Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures)

by Julian Stockwin

  The little man spoke up immediately in passable English. “The Kapitan Voronov. He want your business, pliss.”

  While the dragoman translated, Kydd tried to think of an expression of military courtesy. There were no forts visible with flags proudly flying to receive and return gun salutes but neither was there a single warship in sight.

  “We are honoured to visit this port and, as an ally of Russia, His Majesty wishes me to pay our respects to the—the governor in charge.”

  It was received with puzzlement and dismay but Horner came to the rescue. “There ain’t any such thing in this place. A mayor or such, but nothin’ else as would stand next to youse.”

  It was apparently so outlandish for a warship to appear that there were no procedures the good kapitan could think to apply. Port clearance, merchant papers, manifests and, of course, Customs appraisal were the usual but in this case …

  “Kapitan, he say welcome an’ he report to his superior.”

  It was clear there had been no French or any other naval visit of significance here for some time. The open reason for their voyage therefore was answered, but he had the other discreet task to complete—and for that he had to get to Archangel itself.

  The boat put off and Kydd turned to Horner. “I’m supposing I should pay a visit to your mayor or someone.”

  “He won’t thank you for it.”

  “Pray why not?”

  “Cos he’s a Dutchman an’, like most of ’em, hates your kind.”

  “How can this be? They’re an enemy of Russia as they are of us.”

  “They’s merchants who sit on all the trade hereabouts and t’ stay loose buys their papers as a Russky.”

  Kydd’s heart sank. What with shoals, a bar and channels unnavigable by vessels of size, the prospects of Archangel as a port to rival the Baltic were not promising before he’d even started, and with the Dutch in a position to obstruct and disrupt he might as well sail for home now. “Nevertheless, I’m going. Mr Hollis, my barge.”

  “That’s not how it’s done here, Cap’n. They likes you should use their traps. Hoist a red flag on the fore an’ see what happens.”

  It brought a peculiar craft beetling out from the shore. A wide, shallow-draught boat, it had a flat railed-off area raised on posts above the rowers with banks of seats atop.

  Coming alongside, a hinged gangway swung out neatly and Kydd could step directly from his ship to the platform. In the shadows beneath the anonymous figures of rowers were still and bent, in pitiful rags. Were they convicts or serfs?

  “Carry on, Mr Hollis,” he instructed, and took his place at the front, Bowden beside him and Dillon in his best secretarial garb behind. He’d had to refuse Clinton’s offer of a ceremonial marine guard: in any foreign land it was a provocative act to land an armed party without due permission.

  Their progress through the marshy landscape was slow but methodical. They finally turned around the last point to reveal Archangel, port city of the High North.

  A mile-wide peninsula set out into the confluence of countless muddy streams and rivers of the delta, it was perfectly flat. The waterfront was lined with warehouses and at one point there was a lengthy grand building with a fat white tower. Further inland, Kydd could see a peculiar lofty building of many storeys, sharp curves, rickety balconies and a spire, and to the left a quaint five-domed church with a distinctive bell-tower.

  He looked about carefully. A number of ships were working cargo but all were of a modest size, and as they drew nearer the high, angular jetty, the whole prospect resolved into one of shabby decay. Any thoughts of diverting the great Baltic convoys were rapidly dwindling.

  Kydd wondered whether it might be possible to dredge a channel for deeper-draught ships. The wharfage looked capable of some hundreds of ships, especially the timber yards to the left. Could they separate in- and outbound?

  They stepped off to the stares of labourers and nearby stallkeepers, heading for the long white building, Gostiny Dvor, or Merchants’ Court, that Dillon had been assured was every captain’s first port of call.

  Kydd was thankful he’d thought to wear sea undress uniform without star and sash: with their naval accoutrements they stood out enough already. But then they quickly discovered to their dismay that everywhere was a sea of dark-brown mud.

  There were no paved avenues—only roads laid with timbers along which carts with tinkling bells jolted and swayed. Peasants trudged by with impossible loads and a boy in bare feet driving geese stopped to stare at them.

  It was a strange, forbidding place.

  Their entry into the Merchants’ Court stopped the hum of activity and half a hundred eyes stared at them from behind tall, ancient writing desks.

  “Tell ’em it’s Sir Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy come to pay his respects to their mayor.”

  The man Dillon addressed looked at him in consternation, then let it be known that Mayor Vasiliy Popov was not to be troubled on minor matters as he was a figure of some consequence in the town.

  Kydd explained that he was in Archangel on matters touching on trade and would appreciate a little of his time.

  Doubtfully, the man got up and went to an office at the back. There were angry words and suddenly at the door stood a giant of a man with a monstrous black beard.

  “Come!” he roared, beckoning to Kydd. “You’re Ingliss?” he said, in a voice of thunder. “Vot you doing here?”

  After an elaborate courtly bow, Kydd suggested they discuss matters further in a more private situation.

  Popov hesitated, then pushed past and led them to a low room with dark, varnished panels and smoke-grimed portraits. It smelt of boiled cabbage and strong tobacco.

  They sat at an old-fashioned meeting table and Popov boomed something unintelligible out of the door, then closed it and took his seat.

  “Now. You come in man-o’-war? Why?”

  Kydd explained their mission to uncover any French threat, careful to refer to him as our good Russian ally.

  The door opened and two others entered, glaring suspiciously at Kydd as they sat opposite. Close behind, a servant came, bearing a coarsely made brown glass bottle and small glasses.

  “No French here,” rumbled Popov, leaning back to let the servant pour out the colourless liquor before each man. “None since the peace finish. So?”

  He glared about him, growling, “Za zdorovje,” and downed the contents of his glass in one savage gulp.

  Kydd was not going to be caught out and took just a sip of the rough potato liquor.

  “Drink!” Popov demanded, miming a full toss.

  Kydd replied, “Sir, this is far too good a potion to down carelessly,” peering up at his glass as if it were a rare claret. Bowden and Dillon followed his lead.

  “So, no French. You sail now, hein?”

  “Perhaps later. My orders are to let the flag of His Majesty be seen by any of his subjects in Archangel as a comfort and support in a foreign land.”

  “None. No Ingliss here.” Swift looks were exchanged between the two others.

  It had to be a lie: somewhere in the trading community there would be seamen or merchants. Was Popov too anxious for them to leave?

  “And, of course, after such an arduous voyage my ship requires repairs, water, victuals.”

  “You get—you go.”

  “My men will be grateful indeed to take liberty ashore,” Kydd enthused. “To spend their hard-won coin on the simple pleasures.” He got no response beyond a glower. “I do believe I’ll take rooms for a day or two and enjoy a promenade around your beautiful town.”

  Popov looked as though he would object but fell to muttering. He rose to his feet. “Season nearly finish. Ice come, you trap!” he said, through gritted teeth.

  “Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.”

  It wasn’t hard to locate the usual seafront hostelry catering to ship’s captains that could be found in every port. Dingy, reeking of the ever-present cabbage and tobacco, it would serve.
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  Kydd sent Bowden back with instructions to the first lieutenant to award liberty to half a watch under the direst penalties for behaviour. He knew Bowden was intelligent enough to let slip that offenders taken in riot by the locals would find themselves choked up in a Russian gaol as Tyger sailed. It would give pause to the most dedicated joyster.

  It was not simply a humane gesture on Kydd’s part. In this hostile and uneasy place he wanted men within hail about him—those who, like Stirk, could be trusted to see that the hot-headed were kept in check.

  He had a duty to complete his mission, as unpromising as it was turning out to be. The alternative was to return with nothing. And he supposed he should find any Englishmen here and let them know they were not forgotten.

  In the absence of a British consul how was he going to locate them? In any other port the sheer presence of a smart frigate anchored offshore would signal his presence, but Tyger was well out of sight.

  Then he remembered an offhand remark by Russell’s flag lieutenant while rounding up the paperwork: it was not impossible that the venerable Muscovy Company might still have representation there.

  He sent Dillon out to enquire, and his secretary returned quickly. “Still here, Sir Thomas, but at a remove.”

  They set out for the southern part of the town, an older but more picturesque district of quaint timber dwellings with sharply inclined roofs and parquetry eaves, tradesmen’s workshops and tiny vegetable plots.

  Set back from the muddy road, a larger dark-timbered building had seen better days—but over the low doorway there was a sign with a faded shield that incorporated a galleon with an inscription in Latin.

  Inside they found an Aladdin’s cave of goods piled here and there in glorious confusion in the gloom, with a pungent whiff of hides, raw mahogany and the dust of ages.

  A man emerged from behind a counter to come to a stop, wide-eyed.

  “You—you’re English!” he managed. Elderly, he was in a well-worn long frock-coat, breeches and an old-fashioned wig.

  Dillon stepped forward. “Sir Thomas Kydd, captain of His Majesty’s Frigate Tyger. And you, sir?”

  The man bobbed hurriedly and spluttered, “Jeremiah Blunt, proprietor.”

  “Of?”

  “Oh, the Muscovy Company of Merchant Adventurers Trading with Russia.”

  “The very man we seek,” said Kydd, encouragingly. “I’d be obliged should you tell me of the British in Archangel as you know of them, sir.”

  Blunt ushered them to a back room as cluttered as the store and flustered about until a tea samovar appeared, borne by a curious beady-eyed woman in traditional dress.

  Sipping black tea, Kydd knew there was no hurrying the man and sat back to listen.

  Most improbably, Archangel had been founded not by the Russians but by the English. In 1551, in the last few years before Elizabeth I came to the throne, two courtiers, Willoughby and Chancellor, had set up an enterprise: the Mystery and Company of Merchant Adventurers for the Discovery of Regions, Dominions, Islands, and Places Unknown. The first voyage selected was to uncover a trade route to northeast China and a small fleet had duly sailed to the top of the world.

  Only Chancellor reached safe haven, here in the maze of muddy channels where the green of larch and willow beckoned, while Willoughby, beset in ice, froze to death.

  Alert for any mercantile possibilities, he saw that the lucrative fur trade was being hauled south overland all the way to Moscow, and knew that here was an opportunity. He made the journey himself, arriving to great astonishment at the court of Ivan the Terrible, introducing himself as an ambassador from Queen Elizabeth of England. Chancellor left the tsar well satisfied with a sea route now to Russia, and when he returned home he was granted a monopoly on the market. The Muscovy Company was born.

  Apart from one distraction, when Good Queen Bess had unaccountably declined Ivan the Terrible’s proposal of marriage, the Muscovy Company went from strength to strength, dealing in furs, English wool and other profitable lines.

  But when in the next century it was heard that Charles I had been executed the then tsar expelled all English merchants, except those in Archangel. Into the vacuum stepped the Dutch, who by the end of the century had toppled the British monopoly.

  It was the establishment early in the eighteenth century of Tsar Peter the Great’s grand Baltic port of St Petersburg, open to all, that finally relegated Archangel to a backwater.

  Where before the bashaws of Elizabeth’s day had held court, now all that remained was a little emporium of knick-knacks from Britain’s industrial enterprise. The Dutch held the town, with the still considerable timber trade and the White Sea Company whaling concern, and did not welcome outsiders.

  “For our gewgaws we take by return seal skins, walrus tusks and down of the eider duck. Some flax and hemp, a trifle of tallow, on occasions wax and pine resin.”

  “And furs?”

  “Ah, the sable and ermine,” sighed Blunt, “and, of course, your glorious Arctic fox. Grey-blue over-hair, soft and deep, much prized by the knowing. In times past Archangel shipped the best there was, but now …”

  “Finished by over-hunting?”

  “I’m supposing so. There’s been none at all shipped from here for some years, even if the prices in London are beyond a prince’s commanding. In these dolorous times of revolution and the mob, you might think such fine trappings would be frowned upon but, no, they must have their—”

  “Mr Blunt, I really came to discover whether Archangel today possesses subjects of His Majesty as would welcome the sight of the flag at all.”

  “Very few, and those only of a quality not to be noticed.”

  “Then I thank you for your—”

  “Ah, there is one. A respectable merchant on a failed venture here. A Mr John Bellingham of Liverpool, a factor in timber and iron.”

  “Where might I see him?”

  “In the Solombalsky prison.”

  “Did you say …?”

  “Yes. A difficult man,” Blunt came back, “not to say vexatious. Yet he has reason. He defied the Dutch cabal and paid for it. I cannot tell of the details. In truth I feel sorry for him—he has a wife and little ones who even now are in St Petersburg praying for his release, and I visit him when I can. If you could find it in your power to show that he’s not forgotten it would be a mercy.”

  “I shall do so. I thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

  On the way Dillon expressed reservations at visiting a Russian prison, but as a civil debtor, the man was apparently entitled to a better class of confinement.

  “Mr Bellingham, I believe?” Kydd said mildly, as they were ushered in. The small room had a window, high and barred, that shed light on worn furniture and faded carpet.

  “Good God! I never thought to see you!” A painfully thin man scrambled to his feet, his face working. “They’ve heard my petition? That damned crew of politicals finally moved, did they? Justice at last—”

  “Mr Bellingham, I’m sorry to say I’m not here to attend your release.”

  “Then why did you come?” The fevered eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be here without you had a reason. Who are you?”

  “Sir Thomas Kydd,” Dillon intervened. “Captain of Tyger, frigate, of his own good will come to visit an Englishman in reduced circumstances, sir.”

  “Ah, but what’s he doing here in Archangel?” Bellingham leered. “Never seen hide nor hair of any nob worried about this arse-hole of a place.”

  “I’m in this port to assure myself that the interests of His Majesty are respected, sir,” Kydd said stiffly.

  “Ha! Then you’ve found the Dutch-run Archangel—precious little interest left to His Knobbs hereabouts.”

  “I see my presence is not welcome to you, sir. I’ll take my leave if I may.”

  “You’re like ’em all, aren’t you, Sir T?” he sneered. “Come here, see nothing of notice and get out as fast as you can.”

  Kydd made to go.

/>   “Wait! I know what goes on here, all of it! And there’s something afoot as I can tell you of!”

  “What is it?”

  “Ah, well. Come here, we don’t want to be heard now, do we?”

  Kydd sat reluctantly at the small table as Bellingham leaned across. “Archangel, the town’s run by the Dutch, in with the mayor and all on ’em.”

  “I know that.”

  “What you don’t know is that it’s a cesspool of corruption. They run fancy schemes between ’em and split the cream.”

  “What’s this got to do with—”

  “The whole town is in on it. All of ’em!”

  “Mr Bellingham, this has gone far enough. You—”

  The little man gave a confident smile, which turned into a smirk. “Nobody knows, but I do!”

  Kydd got up to leave.

  “They’re trading with Napoleon Bonaparte hisself!”

  “What did you say?” Kydd said sharply.

  “Knew that’d get you! Yes, indeed. See, I know what they’re doing.”

  He leaned back and cocked his head to one side. “Ever wondered why the fur trade dried up? Great shame—some of those blue-fox pelts would sell for their weight in gold, should they ever get to London. Why, ermine at—”

  “Yes, sir. I know about this,” Kydd said, with heavy patience.

  “Don’t you feel for the lords and ladies, paying a ransom for their precious furs? They do, you know. Smuggled in from the continent, prices that’d set your eyes to watering.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “That the fur trade is never better! I heard it from the timber loggers—they’ve seen cartloads of furs heading here. Don’t it tell you something?”

  “Well, Mr Bellingham?”

  “The Dutch have cornered the market, taken the lot, none left. They’re shipping ’em out to their kin back in Holland and making a hill of money outfitting Boney and his crew! Any that’s left over he lets go over the Channel to the fools in England who can be relied on to pay any price. See?”

  If this were true it would be at a prodigious loss to the City traders and a serious breach of Britain’s blockade, let alone the wealth being diverted to Bonaparte’s coffers.