Tyger

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd drew the table’s attention again. “So I ask you to charge your glasses, gentlemen, and drink a toast. To Tyger and the Tygers! And the future that both will share!”

  Kydd woke early. The passage to Gothenburg was not long, some four days or so at most, but he was eager to take the earliest opportunity to put Tyger through her paces. Although he was anxious to deliver his cargo as soon as possible, he decided to take advantage of this short voyage to make acquaintance of his new command and at the same time shake the vessel down into an effective fighting force.

  He knew already that she was a sturdy, no-nonsense British-built ship, with all the advantage this gave in foul-weather sailing, endurance and sheer strength of timbers, but there was more to it than that. How did she stay about in a gale? Was she a witch in a quartering breeze, like L’Aurore? What was her best point of sailing? In a fight, how much could he rely on her clawing up to the wind under topsails, true and staunch? Only a thorough exercise of her qualities in the open sea would reveal this, with other eccentricities left to discover in due course. And it would be his pleasure to bring them to light.

  He was up with the morning watchmen in the last hour before daybreak, his mind alive with ideas for the day. It was a simple, straight-line course across to Gothenburg, in this southwesterly able to be done in one board. It would be comfortably far from the hostile northern European coast and it was vanishingly unlikely that they would run into anything capable of troubling a well-muscled frigate like Tyger.

  Light was stealing in over the cold grey seascape, picking up the startling white of seagulls, a suffused gold in the morning haze promising a broad sunrise.

  The first thing he needed to do was a series of timed staying-about manoeuvres: tack and wear, in these brisk breezes a useful indication of what could be expected in winds both greater and less. To follow would be an hour at the guns, in slow time in deference to the first lieutenant’s new quarter-bill. Then back to sail-handling—and the vital knowledge of just how close to the wind Tyger could manage with all possible measures taken.

  It would be interesting as well to—

  “Deck hoooo!” came an urgent hail from the main-top lookout. “Sail—three points on the st’b’d quarter!” A careful scan of the horizon as the dimness of night lifted had revealed something in sight.

  Should he go after a potential prize at the small risk of his precious freight?

  “I see a frigate two, three miles, an’ she’s alterin’ towards!”

  The probability was that she was British but there was no harm in taking precautions. Automatically his mind meshed with the elements. The stranger was downwind from them: by now there was no land cramping their room to manoeuvre and no change in weather threatened.

  “What’s her colours?” bawled Kydd, through cupped hands.

  After a space a reply came back: “Don’t see none!”

  This was odd. A British frigate on sighting another would fly the private signal, then, if necessary, fire a gun to leeward, inviting a correct response—and this was wasting no time in shaping course to intercept.

  “Bear away, our private signal and a gun!” he snapped.

  Out of consideration for the ship’s company, and assuming that their course through British waters would not meet with an enemy, he hadn’t followed the usual war precautions by meeting the dawn at quarters with all men at the guns.

  “Turn up the hands, if you please.”

  If the stranger was a forgetful Britisher there was no harm done but if—

  “There’s another! Two points t’ larb’d, an’ heading us!”

  Kydd’s senses tautened. It could be a classic French tactic, a pair of hunting frigates, and they had found prey. As they lifted above the horizon he fumbled for his pocket telescope.

  He saw immediately: the new stranger running for them was big—and with its larger beam and heavier spars must be a razée. These were ships-of-the-line levelled down one deck to form powerful frigates and were rare in British service. It had to be an enemy.

  Another cry came down from the lookout: the other was not a frigate but a corvette, lighter than they but rigged similarly and still of significant force.

  “Clear for action!”

  Kydd sniffed the wind: steady from the southwest. A bit of a lop to the sea but nothing to worry about.

  It was unusual for the French to show such aggression, even at odds of two to one. Their reason for being was commerce raiding and they had every incentive to avoid unnecessary damage in a frigate duel.

  The corvette was further off, more evidence that they were in a line of search but, whatever the situation, he couldn’t risk his precious freight. They would run for it.

  Then everything changed.

  “A frigate!” cried the fore-top lookout with an out-flung arm pointing ahead.

  There, at speed, a full-rigged frigate was closing with them to cut off any escape.

  This was now deadly serious. Their precautions of secrecy in Yarmouth had been in vain. Somewhere in the chain of arrangements the shipment had become known about and word had got out.

  Their course from Yarmouth to Gothenburg was a direct line. Simplicity itself to mount an ambush, and the French had made the most of it, boxing him in.

  Three of them: the corvette alone he could be confident of handling, include the new frigate and it would be a hard-fought match, but with the razée as well he was up against a terrible foe.

  And with an untried crew. It was impossible—in some way he had to even the odds.

  Far spaced on either quarter astern were the first two, still some miles distant but the one ahead was only a mile or two away, close-hauled across their course to cut off his retreat.

  “Go for the Frenchy ahead,” he instructed the conn, and concentrated on his tactics.

  The first thing to do was give the opposing captain something to think about—which was that while Tyger was running downwind with every choice of course, the other was hard into the wind to cross their bow.

  Its captain would therefore be anxious to avoid a fatal move: that Kydd would time his approach such that at the last minute he would put over his helm and pass behind, delivering a devastating raking broadside into the unprotected stern. While it was possible to choose any direction moving forward consistent with the wind, no square-rigged ship could ever sail backwards to rectify a wrong move.

  Nonetheless there was going to be one lunge only with this advantage and Kydd couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

  Hollis reported the ship cleared for action. “To quarters,” Kydd ordered.

  They raced over the pretty morning sea, wavelets exuberant at meeting the new day, the sky now blue and cheerful, a lone seagull wheeling and keening.

  “Keep our bowsprit square on his main,” Kydd grunted. He wasn’t going to make it easy for his opponent. Tyger was under all plain sail with full manoeuvrability but the other had to think about shortening sail or risk what he most feared.

  It all came down to this one pass.

  They neared, the enemy now in plain sight, colours streaming and men along her deck staring at them.

  The Frenchman opened fire—but Tyger end on was a difficult target.

  Nearer—firing became general now and holes appeared in Tyger’s sails.

  Kydd smiled grimly: his opponent was inexperienced. Any upcoming interchange would be savage and swift, leaving no time to reload the guns that were now blazing futilely.

  The bowsprit spearing for the exact centre of the enemy frigate, Kydd sent his orders forward. “Helm down!” he rasped.

  The long spar began tracking the length of the enemy in a giveaway move towards that unprotected stern.

  The reaction was immediate—expecting it, the French captain rapidly fell away off the wind, his intention to circle around to bring his broadside to bear in place of his stern-quarters.

  But Kydd was one step ahead. Instantly he countermanded his order and Tyger stopped her swing and began rot
ating the other way—and there presented to him was the enemy stern. In aimed shots, the raking storm took the frigate in a blast of destruction down her length that went on and on.

  Kydd was not finished—as their guns on that side ceased their carnage he brought the ship over and delivered the other broadside, now at close range, into the appalling swathe of devastation.

  For the first time he heard the Tygers roar in an ecstasy of victory that had been long in coming.

  When the smoke had cleared and they swept past, the hapless frigate was left in a tangle of wreckage and defeated, only the foremast standing. If their captain survived he would have learned much of the importance of the weather gage in frigate warfare, Kydd mused grimly.

  Now the remaining two in chase had this advantage themselves and after witnessing what had happened to their confederate there would be no easy deceiving.

  Bonaparte would be merciless to any who shied away with such stakes to be won. They wouldn’t give up, that much was certain.

  It was time to flee: there was no question of risking their cargo on the chances of close-quarter combat, but for this he hadn’t even the elementary knowledge of Tyger’s sailing qualities. The one best placed to advise was her sailing master, but he’d been aboard for less time even than himself.

  Kydd turned to the first lieutenant. “Mr Hollis. In your experience, what is this ship’s best point of sailing?”

  Hollis looked uncomfortable. “Sir, with our previous captain there was no stretching out, he not wanting to risk her sticks. I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you.”

  They had to find out, and quickly, or their pursuers would catch them.

  Kydd looked soberly out at the distant sails of the two.

  It had been an exhausting day, under chase the whole time and, it had to be accepted, the two French appreciably nearer. Tyger had not disappointed him but she was no flyer in light winds as L’Aurore was, and while he now knew a lot more about her, it had not been enough.

  He’d tried everything, from fashioning watersails under the stunsails while running large, to all the lore he could muster about dangerous clawing to windward as close to the wind’s eye as he dared contrive.

  Night was coming on—some time in the morning there would be a reckoning and Tyger would be brought to bay.

  With darkness came the opportunity to slip away—but this would be known to the French. It was another classic situation: if he turned away in the night a pursuer had a one in two chance of guessing which side he had taken. With a pair in chase they could cover both sides, and at a minimum Tyger would find herself at daybreak in a full-scale action with one, the other then attracted to join in by the gunfire and smoke.

  Which direction to choose? It made little difference.

  Unless …

  It was a desperate gamble but would be the last thing they would suspect. Just as long as they were not sighted in the act.

  Evening came, and with it the last chance for the French to catch them that day.

  Every rope and sail taut they barrelled into the dusk, the picture of a desperately fleeing vessel not daring to take in sail by the smallest amount. Close to midnight a cloud-driven sky brought the blackness Kydd craved. It was a frightful risk but there was no other way.

  Working fast, one by one, first the stunsails, then the topgallants and topsails were struck and Tyger straight away slowed dramatically, to the consternation of those not in the know.

  But this was only the first act. The second was to wheel about—and as closely as possible to sail back down their own wake!

  Necessarily they would pass between the two hunters but by dousing high sail they had avoided the glimmer of white canvas in the crepuscular gloom, and the headlong speed of the chase past them would ensure the danger period would not be long.

  He’d given orders that not a sound was to be made. No orders shouted, no watch bell, no careless knock. Their speed was now painfully reduced to ensure there would be no betraying swash of white wake.

  At one point Kydd caught a brief sight of a pale smudge out on their beam but he couldn’t be sure and held course for another breathless hour before he took his last action. Setting full sail on once more he put over the helm—for the enemy coast, the Netherlands, which was somewhere to the south and which he knew would be the last place of refuge they would think he would take in preference to the open sea.

  At eight or nine knots he needed a good two or three hours southward before he could be sure he was out of sight of a masthead lookout and alter course eastwards—to ease around the vainly searching pair.

  Then, as dawn broke, eyes strained across the waters and … they saw an empty sea. They were alone.

  Gothenburg was Kydd’s first sight of Scandinavia.

  With a pilot on board, insisted upon by Joyce, who had been in these waters in the peace, Tyger wound through an uncountable number of islands of rough cliffs and sea-dark barren rocks that completely obscured the harbour until the last mile or two.

  Keyed up to be rid of his special cargo he took little interest in the unfolding seascape, the ancient medieval clock towers and waterfront bustle.

  They came to anchor and, without a moment’s delay, Hollis was on his way ashore to alert the embassy. He was back within the hour, accompanied by a young man who introduced himself as Beckwith, under-secretary at His Majesty’s embassy.

  “You have something for me?” Kydd asked.

  “Oh, you’ll be meaning this.” It was the signed paper, all present and correct.

  “Very good. You’ll oblige me by taking this freight off my hands, Mr Beckwith. It’s caused us no end of vexation.”

  “I suppose it has. Well, let’s see if we can’t take delivery in the next few days. We’re awfully busy with the visit of Prince Gustaf—”

  “The next few days?” Kydd exploded. “I’m damned if I’ll wait, sir! I want it all ashore this day or I’ll know the reason why!”

  “Oh dear—it’ll mean extra tides for someone but don’t worry, I’ll see to it. Be ready to load it on the barge when it comes. Good day to you, sir.”

  The “Explosive Shot” was mustered under guard by the mainmast well before the flat barge began creeping out from the wharf, watched over by a square of marines, a mystified gunner and a fuming Kydd.

  There was no one on it to take delivery so Kydd himself and the guard went into the barge for the journey inshore.

  With great care each case was landed and conveyed to a warehouse where they were lined up in order of the number painted on each, and a full guard posted.

  Where the devil was the reception escort? The functionaries with documents and receipts? Anyone?

  A little later a puffing Beckwith arrived, mopping his forehead. “So sorry, old chap. Didn’t realise the prince was bringing his mother as well.”

  “I’m having a signature!” Kydd mouthed dangerously.

  “Oh, yes, I suppose you do.” He snatched Kydd’s form and threw off a huge scrawl on it. “There. All done now!”

  Just like that. Well, on return he’d now be able to claim his bullion freight money—after his junketing in London it would be a welcome easing of finances.

  “Where’s your escort then, Mr Beckwith?”

  “Escort? I don’t think we’ll bother with that right now. You can tell your brave fellows they can leave.”

  Kydd could hardly believe his ears. “No escort? It’s your worry now but …”

  The young man gave a lopsided smile. “Captain. Have you ever wondered what a half-million in specie looks like?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but went to the first case, prised apart the wooden slats on the top and stood back.

  Gingerly Kydd went over to see, probably his only chance to take a peek at an unimaginable fortune.

  Inside, neatly stacked together, were two neat rows of best Yorkshire furnace bricks. “You see, we took delivery of the real subsidy two days ago. A fast post-office packet that your most creditable decoy
ing allowed to reach here in perfect safety.”

  CHAPTER 12

  TYGER REJOINED THE NORTH SEA SQUADRON in light rain and a listless grey calm, which barely lifted the signal flags that indicated their station in the line.

  Kydd left the deck to Brice and went below to his cabin. He looked about. Tysoe had contrived a certain homeliness with a scatter of small Swedish landscapes and a charming miniature of an unknown young lady. A modest collection of silver now graced the bluff sideboard and colourful covers hid the shabbiness of the two armchairs. His new heavy frigate being denied him, this would be his home for some time. But it didn’t speak of him—it didn’t proclaim that this was where Sir Thomas Kydd lived.

  “Come!” he called, in reply to a hesitant knock. It was only the weekly accounts due the flagship regularly each Friday at the routine captains’ meeting. He toyed with the paperwork, his mind straying to the hundreds of men and officers under his command.

  Was he winning their souls? After the brief taste of action he’d noticed a distinct loosening of attitudes, and there was a pleasing hum from the mess-deck at meal-times that could be heard through the hatch gratings. But the mockery of the gold shipment had destroyed much of what had been won. At best there was now only a respectful wariness, at worst a cynical turning away.

  Nothing like an effective ship’s company should be. They were doing a job, nothing more. How could he bring them together, infuse and inspire them with the spirit that drives men to heroism in storm and battle for the sake of their ship?

  Kydd saw there was now no chance of seizing a prize, and the prospects for action were dim, with the enemy retiring to lick their wounds. Ahead lay only the boredom of blockade as summer moved into the miseries of winter.

  Two days later the usual cutter from Yarmouth fussed up to the flagship and Admiral Russell’s routine dispatches were transferred into it. No doubt a bag of pettifogging Admiralty and Navy Board correspondence would pass the other way but there would be very little in it to disturb the motions of a crucial blockading squadron.