Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures)

by Julian Stockwin

  Now he would find out what Tyger was made of.

  He stood by the helm. “As close by the wind as she’ll lie,” he told the quartermaster.

  “What course, sir?”

  “Never mind that, do as I say.” In these well-known waters there was no concern about picking up their position again later.

  The helmsman eased his wheel to meet the wind, gingerly glancing up to the edge of the topsail for the least fluttering—too close and there was every risk of slamming aback.

  Kydd sniffed the wind. Not bad. Sheet in a little more on the driver and an easing on the outer jib? It was done and he was rewarded by another half-point into the wind even if at the cost of an increased stiffness in the roll.

  Around the deck seamen stopped what they were doing to watch.

  A little care with the trim, and he could probably get another knot out of her in this steady southwesterly but this was not a painstaking investigation—all he wanted for the present was a feel of how Tyger took to various conditions.

  “Shall you be exercising gun-crews, sir?” Hollis said stiffly.

  “Not now,” Kydd said. “Sail-handling first. Do hold yourself ready for manoeuvres later.”

  So she was capable of a workmanlike close hauling. But there was more to it than that—how did she answer while straining so? A sluggish response to a sudden helm order while in an engagement was a grave disadvantage and therefore situations involving it would need to be avoided, if at all possible, in the deadly cut and thrust that was a frigate duel.

  He hesitated for a moment. “I’ll take the wheel,” he said, to the startled helmsman, taking a spoke with one hand, the age-old signal for a handover. At his nod the man released one spoke and Kydd took another, testing the pressure on the wheel as the man gradually released his other hand and stepped back.

  He now had Tyger under his hands and the memories flooded back.

  The last time he had been at the wheel was as a young seaman so long ago in Artemis 32, defying the Southern Ocean off Cape Horn—or was that the old Trajan in the Caribbean?

  The feel of a live helm was thrilling and satisfying, the thrum and tug connecting him directly to Tyger’s beating heart.

  She had a surprising amount of resistance to the little corrections he made and concentrated effort was needed at the wheel. In common with most British-built ships, her rudder was broad and deep, plenty of bite—and that translated to hard work but masterly manoeuvring.

  Putting real force into it, he piled on the turns, and instantly Tyger paid off to leeward, the sudden change in heel sending men staggering.

  This was a battle-winner! As the frigate steadied, he put on opposite turns and, without hesitation, she came up to the wind, under his touch willingly stretching out ahead. He glanced up, applying small corrections until he saw the sail luff begin a fretful fluttering.

  In spreading satisfaction, he took in the line of deck as it swept nobly forward to her stout bowsprit lifting and falling. He was suddenly reluctant to give up the wheel—it brought memories of times when his only cares were his grog and his shipmates.

  Then his eyes took in the faces looking down the deck at him, puzzled, suspicious.

  He focused on one in particular: boatswain Dawes wore an expression that was anxious, sagging. The man was out of his depth in a first-rank ship of war, his age and comfortable ways unsuited to a frigate like Tyger, and he was terrified he’d be found out.

  “Duty helmsman to the wheel,” Kydd rapped.

  With the ship reverted to the sea watch, he went to the boatswain. “I mean to put the ship to the test, Mr Dawes. What do you say to sending down a topmast at all?”

  “Sir, could be tricksy dos, the seas bein’ up as they is.” The eyes pleaded with him.

  “Well, shifting one of the great guns from fore to aft—that’ll need cross-tackles and preventers, don’t you think?”

  “Ah, Cap’n Parker, we never done that, not at all, Mr Kydd.”

  “You can’t conceive any need to mount stern-chasers aft in a hurry? Come, come, sir, this is what you must expect in a prime frigate like Tyger.”

  “Aye, sir.” There was resignation and dull resentment in the reply.

  Kydd knew Dawes had to go but a boatswain was appointed to a ship by Admiralty warrant and could not be turned out by his captain. He had to be made to leave the ship of his own accord. “Then we’ll think of something else to stretch our stout crew,” he added.

  Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw Bowden watching with a tight face. He shifted his gaze deliberately to his second lieutenant, who looked away bleakly.

  Kydd turned to his third lieutenant: “Mr Brice. I desire to exercise the people at putting the ship about. Both watches on deck, to work sail, first one, then the other.”

  “Sir.” Standing tense and wary, his expression was unreadable.

  “Ready your men. Start with the starb’d watch and they’re to go about on the larb’d tack at my word. I shall be timing them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” He turned away. “Hands to stations to stay ship,” he blared.

  Kydd pointedly withdrew his fob watch and held it prominently. “Carry on, please.”

  Even under pressure it was as he’d seen before. Slow and deliberate, cautious. The other watch of the hands was the same. The time was not disgraceful but neither was it outstanding.

  “We’ll have ’em handing sail now. Each mast separately to furl its tops’l then set it again. Begin with the fore.”

  This time he could see each individual seaman at work. He didn’t yet know names but he had faces. He watched intently; the character of each couldn’t be hidden and now he was building a true picture of Tyger’s ship’s company, its strengths and weaknesses.

  “Mr Hollis.”

  The first lieutenant came over to the weather side of the quarterdeck, guarded and defensive.

  “At the mainmast. What do you think of ’em?”

  They were trying hard, the young petty officer of main-top going like a demon, flinging himself out on the yard at the front of his men in his eagerness.

  “Doing well, I should have thought, sir.”

  “You don’t see anything wrong, who’s to say, a failing?”

  Hollis looked up, shading his eyes and answered woodenly, “They appear to be succeeding, sir.”

  “I’m not satisfied,” Kydd said flatly.

  “Sir?”

  “The captain of the top. He means well but he’s no leader. It’s not for him to be going out on the yardarm with his men, he should stay in the tops and take charge from there. How can he see if his men are all of them pulling their weight? What if the order is countermanded under stress of battle and he needs to regroup?”

  The lieutenant continued to gaze up obstinately.

  “No, Mr Hollis. This man is keen but inexperienced. Better an older hand. Do you know of any such?”

  Hollis glowered but did not answer.

  “And the man passing the earring, do you not feel—”

  “Sir! If you feel my watch and station bill is—”

  “I’m saying it were well you knew your men better, Mr Hollis.”

  The morning wore on. He took to asking each officer in charge names for Dillon to take down in his notebook. That knowing old salt who always tailed on to a line last so he could take it easy out of sight of his shipmates. The young and nimble lad out on the yard who was a born top-man. The petty officer at the fore-topmast stay-sail who for some reason was hanging back from driving his men.

  As they laboured Kydd sensed antagonism rising, the dull animus of men driven hard beyond the normal—but he was not going to let up with the sceptre of defeat hanging over Tyger.

  He was rapidly getting to grips with it, throwing Tyger into all points of sailing, feeling her strength and power, her breeding. There was nothing like L’Aurore’s delicacy in light winds but very little to complain about, and running large she hadn’t that lurching long roll and for that he was grate
ful. He sensed she would be at her best in hard winds: a fresh gale would have her joyously breasting the combers and he looked forward to matching her up to some of the blows he’d experienced in his last command.

  All in all he was more than satisfied—especially with her striking manoeuvrability. Sweet and sure in going about and lightning sharp to answer the helm in any circumstance, this was something to be treasured—only if the sail-handling could match it. He would make sure it did.

  At midday he stood the hands down for dinner.

  The afternoon generally would see one watch go below, but not today. These were the only precious days of independence away from the fleet he could count on.

  “The men are going to smell powder now, Mr Hollis. Both watches, gun by gun.” He’d taken the precaution of consulting with the gunner about their practice allowance. As he’d suspected, there had been no expenditure for months while Parker had struggled to keep his hold on the ship.

  He could feel the lieutenant’s hostility.

  “We’ll start with a little dry practice. Mr Bowden?”

  Among the waiting gun-crews there was a stillness, a naked loathing that radiated out.

  “Carry on.”

  He let them go for three “rounds,” then casually ordered, “Sail trimmers to stand clear.”

  The gun numbers detailed for going aloft in an action stood back, bewildered. To the remaining crew he rapped, “Run out your guns!”

  It brought gasps of dismay for the cold iron of the big guns was a preposterous mass for the reduced men at the tackle falls.

  He waited with a grim smile to let them feel the impossibility, then stepped forward. “You’ve never seen close action, you lubbers, have you? Let me tell you that calling away sail trimmers is no excuse for standing about idle while the enemy pounds us. When they go aloft it’s every man on the falls, gun-captain included, and only after the gun’s close up do they go back to their place. Let’s have it done, Mr Bowden.”

  Next he would see what an eighteen-pounder could do after L’Aurore’s twelves, a good one-third smaller weight of metal.

  A target was knocked up: an empty barrel with a pole nailed to the side bearing a large red flag.

  It went over the side, rapidly left bobbing jauntily astern until it was a tiny red blob on the face of the ocean.

  “Larboard first, start from forward. Lay us to weather of the mark, four cables distant,” Kydd snapped at the sailing master, an unnaturally subdued Joyce.

  He clattered down to the gun-deck and hurried forward to where the gun-captain of the first was making preparation. These long eighteens were a byword in the navy for accuracy at a distance, if served well, and had the weight to make themselves felt.

  The gun-crew readied.

  “In your own time, two rounds at your target.”

  Kydd saw that Bowden was leaving the loading and pointing entirely to the gun-captains and silently approved, even if the young man was doing his best to ignore him.

  These eighteens were big beasts, half as high as a man and over a dozen feet long and now the skills would turn from backbone and sinew to hand and eye … and of one man, the gun-captain.

  Kydd, however, turned his attention away from the gun-captains—Bowden could be relied on to pick up shortcomings in working the gun. He was interested in the results, out there where the speck of red in the distance nodded cheekily to leeward.

  The first gun banged out, the slam of concussion and then the reek of powder-smoke briefly enfolding him. It was a fair shot, twenty feet to one side but reasonable for elevation, and Kydd was impressed. Not with the marksmanship but the fact that these long eighteens had such a flat arc of fire—the white plume of first-strike was close to the target even at this range.

  He felt the gun-captain’s darted glance at him but he gave no notice and continued his gaze to seaward.

  The second round was closer still but if the target had been extended to be an imaginary frigate it would have missed astern of it. “Off the target, complete miss,” he growled.

  The gunner made much of noting the expenditure of each ball but it was within allowance and Kydd ignored him.

  Other guns on the larboard side did even worse, and after he had given orders to wear ship to bring the starboard side to bear, he paced grim-faced along.

  The first two guns did not improve the showing. The third gun took its time but the result was dramatic—the sudden rise of the plume within only a couple of yards and perfect for elevation. Its second round was even better, the ball within feet of the flag, so close it fluttered in alarm.

  He turned to congratulate the gun-captain, who looked back at him with a controlled blankness. It was Stirk, come up from his station as yeoman of the powder room.

  “Well done, that gun,” he said loudly. Stirk folded his arms and gazed back without comment.

  It was too much to expect the next gun to match up. Neither did the remainder on that side.

  When it was all over Kydd summoned the gunner to him. “Mr Darby,” he said acidly, knowing that his words were being overheard by all. “Pray do explain to me why the Tygers are so wanting in the article of laying a gun. With one exception, that is.”

  He knew very well, of course. Not only had he kept the L’Aurores on their toes with exercises but they’d been in savage actions many times, while Tyger …

  “Most would think it good practice, sir,” the gunner said woodenly.

  “But I don’t. The rest of the afternoon all gun-captains will muster in the fore-bay and take instruction from the yeoman of the powder room.” He waited, then said, “And in the last dog-watch we’ll try again.”

  This time there were savage murmurs and he looked around sharply until they’d subsided. “Carry on, Mr Hollis.”

  It was unfortunate for them, what with all the impedimenta of live firing to set up yet again and in their own time, but he was well aware that these two days were the only ones he was going be free to do as he wished.

  “Can’t do it!” the gunner said, with a smirk.

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve shot away our allowance. Ain’t none more!”

  “Then we’ll use next quarter’s in advance!” Kydd retorted icily, turned on his heel and stalked away.

  The next day was the last before arriving. With names noted previously he harried the first lieutenant to make changes, demotions, rating up the promising and reconfiguring watch and stations against the strengths and weaknesses he’d seen. Then he piled on more pressure at guns and sail.

  They had to succeed!

  There was some improvement, but apprehension crowded in on Kydd at the vision of a well-found French frigate circling for the kill—it was common knowledge that, with his battle fleets helpless in port, Bonaparte was taking the opportunity of sending his frigates to sea on predatory cruises with ample, picked crews against the short-handed and weather-ravaged British. The odds were against them from the start.

  Kydd flopped into his chair in his cabin and held his head in his hands, thinking of his days in L’Aurore, the ship he had left so reluctantly, which had borne him to glory and distinction and in which he had put down so many memories.

  “Come!” he called irritably, at a knock on the door that interrupted his thoughts.

  It was Dillon, with a sheaf of papers. “Sir Thomas, they’re outstanding these five days—”

  “Not now, Mr Dillon.”

  “I do advise they are—”

  “I said not now!”

  “Sir, if another time is more convenient, I’d be happy to comply,” Dillon said, with quiet dignity.

  “Damn it—just go!”

  “Very well, sir.”

  At the door Dillon hesitated, then turned to face Kydd. “Sir, I’m your confidential secretary and—and I think there’s something you should know.”

  “I told you to leave. Now do so or I’ll have you thrown out!”

  Pale-faced, Dillon stood his ground. “Touching as it does on your
command of this vessel.”

  Kydd shot to his feet, the chair knocked askew. “What in Hades gives you the right to criticise me?” he barked in a fury. “If you’re not out of here in ten seconds I’ll give you a spell in the bilboes, so help me!”

  “Sir. The officers are convinced you’re a glory-seeker, and the men that you’re a blood-and-guts hellfire jack!”

  Kydd went red and bawled for the sentry.

  The marine entered, confused, looking from one to the other. Dillon slipped out past him.

  “Go,” Kydd croaked at the sentry, who lost no time in making his exit.

  Shaken by the episode, Kydd tried to think. His thoughts steadied as he realised that Dillon had risked a great deal by telling him what he thought—and that took back-bone. He’d felt that it was important Kydd should know the mood of the ship, and that could only have been motivated by a sense of respect and loyalty to him personally. In his black mood he’d wronged the young man.

  And what Dillon had said—that the ship believed he was a despised glory-seeker, one who put personal vainglory first before the needs of the service—stung. From the choice of words he must have heard the seamen’s verdict first-hand and it was a damning one. Nothing was held in more contempt and loathing than an officer who looked to honours and glory over the bloodied bodies of his recklessly sacrificed men.

  Nobody, officer or man, in Tyger knew the full story of why he’d been sent to the ship. As far as they were concerned, the Admiralty had sent a known hero to turn around a mutinous ship in the shortest possible time and he had—but he’d not left it there. His bullying haste to get the frigate to what they would see as impossible levels of perfection could only mean that his head had been turned by public adulation and he wanted more, no matter what it cost.

  How ironic! He was doing it for his own very real reasons, but because of his single-minded and unforgiving drive even Bowden and Stirk, who knew him of old, must be persuaded of his glory-seeking.

  Soon he’d lose any loyalty that was left, and end in the forefront of the battle waving his sword but none following. He’d seen it happen in the Caribbean to another captain and squirmed at the thought that it could happen to him.