Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures)

by Julian Stockwin

  “I welcome you aboard Tyger, Mr Bray,” Kydd said politely, “and can only apologise for the haste, not to say inconvenience of your removal from Lively.”

  “My pleasure,” came back an instant growl, leaving no doubt that this officer regretted it not at all.

  They shook hands with the understanding that introductions and taking up of post could wait until lunch and a meeting with the officers.

  It was a cool affair: Bray’s presence was large and disquieting and his dark features never once broke into a smile. His voice was a bear-like rumble. Kydd briefly wondered if he’d done the right thing but the man spoke civilly enough.

  In the afternoon, accompanied by a distracted Brice, the big lieutenant took survey of the frigate from bowsprit to taffrail, watched surreptitiously by the seamen, and in the evening disappeared into his cabin with the watch and station bill.

  This first was very different from the previous.

  Kydd had to wait longer for his new boatswain. It was no trivial matter to summon one at such notice.

  However, a sympathetic admiral’s staff did their best and a boatswain for Tyger duly arrived.

  A temporary Navy Board warrant had been made out to a Mr Herne, late of a frigate undergoing extensive repair in Sheerness. He came on board the day before they sailed, a neat and seaman-like figure, grey-haired and with the dignity of age.

  It was going to be hard on the man—he had to take into charge all the rigging, stores and equipment on a bare handover, then acquaint himself with the ship so that on the next day he didn’t make a fool of himself before his men.

  And how would he get along with Bray? From what little Kydd had seen of Herne, he’d gained an impression of a cautious, quiet individual; Bray might want a more assertive creature, as the boatswain was a key figure in the first lieutenant’s role of running and maintaining the ship for her captain.

  As was now their practice, Dillon was waiting for him at day’s end, ready to discuss events over a small repast, if invited, and subtly taking the opportunity to bring up matters for attention or diversion.

  “You’ll be passing content now, I believe,” he opened, as they sat down to supper.

  “How’s that?” Kydd answered, leaning over to take full advantage of the fresh butter while they were in port.

  “It’s not escaped my notice that as of this day you’ve achieved nothing less than a clean sweep, fore and aft. Since coming to Tyger you’ve had every officer, the boatswain and master replaced. I dare to say the gunner is now concerned for his position.”

  “I suppose you’re right. What do you think of our new premier?”

  “Mr Bray? The gun-room thinks him a hard man and are giving him a broad lee.” It was gratifying to find Dillon striving for the sea lingo even if it did sometimes come out a mite curious.

  “I asked what you thought of him, Edward.”

  “So … I find him a stout enough specimen of the breed of mariner whose bite is undoubtedly worse than his bark.” He hesitated for a moment. “Which is all to the better so far as your own good self is concerned.”

  “Yes, I must admit it’s a rattling fine thing to give an order and know it’ll be carried out in every detail, even if it may be at the cost of the men’s feelings.”

  “I was rather thinking of another advantage—that from now on it will be Mr Bray who shall be reviled for his slave-driving ways while his captain stands back in saintly detachment.”

  It was a good point, and a dry observation uncannily like those from the Renzi of old. Kydd nodded. “As is right and proper in a first.” In quite another tone he added, “Have you that account of our taking of the Dutchman squared away yet? It’s legal evidence and I want it on the mail-boat tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be ready, sir.”

  Their orders came later that night. Tyger was given the seaward approaches for the convoy assembly and sailing, which suited Kydd well. It meant an earlier sailing but his duty would be merely that of the slow cruising up and down several miles out to sea on deterrent patrol while the convoy was at its most vulnerable, forming up.

  The morning saw more than the usual scurry and tension before putting to sea, a tired Bowden returning on board at the last minute and boats plying to and fro even as the hour for departure approached.

  Kydd thought it proper to give his new first lieutenant a chance to take the ship to sea, a straightforward enough exercise in Yarmouth Roads, and soon the deck was spurred into hasty activity by a series of uncompromising roars.

  He stood back while all customary preparations were put in hand—there was every indication that Bray knew what he was doing and Kydd began to relax.

  “Sir.” The gunner came closer and spoke quietly. “Sir, I have t’ tell you. My mate’s not on board.”

  “Your gunner’s mate? This is a strange thing, Mr Darby.”

  “I—I went to his berth an’ found he … he’s run. Taken his gear and skinned out, like.”

  “He deserted?” Kydd said in disbelief. A gunner’s mate was not a common foremast hand with nothing to lose but a well-respected warrant officer.

  “Seems he did, sir,” Darby said uncomfortably.

  “Then you’re in a pretty pickle, I believe. Why did he do it, do you think?”

  “Ah, I asked about, an’ some o’ the hands heard him swear as how after this convoy we’re going into the ice again, an’ he’s not having anything t’ do with that.”

  “You know we’re not going to get hold of another gunner’s mate before we sail.”

  “Aye, sir. Don’t really know what’s to do.”

  “Put your mind at rest, Mr Darby. Are you not aware that your yeoman of the powder room was a gunner’s mate? Let’s see if Mr Stirk feels he’s equal to the task just for now.”

  Two hours later, Tyger put to sea without incident and settled to routine.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE SOUTHERN BALTIC SHORE STANK.

  It wasn’t the bodies—they’d been cleared away days before. It was the ever-present stench of East Prussia, with its flat, open plains broken with marshes and waterways, intensively farmed by fearful peasants who hadn’t yet joined the flood of humanity eastwards, away from the rolling thunder of war.

  Flügelleutnant Klaus Gürsten knew he should be used to it by now but, born and bred a Berliner, he couldn’t warm to these lands, so much in thrall to a medieval past. The people stood about as he and his horse clattered into the farm courtyard, the men in long smocks, the women in stitch-worked dirndls, gaping in wonder at what was happening to their ageless existence.

  He slipped from his mount, grunting at the pain of fatigued muscles as a soldier took the animal in hand.

  The farmhouse, with its limply hanging liebfahne flag of eagle and up-thrust sword, was the field headquarters of the Prussian commander, Generalleutnant von Hohenlau.

  Gürsten marched smartly past the two sentries and into a low room. Seated at a large kitchen table spread with maps, von Hohenlau was conferring with his chief of general staff, Gerhard Scharnhorst, a handsome officer in fashionably high collar with a romantic curl of dark hair on his forehead.

  Scharnhorst was standing and speaking in low tones. He looked round as Gürsten entered and acknowledged his clicked heels and bow with a terse nod. “Yes?” he said, pausing. His campaign uniform was dark Prussian blue with the Brandenburg red cuffs but had little in the way of gold lacings, and Gürsten knew he was facing a soldier who had learned his trade and gained field promotion under the peerless Frederick the Great. He had an intimidating presence.

  “From Feldmarschall Count von Bennigsen, Generalleutnant. Orders in respect of a possible flank attack.” He handed over a package and stepped back smartly.

  Von Hohenlau grimaced as he sliced it open. Bennigsen was overall commander of the coalition forces—but he was a Russian and at the head of an army far superior in numbers to what remained of the Prussians.

  “Is he still at Heilsberg?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “He fears Davout and Soult will prove troublesome but he’s brought Labanoff across his rear. Yes, sir, he’s still there.”

  “Humph.” Von Hohenlau extracted the papers and scanned them quickly. A dark frown appeared and he read again, more slowly.

  “Do you know what this contains?”

  As staff intermediary between the two allied commanders, there were few secrets Gürsten didn’t know. “The Feldmarschall has many concerns, sir, and—”

  “He demands I extend my right until it reaches the sea.”

  “To prevent the French turning your flank, sir.”

  Scharnhorst leaned forward and murmured something to von Hohenlau, who said, “He’s aware that Bonaparte lurks beyond. Who would not be happier were I to lengthen my lines? The devil has an unemployed regiment of cavalry to play with, and if I were to be stretched thin in the manoeuvre it could all be up with us.”

  “I’m sure he knows, sir, but is persuaded that Bonaparte must be checked in his advance until Oberst Tolstoi’s reinforcements arrive.”

  “Very well. It shall be done.”

  Slapping down the orders, he looked up. “Herr Gürsten, you’ve done your part—you should get your belly filled and rest while you can.”

  He grunted peevishly and nodded to his chief of staff. “So, Gerhard, shall we get up the plans? We’ve no time to lose.”

  Gürsten was effectively dismissed. He threw off a smart salute, wheeled about and marched away.

  In the fields a massed line of fusiliers was drilling, the red-faced feldwebel screaming orders at raw recruits, stumbling landwehr from the nearby war-torn and devastated countryside. Gürsten tried not to show his despair at the level to which the proud but heavily mauled army had sunk and made his way to the mess-tent.

  The field-kitchens were at work and the odour of boiled mutton triggered sharp pangs of hunger. He had left Bennigsen’s lines early that morning and eaten only biscuits and raisins on the way.

  “Hey, now, the prodigal returns!” It was Engelhardt, his friend since those far-off days of peace.

  “And sharp set—but naught that can’t be remedied with a libation of the right sort, Willy.”

  “Ho, the kellner!” Engelhardt called imperiously to the mess-man. “A pair of schnapps—from the red bottle, mind.”

  After the man had brought glasses of the golden liquid, they toasted each other, then Engelhardt leaned forward. “Now, Klaus, you can tell me. How goes it in the centre? Will the Russkies stand?”

  Gürsten hesitated, considering his response.

  Prussia had a proud history and, since Frederick the Great’s profound modernising of state and military, it had looked to itself as pre-eminent on the continent—until the ferocity of, first, the French Revolution, then the genius of Napoleon Bonaparte had transformed the scene.

  Staying cautiously neutral, the Prussian King Friedrich Wilhelm III had secured peace for his realm, but when the battle of Trafalgar had confined Bonaparte to a European cage the emperor had been compelled to look east for new conquests. The Austrians and the Holy Roman Empire stood in his way and Bonaparte did not hesitate, striking into its heart. Yet instead of joining with their fellow Germans against the erupting force, the king had decided on a retreat into neutrality.

  Gürsten knew Friedrich had blundered but with the absolute autocracy of the Hohenzollern court it would be madness for him to say so, especially to his friend, a loyal and unquestioning officer of the traditional kind.

  The result of the king’s action was decisive. After the spectacular defeat at Austerlitz, despite the entry of Russia to aid the Austrians, a collapse of the coalition against Bonaparte became inevitable.

  During an uneasy peace a general rearrangement of borders and alignments followed, but it was clear that with the Confederation of the Rhine, Bonaparte was intent on destabilising the centuries-old patchwork of kingdoms and principalities. Friedrich had reconsidered his neutrality and blundered again into disaster.

  With confidence born of an unbroken tradition of Prussian military discipline and success, he had declared war on the French empire, his well-trained armies outnumbering Bonaparte’s rag-tag allies and auxiliaries, but it was a fatal misjudgement. Impatient for glory, he did not wait for the distant Russians to join and two giants faced each other on the battlefield.

  Bonaparte moved on them efficiently. In the twin battles of Jena and Auerstedt he succeeded in encircling and comprehensively obliterating his opponent in a victory so complete it effectively removed Prussia as a player from the world stage.

  Within nineteen days of those opening scenes, Emperor Napoleon was riding into Berlin a conqueror. Two members of the Prussian royal family had been mortally wounded on the battlefield and the rest were in headlong flight, with the pitiful remnants of the army. Only the approach of winter and the need to consolidate his triumph kept Bonaparte from continuing.

  The Russian Army, marching heroically through the mud and snow, reached the frontier in Poland and dug winter quarters opposite the French lines in preparation for the spring. Surviving Prussian generals had pulled together something of an army but it was a shadow of what it had been and joined the Russians very much as the lesser partner, von Hohenlau agreeing to serve under their commander, Bennigsen.

  It couldn’t last: even in the freezing hell of a Polish winter manoeuvres turned into aggressive thrusts and the two armies became locked together in a bitter struggle on the plains of the Vistula around a little village called Eylau.

  Gürsten shuddered at the memory—it had been only a few months ago and he recalled it as yesterday. A titanic ebb and flow of hundreds of thousands over treacherous terrain in the cruel bitterness of howling snowstorms. Forced marches and last stands against merciless artillery as stolid Russian peasant soldiers came on against the unbending will of Bonaparte in a conflict that lasted agonising days.

  It stopped Bonaparte in a bloody stalemate but at what cost? Never again did he want to see the ghastliness of frozen corpses and piteous wounded strewn over the wreckage of battle, some piled together, others littering the landscape in every direction. In the fields around Eylau alone no less than fifty thousand casualties lay in an appalling scene of slaughter.

  Then Bennigsen, suspecting a trap, had retreated and yielded to Bonaparte. Since then it had been a steady falling back.

  Bennigsen had taken the centre of the line, with von Hohenlau and the Prussians on his right, the Austrians tying down Massena on his left, and as spring turned to summer they had contested every mile, every yard as they fell back towards Königsberg.

  There, the royal family and government in exile had set up on the last piece of unconquered Prussia and that was the situation now: a straggling line across East Prussia with vast armies manoeuvring and clashing in savage encounters, half starved and desperate.

  Somewhere out there as they supped, not far beyond the enemy lines, Bonaparte held state in his forward imperial headquarters, controlling his marshals and their divisions like chess pieces. Victor, Soult and Davout, Murat and Ney, young sons of the revolution, determined on glory and fame at any cost.

  Gürsten pulled himself together and told his friend, “Bennigsen stands—he must. He’s too many enemies at court to show cowardice.”

  That much was safe to say. Tsar Alexander was too ambitious by half: if it were in his interest to turn his coat he would, and with it take all the military resources of Russia.

  “And we?”

  “We face Victor and his seven divisions with our one and a half. But, yes, we’ll stand. I know von Hohenlau, one of the best. Old school from the glory times. If he gets orders to stand, he will, count on it.”

  “He’s on the march, Klaus.”

  “Orders to extend to the right to meet the sea and stop Victor turning his flank.”

  “Risky.”

  “Yes.”

  Gürsten downed the last of his schnapps. “If you’ll excuse me, Willy, I really must rest.”

  At f
irst light he was a-horse, with von Hohenlau’s acknowledgement to Bennigsen, riding across the adjacent field in the damp, misty morning to the rutted Liebdorff road east.

  At first he made good time, threading through the tents and artillery parks of von Hohenlau’s rear until he reached the deserted countryside beyond, where he turned parallel to the lines.

  Breaking into a canter he relaxed into the rhythm of the movement—until an hour further on something intruded into his senses. It was deathly quiet but on the air there was the faintest disturbance. He reined in and tried to listen above the snorting and snuffling of his horse. Wanting to hear better, he dismounted and walked away a little.

  Over to the southwest, in the direction of the lines, there were signs of vague disorder, rising dust and the faint, muffled sounds of battle, an engagement of sorts—well to the rear, where it had no right to be. He knelt down, put his ear to the ground and heard the subliminal thunder of many horses.

  He felt a cold wash of fear. It could only be that the French had observed the Prussian move to the sea and, knowing that their line would be stretched, had thrown a flying column in the other direction to smash a wedge between the allies.

  It would be heavy cavalry first to punch through—that was what he must be hearing—and it was open country: they would be moving fast.

  He looked around helplessly—the road stretched on for miles, nothing in sight on these God-forsaken plains. A wind-breaking hedge followed the road and on the far side there was a ditch, the field beyond nothing but a mass of wild-growing nettles.

  The drumming of hoofs was now viscerally perceptible. Cavalry warhorses would soon catch his slightly built mount, but if he was seen on foot out in the open he’d be instantly cut to pieces.

  The skyline was now stippled with movement, trumpets braying faintly amid a ragged tapping of musketry. In an agony of despair he tore loose his sabretache and dived into the base of the hedge, wriggling frantically until he reached the ditch the other side.

  It was running in jet-black slime and oozed effluvium. As the drumming turned to thunder he ripped the dispatches to pieces and thrust them deep into the mud then snatched a look through the hedge.