The first transport nosed in, kedges streamed, inclined ramps already lowering down its side. Men and horses began moving out to it in an orderly procession while the second transport prepared to go in.
It was all going to plan! This was what it was to have domination of the sea, to know its freedoms and power. In fact—
“Deck hooo! Sail to suth’ard, standing toward!”
It was not yet in sight from the deck but almost certainly it was his relief from the North Sea squadron attracted by the firing, and now there was really nothing for it to do.
Kydd turned back to see if there was need for a follow-up cannonade. The firing had died a little, which made it difficult to—
“Another sail astern of ’un!”
“What d’ye see?” Kydd hailed back.
“Both are ships!” Nothing below a frigate.
“An’ one more!” The lookout’s voice cracked with urgency.
“Take us out, Mr Joyce,” Kydd ordered. “Quick as you like—I need to speak with those ships.”
They were coming on from the southwest with the wind that was paralleling the coast and were soon in sight from the deck.
Certainly frigates, but end-on it was difficult to make out who they were. Two respectably sized ones and a lighter vessel.
“Don’t say as I knows ’em a-tall,” Joyce said, peering through the officer-of-the-watch’s telescope. “Smaller t’gallants, as is usual, less goring in the topsails, like.”
Uneasiness pricked at Kydd. There were no French frigates in the Baltic, or Dutch for that matter. He’d been assured that the only countries with ships of size in these waters were Russia and Sweden. After his time with the Russian Navy he knew what to look for but these were not at all similar: besides, the master had been struck by the marked rectangular shape of their sail, blocky and quite at variance with their own.
Swedes, come to look after their own transports? He doubted it. The Swedes had the gifted Fredrik af Chapman as naval architect in Karlskrona and his designs were sleek and smooth, unlike these more stern and frowning forequarters.
Tyger was close-hauled and necessarily crossing their bows, if at a distance, but something made him rap, “Private signals!”
The confidential fleet challenge soared up, snapping in the increasingly boisterous winds.
There was no response. Neither were any colours aloft that could be seen.
Yet this was not necessarily an enemy—unless they were North Sea squadron, they wouldn’t have access to the signal of the day and colours were not usually flown at sea out of sight of others to save wear and tear on expensive bunting.
Still, they were taking their time replying and getting closer all the time. If in the next few minutes—
“Sir? I’ve a man wishes to speak to you, urgently.” Brice stepped aside to let a seaman come forward.
“Able Seaman Haffner, sir.” He was one of the German seamen fleeing before Bonaparte’s advance, taken on as a volunteer in Königsberg.
“What is it, Haffner? Smartly now.”
In broken English the story was quickly told. These frigates were Prussian. They had been taken with the rest of the small navy when the French had overrun the main naval ports of Wismar and Rostock. It was likely that they were manned by sending seamen overland from the idle blockaded fleets in French ports—which implied they had picked crews and men to spare.
The smaller one was Albatros, a light frigate similar to L’Aurore; the one with the dark patched foresail was Odin and the other Preussen. The lighter had twenty-eight twelve-pounders but the larger two had thirty-eight guns of eighteen-pounder equivalent each.
They had clearly been dispatched as a squadron to fall on and destroy the transports, evidence that the thwarting of the relief of von Hohenlau’s army was a major concern: a force had been sent that could be relied upon to sweep aside the single frigate standing in their way.
Tyger was hopelessly out-classed: over a hundred guns to his twenty-six eighteen-pounders and six nines. It would be no dishonour to stand aside before this foe and simply harry where he could as they got on with their butchery.
There was nothing in his orders or implied by his agreement that he should sacrifice his ship in the face of such odds and, indeed, if he did and survived, he would then have to explain why he had robbed the Royal Navy of one of their most valuable assets in a hopeless confrontation.
On the other hand if he withdrew he would be condemning thousands to certain death or capture.
Yet if he stood fast, every soul in Tyger would be pitched into a mortal fight with no certain outcome.
Where did his duty lie? To the Prussians or his own men?
Kydd forced his mind to a deadly coolness. The answer must be at the higher level—the strategics of the situation. Which course would accomplish the greater goal?
He knew so little about this continental struggle but if the desperate stand against Bonaparte failed for lack of this army it would be England itself that would end the loser. His duty was therefore clear: to oppose the squadron by whatever means he could.
“Mr Bray, I believe we cannot run. We must stand and fight.”
There was no reaction at first. Then the hard features were split by a tight smile, which widened. “Aye aye, sir!” he growled happily. “We’ll give the beggars such a drubbing as will have ’em yowling for their mothers!”
Those who overheard it spread the news and in a very short time muffled cheers could be heard breaking out over the ship. It swelled to a roar, and Kydd realised that the deadly peril was achieving what he had not: the Tygers were coming together as a true ship’s company to take up the monstrous challenge.
CHAPTER 19
THE SHIP WAS ALREADY CLEARED for action, the men at quarters and guns run out. Even if he desired it, there was no time for Kydd to call the men aft for a rousing speech and the martial thunder of the drums had long since ceased. His Majesty’s Ship Tyger was about to sail into her greatest time of trial without the smallest ceremony.
Should he go below and put on his sash and star to be like Nelson at Trafalgar? It would hearten the men at the guns but single him out to the enemy sharpshooters in the tops in just the same way. Then he recalled that the great admiral had only worn them because there had not been time to go below and shift into something else.
This was going to be a ferocious struggle and he needed every advantage he could contrive.
Usually a frigate duel began with a lengthy period of sizing up one’s opponent, detecting weaknesses in sail-handling, their poorest point of sailing, over-eagerness or reluctance to engage—all quirks that could be noted and exploited later in the deadly game of war.
But he didn’t have that luxury, for his action was of quite a different kind. The stakes were not winning or losing an encounter but the successful protecting of helpless transports. At all costs he must draw off the pack from their killing.
And for that he needed—craved—sea-room.
The enemy were under full sail, arrowing downwind headlong for the helpless transports with only Tyger between them and their prey. He could take on one but while they grappled this would allow the other two to begin their slaughter.
Only a bold move would—
“Helm alee, hard by the wind close as she’ll lie on the larb’d tack!”
Heads turned in astonishment.
“Sir, that would take us—”
“Yes, Mr Bray—I know!”
In the face of the onrushing enemy they should be shortening sail to topsails and placing themselves firmly in their path ready for the fight. Kydd had just ordered them to head off straight out to sea, away from them, leaving the transports wide open to the charge.
Tyger began filling and standing out to sea, heeling in the stiff breeze and steadily putting distance between her, the transports and the enemy.
He watched carefully: there was no alteration of course in the three frigates, which sped on towards their objective, leaving Tyg
er to continue her tight close-hauled run ever further out to sea. Aboard the enemy, there would be shrugged shoulders and the despising of a frigate that had fled rather than stand and fight. This was exactly what he wanted.
A bulldog of a ship, Tyger excelled in the weather. Losing hardly an inch to leeward she met the increasing seas exploding on her bow with exhilarating bursts of spray and a purposeful roll.
Ignoring Bray’s sharp stare at him, Kydd concentrated hard on angles, wind pressure and what he knew of the longshore current. At what he judged to be exactly the right time he snapped, “Hands to ’bout ship!”
She went round like a top and on this tack ended angled back towards the coast—but very neatly astern of the racing frigates. They had fallen for it!
Now they would know that not only was Tyger upwind and ready to turn on them, but as well could dictate how the action would be joined. And he had thrown them a conundrum: they could never know which of them Tyger would single out, and thus there could be no occupying him with one while the others set about the transports.
If they decided to continue with their attack, any who did would leave an unprotected stern to be exposed to Tyger’s guns in a brutal raking. It was a risk no sane captain could take—so they had to turn about and deal with Tyger first.
One by one, they braced around and took to the wind close-hauled after him, two on one tack and one on the other.
Kydd gave a grim smile. He had achieved his first objective, drawn them away from the helpless transports. But now Tyger was a hunted creature. He had to find that vital sea-room.
He had two advantages. Tyger was still upwind of them, the weather gage, and could manoeuvre in a way that forced them to respond to his motions. The other was that while he was at some miles distance there was no danger from a battle-losing crippling shot. While he had this freedom there was a chance.
Odin was making good speed but the other, Preussen, was lagging. They would want to stay together to concentrate their force and therefore be constrained to the speed of the slowest. Albatros, the light frigate, was visibly chafing at the restraint. Until the wind freshened, conditions were perfect for her and, like L’Aurore, she had the legs on anything present and would know it.
Colours were now a-fly on every ship. All three of his opponents had French tricolours aloft. Tyger had the ensign of the North Sea squadron at the mizzen peak and Union flags bravely streaming from the main-topmast stay and fore-topgallant stay. Would they be hauled down by the close of day?
Over miles of sea the chase continued and, with satisfaction, Kydd looked back and saw that Dart and Stoat had had the sense to stay with the transports and keep them moving while they could. The first of them had already put out, presumably with a full loading; a second came in to resume the evacuation. If only he could keep up the luring away …
It couldn’t last, of course.
At some point the commander, probably in Odin, would realise that Tyger was leading them a merry dance, and that by turning about to resume their descent they would force Tyger to follow, to be left far behind.
There was no other recourse: sooner or later Tyger must face all three.
Albatros came about with all the vitality and liveliness of her breed. She took up on the other tack well before the others and slashed ahead in an exuberant display—and Kydd saw his chance.
“On my order, we brace around and run large.”
None of the men who raced to their stations could have been unaware of what that meant: Tyger was now turning right around and, with a brisk wind behind her, was running down to meet her pursuers.
“Helm up—move!”
The deep, broad rudder that gave her such sure-footed manoeuvrability did not let Kydd down. Under its impetus she rotated as fast as the men could haul on the braces and, under full sail, she was heading straight for Albatros, separated by half a mile from the others.
As Kydd expected, the less experienced captain hesitated—he was now presented with the choice of taking on Tyger or turning tail and running for his larger brethren. The last would take time and for all of that his stern would be offered to Tyger’s cruel broadside as she came up.
When he decided to run, Tyger’s gunners had been tracking their pieces, and even at long range, when the guns spoke a forest of plumes shot up all around the light frigate, bringing hits on the distant squared-off stern, which must have caused havoc inside.
The first shots of the engagement had drawn blood.
Kydd put the helm over and allowed a minute for gun-captains on the opposite side to lay their weapons, then let them loose.
Nearer, more shots must have told among the white gouts, but he was quite unprepared for what happened next.
Gently turning, Albatros came up into the wind and stopped, caught flat aback and lying helpless.
Joyce tumbled to it first. “Aye, and he’s had his rudder struck off!” he said happily, as cheers and shouts of jubilation erupted from all about the ship.
In a stroke of sheer luck the vessel had been knocked out of the fight without firing a shot in return!
Kydd was tempted to continue and finish the job but he resisted: it was enough that the odds had shortened to two against one, and in any case he could never take possession of it.
Now to the real contest. He was confident that in an equal fight with either, even against a bigger foe, Tyger could win, but against two, not only did it divide his fire but the necessary manoeuvring would be hideously complicated. To avoid being caught between two fires yet lie alongside one or the other without interference would be his chief problem.
Meanwhile Tyger was closing fast, head to head with the two enemy, which sailed close together in mutual support for the coming exchange, Preussen to starboard, Odin opposite.
The valiant frigate charged down to confront her adversaries. This was the moment of truth, when fates and destinies would be decided.
Kydd raised his telescope. Aboard each of the enemy the courses were taken in, the big lower sails drawn up out of the way of gun-flash and burning wads.
“Shorten to topsails, sir?” came an anxious enquiry from Bray. Unless they did so, they would be caught with men still aloft when the guns began firing.
But Kydd had no intention of conforming to expectations. He was going to put his ship to the test as never before and issued his commands calmly but firmly.
Under a press of sail she raced onward. It would be a near-run thing but if it succeeded …
They would be expecting Tyger at the last moment to decide on one or the other, then range alongside on her outer side, backing sail to come to a stop and begin a furious cannonade as they lay locked together, the other forced to circle around before coming in to join the fight. He was going to disappoint them.
Still under full sail, he careered on, his bowsprit exactly centred on the narrow gap of sea between them as if delaying his decision to the last moment.
As the frigates closed at the speed of a galloping horse time seemed to hang breathlessly. Not a soul moved on deck, hypnotised by the onrush—and then it happened.
Kydd did not choose one or the other. He plunged directly between the two, facing the very thing he should avoid—being caught between two fires.
And it worked.
Expecting the outer battery to be engaged on either ship the wrong-footed French gunners had to cross the deck to man the inner—but were then presented with a sight picture of their consort. To fire on Tyger would be to maim and kill their own side.
The English frigate swashed into the gap and as she hurtled through her guns smashed out in a devastating sequence, at point-blank range impossible to miss. Smoke briefly filled the void between them, the sound of the guns echoing back in a cacophony of thunder—but only to the starboard side. To larboard there was silence as Tyger’s gunners held their fire and Preussen was unaccountably spared.
But not for long—clearing the gap, Tyger wheeled round to catch Preussen with a raking blast from her l
arboard guns, but her captain was quick-witted and put his own helm over. Nevertheless she was caught by savage close-range fire as her stern rotated past, smashing and splintering her ornate windows and carving as the balls created their hell within, muffled shrieks and cries testifying to their work.
Now there was no escaping it: they must suffer.
Kydd had done what he could—now it was close-in, brutal pounding and Preussen had her outer broadside at the ready. While Tyger’s guns were reloaded with desperate speed these guns thundered out.
In an appalling avalanche, balls smashed across the short distance and into the ship in savage thuds felt through the deck, the storm of shot shrieking through the air, sending splinters that whirred viciously to find human flesh. From above, a rain of debris tumbled down, bouncing and falling on the netting over the quarterdeck.
He paced slowly along the deck, conscious of muskets in the enemy tops but a torrent of thoughts and calculations left him no time to dwell on them.
The wash of enemy gun-smoke engulfed them briefly as it was driven past by the stiff breeze, dry and reeking.
Kydd took stock of the first impact. Mercifully no serious hit that he could see, no ceasing in the furious activity around the guns, the boatswain thrusting forward with his mates to stopper a parted shroud, all sail drawing, though now blotched and scarred by shot-holes.
There was no pretence at broadsides now. Tyger’s guns crashed out as they readied at the bigger frigate barely thirty yards away and closing in a frenzied cannonade. Black holes were appearing in the enemy side, the gun-crews in a fierce race to load and fire first.
Kydd’s earlier manoeuvre had deliberately placed Tyger to leeward of Preussen, commonly thought of as the inferior position, but he’d seized on something as they’d approached: Preussen was high in the water, probably because they’d stored for only this brief voyage and hadn’t bothered with compensating ballast.
And now he was turning it to advantage. To be close-hauled in the brisk winds meant a distinct heel to leeward—fine for targeting the enemy but it hid a crucial flaw that a more experienced commander would have expected.
Tyger: A Kydd Sea Adventure (Kydd Sea Adventures) Page 27