Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures)

by Julian Stockwin

  “Who did this?” Kydd demanded harshly.

  “As I said, sir, there’s nothing that may disturb you. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “This is abominable. I want to know who did this to you, understand me?”

  In dignified silence Tysoe made ineffectual gestures of tidying up; Kydd knew he was going to get nothing from him.

  They closed with the coast and began their cruise northward soon after midday. Tension rose as they took up parallel to the shore. A handful of miles distant only, the low and featureless coastline was plainly visible and, pitilessly revealed by any with a telescope, near useless for navigation.

  Here the shape of the seas was disordered, toppling and confused as they passed over the notorious sand-waves below, mighty tide-shaped subsea hillocks that directed surging currents vertically as well as to the side.

  The day was perfect, however, and the wind fair and brisk. Sail was seen up against the shoreline but their rig quickly identified them as small fry.

  What Kydd was after were the substantial two- or three-masted vessels seeking to break blockade. Hopefully Tyger had been quickly sighted and they had scuttled in haste to their hideaways. Or was he wrong in his reasoning? After all, the Dutch had their spacious inland waterways and canals: why risk the open sea?

  And would his men obediently man the boats for the dangerous pull inshore on a hostile coast, or would it bring on what he feared most? As far as he could see, preparations were going ahead without the men balking, even if there was still that same surly reluctance. Was the prize-money bait working? He allowed himself a stab of hope.

  Later in the afternoon a sharp-eyed lookout swore he’d seen a three-master close inshore in the haze far ahead but it had then disappeared. This was in the area more or less up with Breesaap but the vanishing act was worrying. It might indicate anything from sail being doused, to invisibility as it snugged into its bolt-hole, to the casual alignment of the masts of two lesser craft.

  He would have to take the chance.

  For their expedition the launch and red cutter would make the assault and the barge and blue cutter would lie off to seaward, with extra men if needed.

  What had been a simple enough drill in L’Aurore was turning into a gravely difficult task. In any close-quarter fighting it was vital to have good fighters to the fore, to press on courageously and without hesitation so others would follow in good heart. Weak or timorous men leading would hang back at the first opposition and all would be lost. Where was he going to find these good men?

  He’d decided he would lead in the launch and Paddon would follow in the cutter. It was usual for the captain’s coxswain to take the tiller and stand by him in the action to follow. Aboard Tyger none was yet rated, but Kydd knew whom he wanted. And he’d tell him to muster a boat’s crew he could trust. It would be very much in his interest to go for good men to fight beside him—and thereby Kydd would have his picked men.

  The one he had in mind was a fair-headed giant of a man, part of the fo’c’slemen and therefore a tried and reliable seaman. He was quiet and, like so many big men, moved lightly. He carried himself with dignity, almost aloofness, which Kydd put down to his Scandinavian origins. It would be too much to expect him to be completely unaffected by the malign influence of whatever was behind Tyger’s malaise but at the least he could be relied upon to be steady.

  He entered the great cabin warily to stand before Kydd, shapeless cap in hand but with a direct and fearless gaze.

  “You’re Halgren. A Dansker—Norwegian, perhaps?”

  “Strom Halgren of Kristianstad. A Swede, sir.” The voice was deep but soft, the manner wary.

  Kydd had an instant taking to the man, the silent strength in his character reaching out to him. This was a seaman who would be an asset in any man’s watch.

  “Halgren, I’ve a mind to rate you up. To captain’s coxswain. How does that suit?”

  To his surprise, the man dropped his head and shuffled his feet without answering.

  “You don’t want the rate? I can’t force it on you.”

  Halgren remained doggedly silent and didn’t look up.

  “Very well,” Kydd said, trying to keep the bitterness from his words. “Carry on.”

  Nonetheless he’d see that Halgren was at the tiller when they went in.

  As dusk settled, any anxious eye ashore would have spied Tyger giving up her audacious but fruitless inshore cruise and making for the open sea. But Kydd knew that no master worth his salt would hazard his ship by resuming his voyage among the shoals in the hours of darkness—their prey would still be where they’d been driven.

  The frigate sailed hull-down offshore in the gathering dark, then hove to. Conditions were unequalled for what they were about to do: calm seas, a little night breeze and complete darkness until they struck. Then there was the rising of a full moon to aid their carrying to sea a strange vessel.

  The only unknown was Tyger’s men.

  Boats were manned, arms handed down and stowed, a massive axe new-sharpened for cutting the cable. Paddon in the red cutter embarked and lay off, a shapeless shadow on the gloom of the sea. Kydd couldn’t help noting that there’d been none of the familiar nervous bravado and black humour as they boarded, only a sly and secretive murmuring. But, thank God, they had obeyed his orders and were on their way.

  For all that, he was taking no chances, waiting until the barge and other cutter had been filled and pushed off. Then he swung over the bulwark and dropped into the sternsheets of the launch.

  It was too dark to make out faces properly but he felt reassured at the sight of Halgren’s bulk at the tiller and the stolid mass of men at the oars.

  “Give way,” he ordered, then added loudly, “and stretch out—we’ve a purse o’ Dutch gold each to collect this night.”

  This brought an immediate ripple of comment and the occasional chuckle. He’d been right: there was no doubting what had them obediently at the oars now. Dare he hope that this was the turning point?

  The boats headed in; he was following a compass bearing to Breesaap and the unnamed little river.

  With all his heart he willed there to be a fluyt lying there …

  Dimly ahead he could see the occasional line of white at the edge of the sea and he strained to make out features in the low coast, anything that pointed to a river mouth. He couldn’t see one that did—and there was no time to be flogging up and down looking for it. When the full moon rose, the alarm would be raised and then there would be no chance.

  They had to turn either up or down the shoreline. Which was it to be? It couldn’t be far off—the compass bearing would set them in the right area—but if he chose the wrong side they could be uselessly pulling away from it.

  He concentrated furiously. The bearing was right but if the slight breeze from the southwest had taken more effect over that mile or two, then …

  “Larb’d, follow the coast,” he snapped.

  The tiller went over and, snatching a glance astern, he saw the other boats conform. If he’d guessed wrong—

  There! A clump of bushes and another distant from it and nothing between.

  Heart bumping, Kydd made motions for the other boats to come up.

  “Lay off. I’m going in to reconnoitre,” he whispered urgently.

  It was a modest enough river, easing out to sea through the dunes but with depth of water enough to take a reasonable-sized vessel.

  There was a bend to the right; they eased up to it to see around and—lights!

  Not one but two ships lay at rest by the bank, quiet, unsuspecting.

  “Back!” Kydd growled, hoping his elation didn’t show.

  Quickly he came alongside Paddon’s boat. “Two of ’em and I want both. Merchantmen, shouldn’t cause you problems. I’ll take the further, you the nearer. Be sharp about it—moon rises in half an hour.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Paddon said, with irritating detachment.

  The men bent to their oars and
the launch surged forward, the cutter not far behind. Pulling like madmen they entered the river and started around the bend. There was no time for stealth or elaborate cunning—this was an assault by storm!

  It worked. Only when within a hundred yards or so did an urgent cry go up from the nearer vessel and dim figures boiled up from below.

  “Lay out like good ’uns, lads!” Kydd roared, slapping his side with the intensity of his feeling.

  They passed the first ship as several muskets banged off, a derisory defence in the blackness. They came up fast on the further one, hearing harsh shouts behind them as Paddon’s crew prepared to board.

  It was happening: they were going to do it!

  Forcing coolness, Kydd concentrated on the approach. There were figures active on the quarterdeck but none forward—they’d board by the fore-chains.

  The launch curved in and in the same moment that the bowman hooked on the rest were swarming up, screeching and yelling, effortlessly swinging over on to the little fore-deck. Caught up in the excitement, Kydd did likewise, adding his battle cries to the others.

  At the sight of the boarders the Hollanders wasted no time. In a body they splashed into the water and struck out for the shore.

  They had the ship! Against all the odds, they had taken a prize.

  Something caught his eye. A rocket soared from Paddon’s ship and burst overhead with a huge lazy sparkle. What did it mean?

  But Kydd had no time to think about it.

  “Cable party—do your duty!” They loped forward with the big axe.

  Inland and not so far away came an answering rocket, curving balefully across the sky. And another, further away.

  “Topmen, lay aloft!”

  There was canvas bent on the yards as he’d known it would be—with a small merchant-service crew it would not be a popular move to send it down when they’d be putting to sea the next day.

  He sniffed the wind. A cast to starboard should do it. At this rate they’d get away well before … An indistinct figure was standing before him. “Sir, can’t cut the cable.”

  “What? Get on with it, man!”

  “It’s made o’ iron. Shackles an’ all.”

  “Well, cast it off, damn it!”

  “As it’s secured t’ a strongback an’ we can’t make it out in the dark. Two on ’em, too!” said the unknown voice, resentfully.

  Kydd tried to think.

  In one stroke the tables had been turned. Even if they found the tools it would take hours to cut through a wrought-iron cable link and this showed forethought: the cable would be doubled around the bitts and taken ashore again with its final securing hidden in the darkness. But if it were not released …

  On the night air came the faint but urgent sounds of a martial drumming. Somewhere a militia had been called out to resist the English pirates.

  He should have known! The inshore squadron of sloops and others would have made this coast a fearful place through cutting-out expeditions of their own. This was only the Dutch taking measures to deter them, and he had blundered into it.

  Gulping down his bitterness he bowed to Fate. He must abandon their prize and return empty-handed, and with the militia on their way, he would not even have the satisfaction of properly setting fire to the ship.

  “Into the boat,” he said dully.

  Was there nothing he could do? Valuable articles to be seized at all costs were the navigation charts and papers that could provide precious intelligence.

  “Keep alongside until I get back,” he called down to the launch, and hurried below.

  The master’s cabin was easy to find but in the darkness impossible to ransack. He lunged outside to find a lanthorn but the haul was miserly. Outdated coastal charts and papers in Dutch that could mean anything.

  He clattered up the companionway to the deck—already there was an appreciable ghostly lightening as the moon began lifting. Running to the ship’s side he—

  The boat was not there!

  He looked about frantically and spotted it disappearing into the murk after Paddon.

  They had deserted him, left him to be taken or killed! The realisation shook Kydd.

  A trumpet call sounded in the blackness, much nearer than the other.

  He had to do something! But … what?

  If he made it to the shore and blundered about looking for a path he’d quickly be found by the locals. And in full uniform what chance did he have in the open country?

  Seething with rage and hopelessness, he could do nothing but wait for capture—or some militiaman cutting him down with a musket.

  Then, with a catch in his throat at the unfairness of it all, he saw a miracle: out of the same blue river haze, the launch, pulling fast for the ship. They had come back for him—but, in God’s name, why?

  Now was not the time to question it and he swung down into the fore-chains and when the bows of the launch touched he jumped in, knocking the bowman aside.

  “Back-water!” It was Halgren’s voice, now harsh and commanding.

  Kydd made his way aft clumsily through the rowers just as shouts erupted on the opposite bank.

  “Hold water larb’d, give way starb’d.”

  Through the reeds there was a vivid gun-flash of a musket and then another.

  The launch was curving around and unavoidably nearing the bank. Half a dozen gun-flashes came at once, the whuup of a ball close, but Kydd knew that they had destroyed their night vision by firing too early and there was little to fear.

  He thumped into the sternsheets seat and sat back, breathing deeply with tension and relief.

  He got back aboard no wiser as to why they’d come back for him. Was it Halgren, or was it a general consensus with his agreement? The big seaman disappeared quickly and Kydd decided against calling him back for explanations.

  But he felt a tiny stab of hope. At least someone cared about what happened to him.

  On the other hand, there was no denying the mood was ugly. In the darkness he heard savage shouts, sour rejoinders.

  Hollis barely concealed his contempt and Paddon needed prodding to admit the fact that he’d even had one deserter, leaping ashore to vanish into the night. He’d pleaded confusion as to why he’d left Kydd to his fate. Most likely he’d made away without seeking orders just as soon as the situation had become plain.

  Only the sailing master showed any kind of sympathy, asking for details and commiserating quietly.

  The boats were hoisted in and the ship reverted to sea routine, heading out under easy sail.

  Kydd took a cold supper, still shaken by events. Too keyed up to sleep, he decided to take his customary turn around the upper deck even though it was well into the night.

  It was chilly and he hugged his coat to him as he left the group around the helm and made his way forward.

  The ship heaved at an increased swell. Cloud had come up to blot out the moon—there’d be heavy rain before morning.

  Jumbled thoughts raced through his mind as he slowly paced along, the darkness now near absolute, the white of wave-crests almost luminous out in the blackness.

  He reached the fore lookouts and returned down the opposite side, trying to come to a conclusion. But nothing made sense and things were getting worse.

  Turning at the taffrail aft he began another pace forward.

  The officer-of-the-watch, Nowell, and the quartermaster stood silently, watching in blank curiosity.

  Passing the boats on their skids amidships Kydd felt the beginnings of despair. There was only a short time to pull off a miracle and he didn’t have anything. If he couldn’t …

  At the sound of a sudden scuffle behind him he twisted round. A blow aimed at the back of his head took him on the side instead. Disoriented, he fell to his knees—and they were on him.

  Instinctively he seized a rope and clung to it, lashing out viciously with both feet, which connected solidly with two of the assailants. They staggered back, the third irresolute.

  Kydd l
et out a choking cry, then a shout.

  His attackers turned and fled but in the dark he hadn’t been able to see their faces clearly.

  Gasping, he waited for help—but then, in sudden dawning realisation, he understood: he was succeeding. He now had conclusive proof that there was an evil mind behind the whole thing, holding his crew in thrall by some means but now so desperate to stop him that he’d taken the grave risk of having him attacked on his own ship—because he was getting through to the seamen.

  In a haze of relief that overcame his pain he heard running feet and the quartermaster, followed by Nowell, arrived.

  “Sir—what …?”

  Kydd was ready for it. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr Nowell. I tripped and hit my head. That’s all. A bit of a sea tonight, don’t you think?”

  If he could just find this devilish plotter and put an end to him—he’d cleanse the ship of the man’s malign sway over the Tygers.

  CHAPTER 10

  NOWELL STOOD DOWN FROM HIS WATCH at midnight, handing over to Paddon, who listened with barely hidden contempt to his recitation of sail carried, course and weather conditions before dismissing him without a glance.

  The young third lieutenant left the deck, desolation descending on him, as it seemed to so much these days. The ship was a nightmare of contradictions, a parody of what he had learned of sea service as a shy but eager midshipman.

  The men were unreadable, their looks calculating and hostile, and he sensed a dangerous, edgy undercurrent. Their captain, the acclaimed Sir Thomas Kydd, didn’t seem to have any notion of how to put an end to it.

  He reached the bottom of the ladderway and turned aft for the gun-room when Smyth, a master’s mate, emerged out of the gloom. “Begging y’r pardon, sir,” he said, with a sketchy salute. “The master wonders if he can have an urgent word wi’ ye.”

  At this hour? But it was the courteous Le Breton, who, of all of the quarterdeck, was the most calm and reliable. No doubt it would be for a good reason.

  “I’ll come now.”

  “Ah, not in the gun-room, sir. In the boatswain’s storeroom, like.”

  Nowell thought this odd, but then assumed that the problem was in the odorous recesses of the orlop, forward.