Smyth carried a lanthorn, and as they approached the store, Nowell saw several figures outside, waiting.
“The master?”
“Inside, sir.”
Nowell entered cautiously. Le Breton was sitting on an upended barrel at the far end among the hanging tackles, blocks and tools. A lamp on the deck cast a ghostly light up at him in the gloom. The reek of rope and Stockholm tar was almost overpowering.
Smyth followed him in. The door closed quietly.
“Do sit,” Le Breton said politely, indicating another barrel near him.
Nowell hesitated. “Master, is there something you wish to discuss? I’ve just come off watch and—”
“There is. A matter of great importance to us all.”
Nowell sat and waited uncertainly. There was a gleam in the master’s eye, which unsettled him with its uncharacteristic fervour.
“What I have to tell you is a fact that you must accept here and now, for there is no changing it. It will happen and there is not one thing anyone can do to stop it.”
“Go on,” the third lieutenant said, as a chill stole into his vitals.
“Tomorrow there will be a rising of the hands and this vessel will be handed over to the French Navy.”
Nowell gulped. “How do you know this, Master?”
Le Breton smiled thinly, “Because it will be my doing. I will not bore you with details but it’s sufficient to tell you that my allegiance lies with the people, not their rulers.”
“You’re French! An agent sent to—”
“It doesn’t really signify. What does is that tomorrow a frigate will rendezvous with this vessel, summoned by Mr Paddon’s ‘deserter.’ It will be the signal for us to complete our task and take charge of this ship. It will then be handed over and carried in to port.”
“I—I don’t believe you! The men would never—”
“My dear sir, they will—and I’ll tell you why. I have five other agents to spread my tidings that every man who stands on the right side when called upon will then be the possessor of a purse of gold, together with safe passage to any country or territory they so desire. Those who do not … well, let us say they must take their chances.”
Nowell tried to think. It must have been in the planning for some time, awaiting a suitable victim, and they had found one in Tyger. Le Breton was masquerading as the sailing master indicated on his warrant, the actual one removed. And with a grave shortage of seamen it wouldn’t have been too difficult to insert those five others—ostensibly volunteers of foreign extraction—into Tyger to plan and supervise the disaffection and poisoning of the crew to the point at which they could be relied upon to rise in mutiny at the right time.
A climate of fear would have been easily generated by the simple means of keeping secret the identity of his agents. In this way any who tried to raise the alarm could never know if he had been seen and betrayed. It explained the fear and distrust that had driven the Tygers into a fragmented mass.
A sudden jet of terror came. It made no sense for them to let him in on their plans unless … “Why are you telling me this?” he croaked.
“We need an officer.”
“Why me?”
“Mr Nowell, it doesn’t take much discerning to mark you out as a very unhappy man,” Le Breton said softly, looking up at him in a kindly way. “You’ve suffered more than most at the hands of those who call themselves your betters. You deserve a new start.”
With a numb inevitability Nowell saw where it was all leading.
“As an officer, your share of the proceeds in gold would be much larger, undoubtedly sufficient to set you up as a gentleman of affluence, of leisure. In Portugal, the Caribbean, even America, you could be sure of a welcome and a place in society as a respected figure of means. Who knows? A good marriage, a family …”
A vision grew and matured, an intoxicating one of dignity and esteem, of repose and peace in a country far away from the madness of war.
Le Breton smiled. “You’re considering your position. That is good. But you’re wanting reassurance that you’re coming over to the winning side and I can appreciate that. Let me tell you more of what’s planned and why it cannot fail.
“It requires only a dozen or more to declare themselves ready to act and I can state positively that we have more. These are merely the active players—many others will join us when they see how swiftly we succeed when my order is given, and how much they stand to lose if they don’t.” He spoke as if he was giving a lecture, calm, reasoned and persuasive.
“You see, we have surprise on our side. While attention is on the enemy frigate none will suspect us. All men will be at their guns—you’ll know how grievous short-handed we are. At my signal—well, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.”
There was more to it than that, obviously, but the essence was there. On the next day Tyger would be carried over to the French. This was now a foregone conclusion. The question was, where did he stand?
“What assurance have we of our reward?” Nowell found himself saying.
“If the word of a gentleman is insufficient for you,” the master said reproachfully, “then might I ask you to conceive of the gratitude to be expected by a government presented with the gift of a most valuable ship of a thousand tons? You can be sure it may be measured in gold.”
From behind him there was a fruity chuckle from Smyth.
“And may I point out to you that this whole proceeding is ordered, with decorum and completely bloodless. What more can you ask of me?”
Nowell realised that in less than twenty-four hours he could be on his way to a new life, an end to this nightmare. “What do you want me to do?”
“Merely to assist me in making the affair bloodless. When my order goes out it will be with moves that are intended to prevent retaliation. Our gallant captain will be taken by surprise but will order the crew to resist. Your job is to countermand his orders and advise the men to stand down and accept the situation. At best they will do so, you being an officer and one they are accustomed to obey. At worst there will be confusion, which will enable us to consolidate our position. You understand me?”
It made sense and Nowell would seem to be trying to pacify a dangerous situation. With this one act he would secure his golden future!
“And this is all I’m called upon to do?”
“Only this. A small enough thing, I would have thought.”
His mind blazed with feeling. To have sweet revenge on Paddon, Hollis and all those who’d made his life a wretched misery! To be quit of this existence for ever and—“I’ll do it.”
“Good. It’s no discredit in any man to bow before the inevitable. Go to your rest now, Mr Nowell, and we’ll speak more of this tomorrow.”
Was that all?
“Yes. Well, good night, Master.” He left.
Le Breton motioned briefly. Two men immediately detached from the several waiting outside and followed noiselessly.
Nowell lay in his cot, his mind racing with possibilities and fears. When next he slept, it would be in a very different world, one that until an hour ago he could never have dreamed of.
Could he find it in him to shout down Captain Kydd when he roared out at the seamen to stand by him? He quailed at the thought, then realised that this wasn’t what he was meant to do. His would be the voice of reason, of sorrow to have to bow to the twist of fortune that saw them all at the mercy of a higher force, to which it would be no dishonour to yield.
Yet Kydd had been the only one who’d been good to him, walking the deck and hearing his anxieties with sympathy and understanding. He wasn’t like the others. And he was a hero, a real one, and had bothered to speak to him kindly when he must have been distracted beyond imagining by the condition of his ship.
It troubled him. This man had accepted the mission to go to Tyger and make her whole, and it was not his fault that he was being invisibly thwarted from within.
What would happen to him? Like all those who rema
ined steadfast and true, he would be condemned to rot his life away in a bleak fastness somewhere. The seamen would be taken to a wretched prison or put to hard labour in some ancient port. None would have any chance of release or exchange—Bonaparte knew that British sailors were preventing him achieving his destiny and would never let them go.
All the while he himself would be taking his ease in a far country on the proceeds of his …
A surge of shame burned inside him.
He couldn’t do it. Not to Captain Kydd—and the true-hearted seamen who stood by their ship.
In a rush of determination he threw off the covers and found his watch-coat, drawing it on over his nightshirt. Inching open the door of his cabin he peeped out into the gun-room. It was steeped in the darkness of the silent hours and he tiptoed out.
He was ready with his excuse to the marine sentry at the gun-room door but the man was standing glassily upright and didn’t even blink as he passed.
It was only three steps to the aft companion up, carefully avoiding the rows of hammocks stretching away in the gloom, swaying gently together with the easy heave of the ship. As his head rose above the level of the hatchway he paused. This was now the gun-deck, open to the sky forward, and close by, under the quarterdeck above, the captain’s cabin spaces.
Nothing moved.
Reassured, he stepped out on to the deck and went quickly to the door of the cabin where a marine sentry stood.
“To see the captain,” he said in a low voice.
The sentinel hesitated, then stood aside.
Nowell made to open the door—it wouldn’t open. He tried again. It was locked!
“Why—”
He never finished the question. The smack of the musket across his skull, in a blinding flash, ended his purpose there and then.
“Look again. He must be somewhere, damn it!”
Even as he spoke Kydd was caught in the chill of a premonition. Nowell was cruelly dejected and it was not unknown for men to suicide by throwing themselves overside during the night watches—or might there be the more sinister explanation that he had had wind of a plot and been silenced?
Either way a ferocious tension now gripped Tyger. Hardly a word was spoken as men padded about with animal wariness, some deliberately keeping their gaze turned away forward, others stopping to stare back at the quarterdeck as if to be the one to witness a descending catastrophe.
Whatever cataclysm was threatening would not be long in breaking.
Turning out the marines was useless. They could not stand to indefinitely, and in their pitiful numbers were a pathetic deterrent even if they could be fully relied on.
There was only one way to deal with it: to stand fast and confront whatever evil finally burst out.
The shadowy organising genius must show himself, and then at least he’d know who his adversary was and what he was up against. An end to the ominous stormcloud of dread and foreboding. No more—
“Deck hoooo! Dead astern—a frigate!”
Nobody moved. It was already topsails up from the quarter-deck. For some reason the main-top lookout had not sighted it until almost too late. One thing was sure: it could not have come at a worse time.
Tyger went to quarters in an agonisingly long time—but there were men at the guns, others at their station. Kydd vowed that if it was an enemy they’d make a fight of it.
The sailing master appeared beside him.
“Ah, Mr Le Breton,” he said, with as much spirit as he could muster. “There—a frigate. An enemy, do you think?”
Calmly the master shielded his eyes to look. “A Frenchman you may believe, sir.”
Its profile lengthened as it altered course to come up on them from seaward. It was now possible to make out the tricolour—it was the enemy right enough, a heavy frigate with many more men than Tyger if it came to boarding, which, of course, was the last thing he intended.
Kydd smiled grimly. If it was thinking to cut off their escape to seaward then it wasn’t the first to misread a British opening manoeuvre.
He considered his tactics. The Frenchman had the weather gage and was positioning to cut across any move by him to reach the open sea. The land was under his lee to starboard and the winds going large. Unless he wanted a prolonged chase, with his ship as the prey, there was only one alternative. “Helm up, hard a-larb’d!” he ordered crisply.
By hauling to the wind he was going to throw his ship across the bows of the other in a raking broadside, or if Tyger couldn’t reach there in time, at the very least he could bring about a close-range combat.
Obediently, as the yards were braced up their bowsprit swung across the horizon and they began closing fast.
“We’ll give ’em a what-for they’ll remember!” Kydd said to the master.
“Stand to your guns, lads!” he roared, as they came up on the enemy—who unaccountably shivered sail and slowed as if in welcome.
Kydd glanced across at the master, puzzled … Then the whole world went insane.
Le Breton darted to Paddon and snatching his speaking trumpet, bawled something in French to the deck in general.
A dozen or more men wheeled about, snatched pistols from the open arms chests, then returned to stand behind each gun, a pistol trained steadily on the gun-captain.
Another half-dozen took position along the centre of the deck, their pistols roving about, alert for the first to make a move among the crew.
“Any who moves—any at all—will be killed instantly,” bellowed Le Breton, his own pistol trained on Kydd’s belly. “Stand still by your guns and no one will be hurt. This vessel is now in possession of the French republic!”
Kydd let out his breath. It was Le Breton. The calm Guernseyman had master-minded the whole thing in as neat a coup as may be conceived. There could be no man who would sacrifice himself to certain death by being first to resist—and all the time they were racing on to come under the guns of the French frigate and ignominy.
“Douse that rag, Gaston!” the master snarled.
A man loped to the halyards and swiftly hauled down their colours.
An appalled paralysis gripped the ship. Pale-faced, Hollis stared at Kydd in supplication while Paddon stood motionless, his expression blank.
“She acknowledges, comrade,” came a voice to one side.
“Very good,” snapped Le Breton, and his eyes flicked to the frigate in triumph.
At this Kydd flung himself away sideways and down, rolling with it in a frantic dive. The pistol banged but it missed and he was up, in one fluid movement yanking his sword out and lunging for the master, the point just an inch from his throat, stopping him in his tracks.
Kydd’s blade held him while he circled for what he wanted—a pistol from the arms chest. He brought it up and held it under the man’s jaw, letting his sword slide to the deck.
“Move!” he hissed, jabbing, crowding, until his back was safely against the mainmast.
“I have your leader, you mutinous dogs!” he bellowed. “He dies if you move an inch!” His mind raced. It was unlikely they would throw down their weapons to save his life. He had a desperately short time to turn the tables.
“You! Haul up our colours,” he barked to a nearby sailor.
The man hesitated so he ground the barrel of the pistol into Le Breton, bringing a cry of pain.
Tyger’s ensign rose again.
“Bear away,” he snapped at the stupefied helmsman. “Do it, damn your hide!”
Kydd’s eyes never left Le Breton’s.
Now there was a chance.
“Listen to me, all of you!” he roared. “Our colours are a-fly again and we’re running free, heading out. The Frenchy thinks he’s been tricked. He’ll never come for you now!”
In the tense stillness he shouted, “You’re outnumbered, damn it! How long can you stand there like that? For ever?”
He saw Le Breton’s arm stealthily creeping up and grinned mirthlessly as he viciously ground the pistol barrel into him aga
in.
He might have the ringleader but he was faced with a standoff without resolution.
It could go either way and all it would take would be—
“I’ll give you a chance!” he bellowed “Stay where you are and take your chances at a court-martial—or go overside now and let your friends pick you up!”
His talk about the French seeing trickery might or might not be true but these men would see it as a done deed. The whole rising was designed only to hold Tyger in a state of suspension for the few minutes until the ship was safely under the guns of the other. Without the enemy guns, there was no threat.
First one, then another ran to the side and plunged into the sea. The rest broke and raced to follow.
It was too much for Le Breton. With a screech he threw himself at Kydd, the sudden movement catching him off-balance, his pistol discharging harmlessly into the air.
They fell to the deck, the Frenchman gouging, smashing, bludgeoning in a demented frenzy that Kydd couldn’t stand against until, quite suddenly, it was all over.
A giant of a man had snatched the crazed attacker bodily off him and held him aloft.
Dazed, Kydd could only watch as the Swede swivelled and threw the man down directly across the iron barrel of a gun. The sound of his maniac shrieking snapped off in the same moment that Kydd heard the sickening crack of a broken spine.
The last of the mutineers had flung themselves over the side and were now just a straggle of dark heads in the white of the ship’s wake. Kydd breathed deeply. With their guilty fleeing he had cleansed Tyger of the evil that had been infecting her.
CHAPTER 11
“WELL, ’PON MY SOUL!” Admiral Russell sat back in admiration. “And I honour you for it, m’ boy! It was the thing to do, to be sure. You’d never have irons enough to keep ’em all under eye, an’ without you knew who was a rogue, well, that was a rattling good catch to root ’em out, I’m bound to say.”
“Thank you, sir. I was concerned that without prisoners for the court-martial it would—”
“Never fret, sir. There’ll be no court-martial, conceivably perhaps a quiet court of inquiry. Admiralty don’t like it known there’s unrest, let alone Frenchy agents abroad.”
Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures) Page 12
