Tyger

by Julian Stockwin

  “And a sailing master, sir.”

  “Quite. I see nothing for it but a quick return to Yarmouth with my note of encouragement to the Impress Service. You shouldn’t suffer botheration over a new third—there’s enough young sprigs around kicking their heels.”

  “I’ll sail this hour, sir—and thank you for your understanding.”

  When the anchor went down in Yarmouth Roads Kydd could not suppress a shuddering sigh. He knew so little about any of his company: both they and his ship were still largely an unknown quantity.

  But now there were other things to see to.

  The first was to send off his official report of events to the Admiralty, including a mention that his actions had had the complete approbation of the admiral commanding the North Sea squadron.

  In a separate cover he took up their commitment to allow him to name his officers and asked for Bowden and Brice—he didn’t want to see Paddon again. And more in hope than expectation, while acknowledging that even as the rate of his ship did not warrant it, the appointment of one Clinton as acting captain, Royal Marines, to stand by his current raw lieutenant after his ordeal would be much appreciated.

  There was one other he would give a great deal to secure: Dillon, his former confidential secretary. He hurriedly penned a note, regretting the lack of notice and urging him, if interested, to lose no time in joining.

  There was no question of liberty ashore for the Tygers. “They have to earn it first, Mr Hollis!” he had said loudly, on deck, within the hearing of nearby hands. He wasn’t going to risk losing even more men in the nervous, febrile atmosphere that followed recent events and before he had had a chance to pull the ship together.

  The first lieutenant was treating him with something like hero-worship—or was it that it was in Kydd’s power to have him replaced as well? He’d decided to keep Hollis because he knew the ship and seamen well and would probably be amenable to Kydd’s ways in the future.

  Kydd stormed ashore to the impress office, leaving Tysoe to do what he could to ransack local shops and chandlers in an attempt to make his living spaces comfortable, and to lay in cabin stores as he saw fit.

  “Not much of a catch locally,” he was told, on showing Russell’s letter of encouragement, “but with this authorisation, I can send to Sheerness for you. Can’t promise you’ll get your full entitling but …”

  Back on board Kydd publicly railed at the purser for not moving faster in securing the sweets of the land for his ship’s company: “soft tommy”—baked bread in place of hard tack—beer, fresh beef, greens and all the little things that went far in making a sailor’s life a modicum more bearable.

  When that had been put in train he called for the big Swede and put the question again.

  “Aye, sir,” Halgren said slowly. “I’d like it right well, sir.”

  He now had a captain’s coxswain.

  On the third day the press tender arrived with barely satisfactory numbers, and later Bowden and Brice reported aboard, recounting how they had suddenly been plucked from the disconsolate crowd of petitioning lieutenants in the Admiralty and told to join HMS Tyger that very day.

  Barely suppressing his delight as he welcomed them, Kydd told them briefly what had happened and they handed over orders they were carrying.

  Kydd was a little taken aback as he was under the command of the North Sea squadron and therefore not normally at the disposal of the Admiralty.

  In his cabin he opened the packet quickly: a single page only. It seemed it was convenient to their lordships that Tyger lay at Yarmouth at this time, for they were minded to detach her for a short but important service: he should hold himself at readiness. In the event a Mr Stuart of the Foreign Office would make contact with him in the near future for a mission of great discretion.

  His eyes narrowed. Was this to be a malicious complication to crowd in on Tyger before he had worked the ship up to something like effectiveness?

  But it was no use worrying about it: this Mr Stuart would reveal all when he came. Meanwhile he had other matters to attend to.

  There was the mountain of paperwork he had necessarily set aside. If only Dillon … but might he be expecting too much? So little notice and the young man might have decided that the comforts of Eskdale Hall were to be preferred to the stern realities of sea life.

  He took a deep breath and set to on the pile.

  When the Foreign Office emissary arrived in Yarmouth he insisted he saw Kydd in the office of the senior naval officer ashore, with no one else present.

  “You come highly recommended, Sir Thomas,” he said, studying Kydd with interest, “for this mission, which is of a singular importance, I might say.”

  “Thank you, sir. Yet I should warn you that my ship is untried, many of her crew having newly joined. In the article of fighting I cannot be sanguine that—”

  Stuart smiled thinly. “It should not come to that, Captain. A straightforward assignment but one that touches on the very core of England’s struggle against Bonaparte.”

  Kydd felt irritation. “I’ve had my share of hard service, Mr Stuart. Be so good as to tell me the details directly.”

  “Very well. What I’m about to tell you is for you alone. Not another soul, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Kydd sighed.

  “Then this is the essence. It is of the utmost importance to keep Tsar Alexander in the war against the French. Since the fall of the Third Coalition after Austerlitz, Russia is the only power of significance left on the continent of Europe to oppose the tyrant. At all costs we must preserve relations or we stand on alone—none other by our side!”

  “I see.” This much was common knowledge and Kydd had only recently returned from a close liaising with Admiral Senyavin of the Imperial Russian Navy.

  “Captain, we want you to convey to Gothenburg a subsidy due the Tsar, in the amount of one half of a million pounds in specie.”

  Kydd caught his breath. Never in his life had he heard of such an amount mentioned anywhere. With his own pay recently raised to fifteen pounds and eight shillings a month, he’d have to serve something like a thousand years and more to see its like. “That’s a great deal of responsibility, Mr Stuart.”

  “Your ship is the only one of sufficient weight of metal available. Now, please to pay particular attention. At seven in the morning a detachment of the Royal Horse Artillery will arrive in Yarmouth with their field pieces. In the limber of every odd-numbered gun will be concealed a number of cases labelled ‘Explosive Shot.’ These will be taken directly to the jetty where your boat will be waiting under guard from the Yeomanry. Clear?”

  “I understand.”

  “Once aboard you will treat the cases as experimental ordnance, to be stored in the ship’s magazine.”

  “Yes.”

  “On arrival at Gothenburg you will be approached by a member of the British Embassy, who will be identified by a paper that you will now sign.”

  “Presumably sent ahead by dispatch boat.”

  “Quite.”

  Kydd scrawled his signature on the paper.

  “You will then follow any instructions you are given. Do not fail, sir, upon your peril!”

  The next morning the men in Tyger’s launch and a cutter lay on their oars and precisely on time two carts, guarded importantly by the Norfolk Yeomanry, ground to a stop by the jetty.

  A mystified gunner stood by Kydd’s side on the rain-swept pier.

  With a flourish, the subaltern in charge produced his paper and considerately held his cape over Kydd while he signed: never again would a fabulous treasure such as this be in his charge.

  “Strike the cases into the launch—and be damned careful of it!” he snapped nervously.

  Half a million pounds, it seemed, required seven stout chests, and as they took their place along the centre-line of the big boat, Kydd suffered a moment’s giddy vision: halfway to Tyger the weight of the gold becomes too much for the planking, which gives way and sink
s the launch, putting the fortune out of reach for ever.

  But he was being paid freight money, awarded to the captain of any naval vessel charged with the carriage of bullion in consideration of the worry at its presence. Lately the amount had varied, a small percentage of the value, he’d heard. And on half a million that stood to be a useful sum.

  In heartfelt relief he saw the cases swayed aboard and carried forward by the gunner’s party to the main magazine. Fending off murmurings from the gunner, he turned to greet a welcome figure.

  “Mr Clinton!” He started in mock surprise at the brand new epaulettes. “Or should it be Captain Clinton?” He shook hands warmly, touched to see the man who had calmly done his duty in the final days at Buenos Aires only to be cut down with a near-mortal wound at Constantinople. “You are well?”

  “Perfectly recovered, sir—that is, Sir Thomas,” he added, with a broad grin.

  There was no sign of Dillon but Hollis was waiting with a surprise. “The pressed men mustered and rated, sir. No prime hands but the Sheerness draft has a few that look promising.” He waited a moment, then added, in an odd voice, “And when shall you rate the volunteers?”

  “Volunteers?” Kydd said, in amazement. Who the devil would sign up to join a ship recently in mutiny? Nevertheless he promised he would see them shortly.

  In his cabin Tysoe was distracted with the unpacking and stowage of the new furniture and stores. Kydd left him to it and returned on deck. “So. Where are these volunteers, Mr Hollis?”

  They were brought before him … Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate and fine L’Aurore seaman. Next to him, Doud and his inseparable shipmate Pinto, shuffling their feet bashfully.

  “You’re right welcome, all of you,” Kydd said, conscious of Hollis’s curiosity. “As I’d never wish for a better parcel o’ hands. But how …?”

  “Heard you was shipping out, thought we’d join ye, sir! Wouldn’t be right, puttin’ to sea without we looks after the barky.”

  Kydd knew there would be no further explanation given.

  Pinto and Doud would certainly find a petty officer’s berth but for Stirk this was another matter. He’d been a gunner’s mate, which could prove difficult as Tyger had one already, a wizened old sailor who was apparently a friend of the gunner. A comfortable situation like yeoman of the powder room would serve for now.

  A little later a jolly man of some years in a characterful tricorne of a past age clambered aboard. “Cap’n Sir Thomas?” he breezed, snatching off his hat. “An’ I was tipped the wink b’ Mr Burke as y’ might be in need of a sailing master. I introduce m’self—Nehemiah Joyce, master o’ the Ramillies as was, come t’ offer m’ services.”

  Kydd had reservations at the man’s age. “What recent service have you, Mr Joyce?”

  “Why, not three years afore—Queen Caroline, ninety-eight.”

  “I thought she was a guardship at Sheerness, and hulked?”

  The man’s face fell. “As it was m’ last ship before I swallowed the anchor t’ be with m’ lady wife in Yarmouth.”

  It was the way of it for a long-service warrant officer, given a soft berth in his final post in the navy before retiring. For all that, he looked spry enough.

  “You’ve seen your share of service, I’d wager.”

  His open features creased with remembrance. “Aye, sir! Started in Ferret, cutter, removed into Terrier, sloop, and after … No, I tell a lie, it were Crescent first, then Terrier—rare sailer, she! Nothing from Ameriky could stay with her on a broad reach. Then it was—”

  “Frigates?”

  “Sir,” Joyce said, affronted. “First one I has after I gets m’ paper from Trinity, an’ it were Quickmatch. Naught but a sluggard, whatever we does. In Lacadaemon ’twas another story. Why, when we had bowlines up—”

  “Thank you. So now you think to abandon your good wife to return to adventuring at sea.”

  “Oh, but that’s me answerin’ the call t’ duty, sir!”

  “I see. Very patriotic of you, Mr Joyce. I can only offer you an acting position.”

  “That’ll do me, sir.” His joyous smile couldn’t help but bring a twitch to Kydd’s lips.

  “We sail shortly on a voyage to Gothenburg. See we’ve charts to suit, if you will and welcome on board!”

  With the secret freight in her bowels he had no intention of delaying and, despite the hour, by the first dog-watch, stations for unmooring ship was piped.

  Kydd watched discreetly. There were no visible signs of discontent among the seamen but on the other hand neither was there the peculiar mix of exuberance and rueful acceptance that usually went with a ship outward bound.

  It was now entirely up to him. The heart and soul of Tyger was his to win.

  Then as they tripped their anchor, just as it had happened in L’Aurore, the last boat from the shore brought Dillon, a cheery figure standing perilously in the sternsheets of a fishing smack.

  It was their first night at sea and Kydd’s invitation to the gun-room came promptly. Their heads turned respectfully as he entered and took his place at the end of the table.

  “So kind in you to invite me,” he said formally, to Hollis on his right, the mess president.

  A subdued murmur was his polite welcome from the rest.

  Kydd looked forward keenly to this time: it was the only occasion aboard ship that he could reach out and make sociable contact with the officers who would run his ship for him—and, of course, for them to take measure of the captain who would rule over them.

  “Our pleasure, sir,” came the first lieutenant’s equally formal reply.

  Down the table faces steadily looked his way, expectant or apprehensive, curious and guarded.

  He motioned to the servants who stood behind their chairs. “Gentlemen,” he began genially, “I’d be interested in your opinion of this Frontignac from my private stock. It’s much cried up in London, these days.”

  When they were served, Kydd tasted his and went on pleasantly, “I rather think I should introduce to you Tygers the strangers we see here tonight. On my larb’d side is Mr Bowden, a gentleman of long acquaintance, who was with me at Menorca when we entertained the Dons with our patent signal method of pantaloons and bloomers.”

  It was gratifying to see the goggling eyes at this admission from the legendary Sir Thomas Kydd.

  “And opposite is Mr Brice, who’s no stranger to the North Sea, preferring more of a blow than is offering now. It was diverting indeed to see him standing forrard in L’Aurore, scornful of the Turk that they had no bigger shot to throw at him than a marble ball a fathom around.”

  This brought admiring chuckles and a tangible easing around the room.

  “And at the end there you’ll find Master Dillon, my confidential secretary, a scholar and staunch landlubber, whose ancient Greek confounded not only the treacherous Ottomans but also the ship’s entire complement of midshipmen.”

  This was met with relaxed laughter.

  “Captain Clinton sits yonder, new-rigged and splendid, but I remember him best as a pox-doctor flamming the Spaniards in South America.”

  Incredulous looks flashed across the table at the pink-faced Royal Marine.

  “And, finally, our newest member who seems set fair to be our oldest—Mr Nehemiah Joyce, sailing master, who I’m sure if pressed could conjure a yarn or two.”

  A babble of talk rose as the evening progressed, and while the conversations ebbed and flowed, Kydd discreetly took in the others.

  Dawes, the portly boatswain, was clearly out of his depth, fiddling with his glass and confining his talk to the tight-faced gunner, Darby, who held back from the growing merriment.

  Oxley, the surgeon, a portly but sharp-eyed individual, sat back with an expression of distaste, listening to a laboured tale from Harman, the shrewish purser and across from them the absurdly young lieutenant of marines, Payne, who sat petrified and mute.

  There would be many more miles under their keel before this company became one.
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  With the arrival of the lamb cutlets, Kydd judged the time right and gave a smart ting on his glass to call their attention.

  “Gentlemen—Tygers all! A traditional first night at sea. But this one—this is out of the ordinary run and by any man’s reckoning a special one. It marks a dawning, a new life—a fresh beginning. We’ve been through a fierce time, when no man may trust his shipmate, fear and dread stalking our decks—who can say where it’ll all end?”

  He let it hang for a space before he continued. “But it’s over! Finished—the canker purged! Never more will this King’s ship need hang its head in shame. I for one refuse utterly to bring it to mind ever again and will hear nothing from any who can’t let it go. We’re outward bound, shipmates, to adventures and challenges we can’t possibly dream of, and I’m here to tell you, this world holds more in store than ever we can imagine.”

  “Shakespeare,” murmured Dillon, and was immediately silenced with a glare from Bowden.

  “Gentlemen, we’re all on notice. We in England lie under such peril as never was, since even before Trafalgar. Boney stands astride the whole of Europe, and if we in Tyger are to play our part we’re going to have to be a damn sight better than we’ve been. I’m sure we will, but each one of you must haul and draw alongside our company with a whole heart and to one purpose.”

  It was reaching most, but not all.

  “In token of which I can tell you that we’re on a mission of national importance, their lordships having seen fit to entrust this to Tyger and no other.”

  This brought a ripple of interest and, despite himself, the gunner dared, “This special ordnance, sir. An’ what is it exactly, as must be kept from us?”

  “Shame on you, Mr Darby!” Kydd came back without hesitation. “Are you not aware that Swedish iron makes the best guns there are? And what better to trade with than … I cannot go further, you must understand.”

  The gunner subsided, satisfied. The Naval Chronicle had been detailed in its descriptions of all manner of new inventions, from Captain Popham’s catamaran torpedoes to Major Congreve’s war rockets, and it was not outside the bounds of possibility that a two-way exchange was taking place, with Tyger in the centre.