“There is, my lord. I desire that I might name my officers.”
There was an intake of breath from the admirals.
This first lord had an army background, which Kydd was bargaining on to work in his favour. He looked surprised but assented quickly enough. “If it is convenient to the gentlemen concerned, you shall have them.”
To his credit Bazely did come on Kydd’s hastily penned request to meet.
“So you’ve taken a broadside from their lordships,” he said, when Kydd outlined what had transpired at the Admiralty.
Kydd nodded while Tysoe dealt with the drinks. “I’m to have another frigate. And to sail immediately. I’m supposing it’s to get me away to sea.”
“You got off very lightly, m’ friend, don’t ye mourn it.”
“The ship’s been in mutiny and they want me to cure ’em.”
“Ah.”
“Name of Tyger, lying at Yarmouth. Don’t know else.”
Bazely sat bolt upright. “Did ye take her? Tell me ye didn’t!”
“I did—why not?”
“I heard fr’m Parlby, she was in mutiny well enough. Bloody business, two men dead. Court-martial in Yarmouth found three ringleaders and set ’em t’ dangling at the fore yardarm. Kept it as quiet as they could, but there’s talk. An’ it ain’t pretty, m’ lad.”
Bazely sat back with a cynical smile, cradling his brandy. “Neatly done. Very neat—can’t ye see it? You’ve been trussed up like a turkey dinner!”
Kydd glowered, then downed his brandy savagely.
“They offer you a swine of a command on th’ strength you’re from afore the mast and a hero both. If ye refuse, ye’re finished and off the books. If ye take it, there’s no chance in hell you’ll succeed.”
“Why not?” Kydd snapped.
“M’ friend, think on it. The barky must’ve been in sad shape to think on mutiny, worse to rise in one. They got three leaders an’ made ’em suffer for it. That means the rest get away wi’ it, and that’s where they stand now, your declared mutineer agin them as were too shy to join ’em, mess an’ watch split down th’ middle, shipmate agin shipmate. Your petty officers too scared t’ keep discipline, the officers in fear o’ their lives.”
“I know what a mutiny is,” muttered Kydd, icy memories of his part in the great fleet mutiny of 1797 flooding back.
“Then ye’ll know as a ship out o’ discipline is a useless fighting machine. They’ll not fight for you, an’ ye needs must haul down y’ flag to the first Frenchy ye sees. Kydd, m’ sad cock—ye’re meant to fail!”
Kydd scowled at his words. In ’97 the ships at the Nore had not been part of a combat fleet, being a reserve of vessels under repair and press-gang receiving hulks. This was different. He was being expected to take a front-line man-o’-war lately in open mutiny out to face the enemy—like a gladiator wearing leg-irons.
“The mouldering bastards,” he said thickly, realising that the proof of what Bazely was saying lay in the fact that it was practice for a ship in mutiny to be taken out of commission, the crew scattered among the rest of the fleet and a new ship’s company brought in on a fresh commission.
Tyger would be putting to sea with the mutinous crew unchanged. There was precious little he could do to bring about anything miraculous before the first deep-sea encounter. Bazely was right, damn it to Hell!
It stung. The Admiralty was now against him and seeking vengeance.
He motioned to Tysoe. “Leave the bottle, if y’ please.”
With a troubled glance, the valet left.
Kydd downed his glass in one and poured more. This was not the pleasant sharing of libations with a friend, it was a furious need to deal with the frustration and anxiety that had built up over the few days past.
“Mulgrave was decent enough. Granted me leave to name my officers while all the time these gib-faced admirals gobbled away.”
“I’ve not heard o’ that ever given, cuffin. It’ll make it easier for ye.”
“Ha! Don’t know why I asked for it, really. I’m never going t’ involve my fine fellows of L’Aurore in this stand o’ stinking horse-shit!”
Bazely nodded. “This I c’n understand o’ ye, Tom.”
Kydd found himself recounting his brush with mutiny in his first ship as a young seaman but stopped short of telling all of the fearsome days at the Nore when as a master’s mate he had sided with the mutineers.
Bazely listened with sympathy.
With exaggerated politeness born of alcohol, Kydd turned to him. “I’m t’ thank you for your concerns, Bazely. As I’m qui’ capable o’ dealing with this’n.”
“O’ course ye are, old trout.”
Befuddled with drink, Kydd felt the anger coming back. It was so bloody unfair. That scuttish reporter had had no right …
The evening wore on until it didn’t matter any more.
Kydd woke blearily to a disorienting jolting and swaying. It seemed he was in a coach. Opposite sat Tysoe, with a blank expression. Next to him a plain woman was wearing a look of extreme disapproval, her yeoman farmer husband sitting beside him, trying to keep as far away as possible from him.
With a parched mouth and throbbing head Kydd tried to make sense of it all. Tysoe and Bazely must have bundled him aboard the coach to Yarmouth; he was on his way to take command of Tyger—his punishment ship. The other passengers must think him a rake or worse, but at least he wasn’t in uniform.
He shied at the thought of stepping aboard in his condition, and rising emotion took him again at the low ploy of the Admiralty, the image of the craggy but malevolent Earl St Vincent thrusting before him.
To go from hero of the hour to this in so short a time was hard to bear and he gulped back his feelings as they entered the outskirts of Yarmouth.
They were dropped at a mean inn and Kydd collapsed wearily in his room.
His head still swam but it didn’t stop the thoughts that stampeded unchecked.
One in particular grew. Why not quit while he was still on top? As far as both the public and the navy were concerned he was still a fresh-returned hero, victor of battles and a name to conjure with. If he put to sea in a fragile, mutinous ship and lost to the French, he would never be forgiven by those who had celebrated him before.
It was an attractive course: he wouldn’t get another command, but the public would assume he’d left the sea to rest on his laurels, like many had done before him, and Sir Thomas Kydd would find an admired and respected place in society where he would be valued for his experience and achievements.
All this could be thrown away if he meekly took what the Admiralty was dishing out and it went badly.
A maudlin rush of memories came. His translation from foremast hand to King’s officer—he’d made the conscious decision to take the harder route, not to be a tarpaulin officer but learn to be a gentleman, enter society on their terms, not his, and it had paid off handsomely. It had been a hard lesson and dear Renzi had been crucial to both the deciding and the accomplishing, so here he was, a figure in the quality and a hero to boot.
Cruel self-doubt mocked. A hero? Was he really … one like Nelson?
At Curaçao he’d been consumed in the mad onrush of events and could not have acted differently if he’d tried. And back at Camperdown, where he’d been singled out for the quarterdeck by his courage, there he’d done only his duty, harshly driven by previous events, the great mutiny at the Nore.
Other times: in Tenacious at the Nile? He’d taken away the ship’s boat in deep pity for the men struggling for their lives in the water. It was only common logic that they themselves would not be in peril so close to L’Orient’s gigantic explosion—the wreckage would go up and over them.
It was early dawn when he woke. He threw off his bedclothes and went to the pitcher to slake his thirst.
Tysoe noiselessly appeared with his robe.
“Thank ye,” he croaked. “I’m not playing their game, Tysoe. Pack the gear, we’re leaving.”
It goaded Kydd. “Didn’t you hear me?” he raged. “I said I’m not going through with it. Be damned to that parcel o’ stinkin’ shicers but I’m not falling for it.”
Tysoe’s expression turned to one of devastation.
“Get out! Be buggered t’ your wry looks! Get out, damn ye!” Kydd roared.
Hesitating, the man gave a dignified short bow and withdrew.
In a paroxysm of fury, Kydd seized the pitcher and smashed it to the floor.
Breathing deeply, he crossed the room, threw open the window and stood there, letting the fresh morning air do its work.
There was a fine view of the sea with the first tentative rays of light tinting it, the sun’s orb just beginning its lift to full daybreak. And inside the sandbar a gaggle of ships at anchor, prettily silhouetted against the dawn—King’s ships.
Could he turn his back on this?
Yes, he could—and would!
He spotted one anchored apart from the others, like a cast-out leper. It had to be Tyger. Waiting for one who could cure a mortal sickness. Could he just leave her to her fate? Damn right he could!
About to close the curtains on the sight he stopped, remembering what he had seen in Tysoe’s face. To him Kydd’s decision was nothing less than a betrayal: his master was diminished, a coward—no longer one to admire, to serve with pride and respect. Kydd had let down the only person still with him from his early days as an officer. He’d been found wanting—and it hurt.
He balled his fists as a deeper realisation boiled to the surface. If he retired from the navy his public would be mollified, the Admiralty would be robbed of his humbling—but he would have to live with the surrender for the rest of his life.
He couldn’t do it. It wasn’t in his nature to run—and, by God, he wasn’t going to do so now!
“Tysoe! Where are you, man?” He found him in the other room, listlessly filling the trunk. “What’s this, laying out m’ shore-side gear? I said to pack, we’re leaving, and that is, I’m to board and take command o’ Tyger frigate this day—but not in those ill-looking rags!”
CHAPTER 8
KYDD THREW ON A BOAT-CLOAK and took coach for the naval base. It was only a short distance, near where the Yare river met the sea, an unassuming building with blue ensign aloft. The establishment was the smallest Kydd had encountered, with a modest stores capability and accommodation for the senior naval officer who had charge of a local force of sloops and brigs guarding the coast.
A single marine sentry snapped to attention at Kydd’s sudden appearance.
He didn’t care how he was received for there was only one objective in his sights: to fight and win in this unfair contest. Nothing else mattered.
Captain Burke rose to greet him with a look of polite enquiry.
“Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, to take command of Tyger frigate.” He handed over his warrant.
“Ah. We’ve had word of you, Sir Thomas.”
Burke was of the same rank as he. In the normal course of events, Kydd could expect to know only the company of lowly sloop captains, mere commanders. He felt the tug of temptation to unburden, but his mood was too bleak.
“I intend to assume command and put to sea with the least possible delay,” he rapped. “What is Tyger’s condition, pray?”
The man’s expression was guarded. “You’ll know she’s been in mutiny, and that only very recently?”
“I do. That’s in the past—I desire only to proceed to sea with all dispatch, sir.” Kydd’s instinct was to reach open water, then let sea air and ship routines do their work.
“Very well. She was near completing stores when it … that is to say, the mutiny happened, some eight days ago. In all other respects she’s ready.”
Like the majority of mutinies this one had broken out just as the ship was preparing to leave—very few happened on the high seas. And as was the way with mutiny, it had been met with instant justice: corpses at the yardarm only days after.
“My orders are to join the North Sea squadron off the Texel. I should be obliged if you’d honour my demands on stores and powder with the utmost expedition, sir.”
“As you wish, Sir Thomas. I should point out the ship is in … a parlous state, the people fractious and confused. And not having had liberty—”
“What is that to me, sir?” Kydd said tightly.
“—she’s grievous short-handed.”
He went on to add that in Yarmouth there were few trained seamen to be had as protections were insisted upon by both colliers and fishermen.
“Is her captain available to me?”
“Captain Parker? He is—but you’re not to expect a regular-going handover from him. The man’s in a funk over events and is ailing.”
“I’ll see him directly. Do send to Tyger that I’m coming aboard by the first dog-watch, if you please.”
Some hours later Kydd was in possession of a pathetic and disjointed account of a passionate rising, put down bloodily and untidily. Parker was a crushed man and Kydd had to come up with his own reading of what had happened.
A weak captain, hard first lieutenant—it had happened so many times before. He didn’t need much more. This captain was out of touch with his men, unable to read the signs, and had lost the trust of his officers.
As well, it had been a miserable year or more in these hard seas without action to relieve it, except for one incident. One day, out of a grey dawn, they had come across a French corvette. Finding themselves inshore of it, and therefore cutting it off from safety, it should have been easy meat. They had gone for it, but before they could engage, Tyger had missed stays and it had escaped. They had botched the elementary manoeuvre of going about on the other tack.
This could only speak of appalling seamanship—difficult to credit in a frigate after a year at sea—or a command structure that was fractured or incompetent. The effect had been a destructive plunge in morale and men deserting. With the inevitable suspending of liberty ashore, trusties suffered with the disaffected. A fuse had been lit in the prison-like confines and it had detonated when the ship received orders for sea.
God alone knew what he’d meet when he went aboard, for nothing was changed, nothing solved. The men were the same, as were the conditions that had sent them over the edge.
Kydd presented himself at the headquarters of the Impress Service. An aged rear admiral greeted him with respect and politeness but told him there was little hope for men in the shorter term. There was no receiving ship at Yarmouth to hold the harvest of press-gangs, and in the near vicinity pickings were slim from merchantmen unless a Baltic convoy had arrived.
The old sailor suggested that his only hope was to wait for the next periodic sally by his gangs in the north but that was not due for some weeks yet.
Kydd accepted the news without protest, knowing that it was well meant, and from a man retired who had felt it his duty to return to the colours to do what he could for his country, and who had been handed this thankless task. It was only by accident as he was leaving that he found he had been talking to Arthur Phillip, the man who had led the first convict fleet to establish a settlement at Sydney Cove in New South Wales.
There was no point in putting it off for much longer. He would take command of Tyger this hour.
But when he returned to the naval base he found waiting not a ship’s boat but a local craft: there were not even sufficient trusties in Tyger to man a boat.
They put out from the little jetty and shaped course for the ship. She was anchored far out, a diseased ship kept away from the others. It was a hard pull for the men at the oars but it gave Kydd some time to take in her appearance, her lines. A bulldog of a ship. Bluff, aggressive, there was no compromise in her war-like air.
And as far different from L’Aurore as it was possible to be. Where before there had been grace and willowy suppleness, it was now power and arrogance, the masts and spars thewed like iron and the gun-deck in a ha
rd line, with guns half as big again.
Yet it reached out to him: this was a British ship, her stern-quarters without the high arching of the French, her timbers heavier—she was built like a prize-fighter.
As they drew nearer he could see other details. She was shabby, uncared-for. Her black sides were faded, and there was no mistaking an air of sullen resignation. Her figurehead—a spirited prancing tiger wearing a crown, its raking paws outstretched—was sea-scoured and blotchy.
Along the lines of the gun-ports boarding nettings had been rigged to prevent desertion and two shore boats pulled around lackadaisically in opposite directions on row-guard.
They shaped up for their approach and Kydd could see other signs of neglect: standing rigging not with the perfect black of tar but with pale streaks of the underlying hemp showing through where worn, the running rigging hairy with use where it passed through blocks and not re-reeved to bear on a fresh length. Even her large ensign floating above was wind-frayed, the trailing edge tattered and decrepit.
A side-party of sorts was assembling and Kydd prepared himself for the greatest challenge of his life.
The pipe was thin and reedy. The man wielding the call—presumably the boatswain—looked as if he’d be better off cosily at home by the fire.
Kydd stepped over the side and on to the deck of HMS Tyger.
There was no going back now.
The line of side-party glanced towards him as he came aboard: some with a flicker of curiosity, most impassive and wary. All individuals, all strangers, every one tainted by past events in one way or another.
A tall officer was at the inboard end of the line and took off his hat. “Hollis, first lieutenant, sir. May I present your officers?” he said formally, in clipped tones.
Kydd would have rather he explained why his boat had not been properly challenged but decided to let it pass.
The second lieutenant, Paddon, seemed mature enough but returned his look with defensive wariness. The third, Nowell, was young, barely into his twenties, and appeared lost and frightened.
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