woman in lace, an amateurish landscape, a side-table with unremarkable ornaments. On one wall there was a needlework sampler with some doggerel beginning, “Tyger, tyger, burning bright …”

  The bed-place still had the cot and wash-place trinkets—it would all have to go. His personal effects from L’Aurore were in store and this space would be achingly bare but it couldn’t be helped.

  His gear was a change of linen only: Tysoe would be arriving in the morning with his remaining baggage and what cabin stores he could lay hands on at this notice.

  There was only one chair at the table—it seemed that Captain Parker expected his visitors to stand. He sent for wardroom chairs and settled to wait.

  They came together. Kydd motioned Hollis to the opposite end of the table and let the others find their places.

  The next few minutes could make or break him. Much depended not on what he said, but how he said it. Should he come in hard and single-minded, tough and unbending—or was it to be understanding and forgiving, willing to give them latitude?

  “Mr Hollis, be so good as to introduce the warrant officers.”

  The gunner, Darby, came across as professional enough but bit off his words as though he paid for each one.

  The boatswain, Dawes, did not inspire. Defensive and fidgety, he did not seem to know the condition of Tyger as well as he should, and Kydd sensed an element of mistrust in the attitude of others to him.

  The sailing master was of another stamp entirely. In his thirties, young for the post, Le Breton was from Guernsey, its countless reefs and currents a priceless school in seamanship. Soft-spoken and quiet, he let others make the running and only then offered intelligent comment. Kydd warmed to him.

  The surgeon and purser were not present, having sent their apologies.

  “I’m Sir Thomas Kydd, late of L’Aurore frigate,” Kydd began. There was little change in their expressions but he knew what they were thinking: what was a knighted sea-hero so lately in the public eye doing in a contemptible mutiny ship?

  “I’m sent here on short notice to relieve Captain Parker.”

  They listened in watchful silence.

  “I know of this ship’s past. Mutiny. I don’t care about the details. I don’t want to know about it. There’s only one thing I care for—that Tyger is restored to the fleet as a fighting frigate and in the shortest possible time. Is that clear?”

  There were indistinct murmurs.

  “I’ll not accept anything less than your full duty to that end.”

  He paused significantly. “Their lordships have done me the honour of allowing me to name my officers. That’s as may be, but know thereby that if there are any who fail me, I swear I’ll have them turned out of the ship directly.”

  As soon as it came out Kydd knew it was the wrong thing to say. After their searing experience, and now being virtually imprisoned in an unhappy ship, they’d no doubt welcome any chance to get out.

  “We’ll start shortly. I’ll desire each of you to make report individually and alone, no need for formality. Mr Hollis to begin, other officers and warrant officers after.”

  They made to rise and he added, “I take it the ship is in routine. I’ve no wish to interrupt. Please continue watches as usual.”

  Kydd was left alone and he leafed through the existing captain’s orders. There were no surprises, no concessions or idiosyncrasies that he could see. Almost certainly these had been inherited from the preceding captain unchanged. He’d leave it a while before he—

  There was a knock and a face appeared around the door. “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “Ah, then, oi’m Flynn, y’r steward, sir,” the man said, letting himself in. “Just thought how ye might fancy a bite, like.”

  Unusually, Kydd preferred his manservant to attend at his meals as well. Tysoe was one of nature’s gentlemen, quiet and unobtrusive, and knew him and his ways completely. “Not at the moment, Flynn. I’m very busy. We’ll have a talk about things later.”

  “The ol’ cap’n, why he—”

  “Later.”

  Hollis arrived soon after and began to lay out the quarters bill. Kydd asked him bluntly, “How’s Tyger’s manning at the moment?”

  “Complement of two hundred and eighty-four. We’re seventy-one short-handed.”

  Kydd nearly choked. This amounted to the loss of one in every four men at every gun and station. How could they possibly …?

  “I see. Are you able to—”

  “Watch and stations are complete, quarters one side of guns.”

  There was something hostile about his manner, a holding back. Probably he’d considered it reasonable to be promoted to command but instead must stay where he was while an Admiralty favourite had been put in over his head.

  A twisted smile surfaced on Kydd’s face: he’d find no ally or friend in this officer.

  “Well done then, Mr Hollis. I’ll take it that we’re ready for sea.”

  There was no response. The man sat rigid, tense.

  “Tell me, what’s your feeling of the people at the moment?”

  Hollis gave a thin smile. “Whatever ails the rogues is still there, cankering, festering. They’re in an evil taking and are not to be trusted. Nothing that a taste o’ discipline won’t cure in the end.”

  “Very well. I’ll take your views into account,” Kydd responded. But this was confrontation, not enlightened leadership—and he’d noticed not a single “sir” in the whole exchange.

  The boatswain was visibly sweating when he lumbered in. He had his books but Kydd waved them aside. “I see much that needs attention, Mr Dawes. How can this be?”
>
  “Why, sir, and how this ship’s bin in a rare state for months. I dursn’t come hard on ’em, if y’ gets m’ meaning.”

  The man was cowed and intimidated—broken by the mutiny?

  “Mr Dawes, I desire you as of this moment you take survey of this ship. Any line or spar as can’t stand up to a North Sea blow, do tell me directly.”

  The gunner was brief and to the point. Short near half the quarter-gunners and with a sick armourer, he could not vouch for the condition of their armament, although in the absence of any past engagement with the enemy they retained a full complement of powder and shot.

  It would have to do.

  Then the sailing master came in.

  “Sit down, Mr Le Breton. I’ve a notion you’ll know your nauticals, a Guernseyman like you. I had service there in a brig-sloop some years ago and well do I remember the Little Russell at low water springs.”

  “Sir.”

  “You’ve long service in Tyger?”

  “A little over a year, Sir Thomas.” As with many of his countrymen there was the quaint tinge of a French accent in his words.

  “Then you’ll know her little tricks. Do tell me something of her, if you please.”

  He deliberated before he answered. “A strong ship, full bow and clean tail. Likes a blow but needs a firm hand always. Stays about reliably, up to twelve knots on a bowline, and tends to sail stiff, so sky-sails will not be impossible. Deep in the hold and so plenty of endurance.”

  Kydd was a little disappointed that for some reason Le Breton had not shown anything like affection for his charge, describing the ship as if standing outside her. But then he reasoned that, after going through what he must have during the mutiny, he could be forgiven for holding Tyger at arm’s length.

  “Fair weather?”

  “Prefers a fresh, quartering breeze is all I can say.”

  “Foul weather?”

  “A good sea-boat. Dry.”

  Again, distancing. “Would you say she’s ready for sea?”

  “Yes, Sir Thomas.”

  “Confidentially, Mr Le Breton, what is your opinion of our ship’s company?” It was an unfair question but he could glean much from his answer, both about his crew and the man himself.

  “They’ve been through a serious mutiny, sir. They’re melancholic, down-hearted. For myself …”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe there’s no better medicine than the open sea. Work to do, a different view each morning. Idleness at anchor can only breed … unhappiness.”

  “My feeling exactly, Mr Le Breton.”

  At last a principal in Tyger he could rely on!

  As he left, Kydd heard the faint strike of eight bells. The men would be going to their grog and evening meal—he would give a lot to hear what was being discussed over the mess-tables.

  The thought of this brought on a pang of hunger. In his anxieties he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And pointedly there had been no invitation from the wardroom to dine.

  “Flynn!” he called.

  There was no response. The man was probably at his own meal and grog, and Tysoe was still ashore.

  Kydd was suddenly overcome by a wave of desolation as he looked about his bare cabin, shadows deepening in the evening gloom. Would he still be standing at the end of it all?

  His steward finally appeared, resentfully wiping his mouth.

  “You mentioned a bite?”

  “Officers’ cook ain’t victualled for youse … sir, and y’ didn’t bring yer own.”

  “Then I’ll take a dish of mess-deck scran.”

  Flynn blinked and looked at him as though he hadn’t heard right.

  “Now!”

  In theory Kydd was, as any officer, entitled to take ship’s food, but the captain?

  He ate slowly by a single candle, listening to the timber creaks and muffled groans as the ship lifted to the slight swell and snubbed to her anchor. Every vessel had a different pattern, which varied as well with the direction of the roll. How long would it be before Tyger’s characterful sounds became familiar?

  There was little more he could do before morning but so much would face him then.

  Paperwork by the mountain was needed to complete the handover. He was expected to sign that he accepted the state of accounts of the three main figures: purser, gunner and boatswain. In the usual formal procedure he would have taken the time to have them mustered before him, and the outgoing captain would have an interest to make sure it went smoothly.

  Now he was being asked to sign for them unseen and take personal responsibility for deficits.

  And, crucially, did he have sufficient confidence in his officers that he could take Tyger to sea? He had grave reservations, but unless he went with what he had, there would be endless weeks of soul-destroying idleness.

  If he ordered them to up anchor, would the hands obey or would it trigger a bigger, final, mutiny?

  He pushed away the remains of the pottage, unable to finish. His time among the indulgences of London had spoiled him but these were now but a dream in the face of what threatened.

  The empty cabin smelt alien and musty and he felt another wave of bleakness clamping in. He got up and made for the open deck. It was dark and, except for a lanthorn suspended in the rigging above the huddled watch, there was nothing but the dimness of a cloudy night and the occasional fleck of foam.

  A figure among the watch group straightened in alarm. It was Nowell, the third lieutenant.

  “Why, Mr Nowell, what brings you up on deck?” Kydd asked mildly. “Is there any complication at all?”

  While at anchor it was quite in order for the officer-of-the-watch to spend time in the warmth of the gun-room, on call by the mate-of-the-watch.

  “N-no problems, sir,” the young man stuttered. “I thought as I’d, er, take the air for a space.”

  Kydd sensed agitation. “That’s well, Mr Nowell. It’s my invariable practice to take a turn around the deck before I retire. Shall we walk together?”

  He waited until they were out of earshot and opened, “Your first ship as lieutenant?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “A hard enough thing to face a mutiny, then.”

  There was no answer, and Nowell stared obstinately out into the blackness.

  “I was once in a mutiny,” Kydd continued. “At the Nore in ’ninety-seven. Not as I’d wish to go through it again. We were five weeks under the red flag and—”

  “It’s not over, I know it. They’re talking, whispering and I’m … I’m not easy moving about the ship at night. They look at me without saying anything but when I pass by, give me a cruel smile as if …”

  Kydd felt for him. The young lad, so recently a midshipman, was having to find his place as an officer and had been pitchforked into the worst kind of situation to be found at sea.

  But the fact that he was confiding in his captain was disturbing: it meant that his fellow officers were not extending a comradely understanding, were keeping aloof. Had they retreated into themselves, separate islands, as the vital officer corps of the ship fell apart?

  “It’ll be better for everybody once we get to sea, Mr Nowell, just you see.”

  There was a question he had to ask: “If you say the mutiny is still threatening, that means the ringleaders were not all caught. Have you any notion of who it could be that’s causing unrest among the men?”

  “None, sir,” he said miserably. “They don’t talk in front of me.”

  Shunned by the men, left on his own by the officers, the young man was going through hell.

  “Well, I don’t expect trouble but if you do hear anything, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “I will, sir. And … thank you, sir.”

  As he returned below he tried to put the young officer’s troubled admission aside, but it stayed.

  “L’tenant Payne to report.”

  The young marine officer came in hesitantly. “You wanted to see me, Sir Thomas?” He looked as edgy as
Nowell had.

  “This is a ship lately out of mutiny. I don’t want to know what happened, but it would oblige me should you tell me your dispositions for the night.”

  He gulped nervously. “Oh, er, the same as Captain Parker posted up.”

  The man had obviously been left on his own to take responsibility for the ship’s main recourse in time of mutiny, and he without even the time at sea that Nowell had had.

  “So where …?”

  “Magazine, your cabin, spirit room, gun-room door, hourglass—”

  “Very good.” These were the usual postings but if more were added this would not only goad the sailors to see themselves under guard but would reveal that their captain was afraid.

  “Look after your men. We may have need of ’em.”

  A brief flash of terror showed. “Yes, sir,” he replied faintly.

  Last Kydd saw the master-at-arms, making his routine report that the silent hours had begun and that all lights had been doused. “Come in, Mr Tully,” he called, to the dark figure in the doorway. His corporal stayed outside with the lanthorn.

  “I want you to tell me the temper of the people,” Kydd asked quietly.

  The man’s face tightened. “Nuthin’ to report, sir.”

  “That’s not what I asked. It’s your opinion I’d like to hear.”

  “Not for me t’ say, sir,” Tully said, in a flat voice.

  “Well, are they, who shall say, reliable?”

  “Can’t answer that, sir.”

  The gaze was steady, the replies quick. This man stood between the seamen and the officers and in normal times his allegiance was a given. But Tully was a survivor: things could go either way.

  It was disquieting. It could only be that subversion was so widespread and imminent that Tully couldn’t now risk being seen on the wrong side. Not only did it imply that his loyalty was in doubt but it also appeared he had certain knowledge of a conspiracy that had every chance of succeeding. Why did he not tell of it?

  “Very well,” Kydd said. “You’ll inform me if you hear anything.”

  “Sir.”

  Kydd lay awake, every strange noise and playful slap of a wave jerking him alert. At last he drifted into a troubled sleep.

  The night passed without incident and the ship met a cold dawn with little ceremony. If there was any defiance or rebellion brewing they were probably biding their time until they knew more of their captain.