Tyger

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd’s thoughts raced. The rational course was to give best to one with superior knowledge of these regions and sail away before some hideous Arctic fate overtook them. But that would be at the cost of his only chance of coming out of his High North expedition with something to show for it.

  So near!

  Boats?

  No, boats coming down a defined lead in the ice were a perfect oncoming target. A charge over the ice? How did he know if a floe would take their weight? If it didn’t, their end would be immediate and awful.

  Here he was with a man-o’-war of unanswerable force and under her guns not a mile away was her prey—but he was completely helpless!

  Horner was not going to let it go. “See all them ice-hillocks another mile in? That’s your ice fast to the shore. It comes out an’ meets the drift ice on its way in with terrible force. If the wind’s offshore, you has a chance. Wind turns onshore, why, you’ll be crushed between ’em like an egg-shell!”

  Ominously, Kydd could see that, just as had been predicted, the frazil ice was coming together in a continuous greasy-looking thin sheet.

  They had been lucky, he knew. On mess-decks and in wardrooms he’d heard tales of ferocious storms raging out of the Arctic wilderness and if one struck here …

  “It’s freezin’ in, Cap’n,” warned Horner. “Time we was going.”

  The weather was changing—Kydd felt it in his bones. How long could he afford to wait? The smaller Walvis could lie there indefinitely if it was equipped for long-distance voyaging in these parts but Tyger was ill-equipped and vulnerable. Was it right to risk her and her company for the sake of what was really personal advantage?

  He shivered and pulled his coat tighter as a slightly stronger wind flaw cut into him … and something Horner had said returned. What was it?

  The slight wind! His unconscious mind had registered that it had shifted a point or two and strengthened a little.

  “Sir, we should leave while we can,” the muffled voice of his first lieutenant came, and in his anxiety he’d even gone so far as to touch Kydd’s arm.

  But, with a fierce glee, Kydd had seen how he could win. “Mr Joyce, I desire Tyger to lie off at two cables distance. Mr Hollis, a file of marines and a boarding party to muster at the mainmast now.”

  They looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone mad.

  “Carry on, please!” he ordered crisply.

  With a grudging smile Horner tipped his hat to Kydd and watched Walvis warp about and make for the open sea—and, reluctantly, into Tyger’s embrace.

  CHAPTER 14

  “DON’T CONCERN YOURSELF, m’ boy, your prize will be taken care of by Whippet when she heads off with my dispatches. Now, tell me all about it—I’m sure it’ll be a rare tale!”

  Kydd knew the bluff Admiral Russell would not take kindly to tacking and veering about the actuality and opened up to him, freely admitting his motives for the daring thrust into the High Arctic. The chase after the furs had been a long shot but what had he had to lose?

  There was professional talk on the suitability of Archangel as a second port—regretfully dismissed—and conditions while working ship in freezing weather.

  Then Russell asked, “Tell me, why did the barky decide to give himself up from the pack-ice so conveniently?”

  Kydd debated whether to claim the credit himself but answered, “Something my pilot mentioned. He said the worst danger for navigating in the north is when the fixed ice coming out from the shore meets the floating pack driven in by the wind. Any ship between will be helplessly crushed. The Hollander was safe until the wind turned onshore. Then he had the choice of being sunk and marooned on the ice as he watched us sail away or …”

  “You sighted his papers?” the admiral asked, clearly keen to know if indeed there was a case for condemning Walvis as prize, given her rich lading.

  “I did, sir.” Kydd went on to tell him how he’d found the ship was merely a ferry, trans-shipping the cargo to a disguised blockade-runner waiting in Tromsø fjord in north Norway ready for the dash south. It must have seemed wildly improbable that a British man-o’-war of size would ever chance on Archangel, still less Spitzbergen, he added. Then he beamed. “I fancy, sir, we’ll soon be sharing in as rich a prize as any these last years!”

  Russell gave a sad smile. “Not as who would say. Won’t even make the prize court, o’ course.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your action must count as a considerable success—at thwarting a smuggling ring. Kydd, I have to tell you, the offence for which we take reprisal with this prize is nothing but an offence against the revenue service of Russia. See if you can find in our orders-in-council where the fur of the Arctic fox is listed as contraband. You won’t. So what we see is the property of the Tsar of Russia rightfully restored.”

  “So—”

  “I expect the tsar will be generous in his thanks and no doubt our Dutch friends will at this moment be marching off to Siberia in chains, but as to lawful prize …”

  Seeing Kydd’s crestfallen look he gave a chuckle. “It has its bright side. I dare to say we’ve a reasonable claim to salvage on the cargo, a tidy sum. And undoubtedly it affects you personally too, Kydd.”

  “Sir?”

  “What would our grateful tsar say if he found the Admiralty had rewarded the captain responsible with the loss of his ship? The politicals would never allow it. No, m’ boy, I do believe you’ve Tyger to yourself if you want her.”

  In the solitude of his cabin, thoughts crowded in on Kydd. Tyger was his—but for how long? Despite Russell’s words, he felt it was a reprieve only. He had to go on to achieve a standing that made him untouchable by the Admiralty and restored him to favour with the public.

  Actions that resulted in distinction and acclaim could never be commanded on a whim. In all his past triumphs he had been in a position that allowed various elements to be exploited to advantage—and he had had the freedom to act. In a fleet there would be little chance in the short term of coming on such a situation.

  But, an inner voice offered, hadn’t his greatest laurels been won at Curaçao, part of a squadron?

  He grimaced. There was little of the far exotic about duties with the North Sea Fleet and far less likelihood of such derringdo in these waters but it couldn’t be ruled out entirely. His future course was now clear: while there was even the slightest chance of distinction he would make damned sure he was ready.

  He would bring Tyger up to a fighting pitch such as he’d achieved with L’Aurore—forge a blade that he could take into any contest and be sure of victory.

  Before, he’d not felt a rightful captain of Tyger. She’d started as a punishment ship, a place of exile, and he’d not given her the interest and attention she deserved, especially with the shadow of losing her before him: then she had been a fleeting and temporary command, which it would have been unwise to take to his heart.

  It was different now and he vowed he would cleave to his new ship. There were pleasing and appealing aspects of her character that reached out to him—those bluff, no-nonsense bulldog lines, the massed eighteen-pounder great guns, her willingness to brute through head seas and fearlessly carry high sail …

  He and the ship’s company had met in the worst possible circumstances and he’d not been inclined to test their limits under those conditions. Now they’d seen him in action and he’d given them a prize of sorts. It was a start but he was not naïve enough to think that this meant he’d won their loyalty—that only came with trust and that, in turn, with shared danger. But time was not on his side …

  He began jotting down what he must do. Gunnery, sail-handling—these prime battle-winners were top of the list.

  Their brush with the frigates in the “bullion shipment” had been revealing: there’d been no flinching or hanging back but there’d been a stiffness in working the guns, betraying a woeful lack of practice compared to the fluid choreography in L’Aurore. He’d long learned the lesson that halving the time fo
r the load-and-fire cycle had the same effect as doubling the number of guns, in a frigate duel effectively pitting the enemy against the broadside to be expected from a ship-of-the-line. Every split-second saved would translate in a long, close action to many more strikes, any one of which could be a settler.

  Smart working of sail was far more than mere practice. Necessarily, there was a distancing in the layers of command. In a first-rate man-o’-war the captain on the quarterdeck would issue an order, which would go to the officer in charge of that part-of-ship and his team; the petty officers would pull the men together and make it happen, knowing their individual strengths and weaknesses and alert to any slacking or fumbling, while the officer stood braced for any external change in circumstances. It took trust by the officer, trust from the petty officers and mutual professional respect. So recently emerged from mutiny, these strands of interdependence were frayed at best and his officers must look to restoring them as soon as possible.

  Bowden understood the importance of this, he felt; Brice was gifted, his men at the foremast the only ones showing positive signs, but his first lieutenant …

  Hollis was from a good family, but in a ship of war that was a disadvantage. Used to unquestioning obedience from servants, his instinct was to issue a stream of directions and leave it at that. Under stress of a mutinous situation he’d become more strident, distant and critical, and while at present the men took his orders, that precious two-way reliance was lacking.

  There were other elements that affected Tyger’s fighting spirit, as Kydd remembered from his own origins before the mast. Petty tyrannies could reign when bullies gained positions of power as petty officers. This would be invisible from the quarterdeck but would corrode a sailor’s loyalty quicker than anything. He knew the signs and would deal ruthlessly with any he saw. Incompetence was another real concern. The faith in authority that made men at a word go out on a yardarm in the teeth of a gale would vanish in an instant at any misgivings, and then it would be a hesitant, cautious crew.

  Because he was taking over an existing ship’s company he’d had to accept the decisions of Tyger’s previous captain in the matter of who had been rated into vital positions, and this was not something he was happy with. It was, of course, the prerogative of every captain to rate any seaman petty officer on the spot—and to disrate. If any failed him he wouldn’t hesitate to act.

  So much depended on the one thing he didn’t have: a first-hand appreciation of the qualities of his men.

  It would probably shock the common seaman to discover just how much his captain knew of him. Restraining every instinct to join in, a captain necessarily had to pass over responsibility for the execution of his order to others, then stand back and watch. He could, without them knowing, make out who were the impulsive, the stolid, the reluctant, the reliable. He could quietly observe the interplay between leaders and followers, their character and potential, and be ready to act on it—but all this took time.

  Kydd balled his fists in frustration. Their testing might be upon them without warning and a frigate could expect to be first in any action.

  There was only one way forward: to show no mercy to his men or his ship in the race to succeed. From this moment on, all hands could expect blood, toil and sweat until Tyger was as effective a fighting machine as L’Aurore had been. Resolved, he jammed on his cocked hat and strode out on deck.

  The squadron was comfortably in a loose extended line ahead as they ploughed the seas off the Dutch coast under easy sail, and there was nothing to challenge the afternoon watch. The men at the conn were in relaxed conversation, the others around the deck going about their business in unhurried, economic movements.

  Bowden detached from the group and came over, touching his hat. “A fine afternoon, sir, don’t you think?” he said pleasantly. “We’ve—”

  “You think so? What’s going on there on the main hatch?” Kydd demanded.

  The men were sitting cross-legged on the gratings in companionable gossip with canvas spread over their knees, stitching sails, an agreeable task in the sun.

  “Sir, the sailmaker asked for hands to complete our fair-weather suit of sails.”

  “When the ship’s in such a state?” Kydd crossed to the lee main shrouds and fingered into the deadeyes, sniffing the result. “This is scandalous! There’s been no hog’s lard in here for a cat’s age. How can you keep equal strain on all parts save you grease it?”

  “Sir, it’s the boatswain’s—”

  “No, Mr Bowden, it’s your duty—to see the boatswain does his. The watch-on-deck is there to be employed when not working ship and I’ll have it so while we’re sadly ahoo.”

  Around the helm dark glances were exchanged.

  Kydd turned and glared forward grimly.

  After some minutes a flustered Hollis appeared, having caught word of Kydd’s mood. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said carefully. “I rather thought we’d—”

  “Just what I was thinking, Mr Hollis! We could be up with an enemy at a moment’s notice and then where would we be? Quarters at six bells, and the men may stand down just as soon as they make my times.”

  In the last hour before supper the gun-crews were set to intensive drill under eye and pocket-watch.

  The individual timings were dismally slow, movements awkwardly co-ordinated, and under pressure, gun-captains became flustered.

  Kydd’s expression grew glacial. Their rate of fire was abysmal, the eighteens served at a slower rate than he’d ever seen before. If they went up against a well-manned and resolute French frigate, their survival could not be assured, let alone a victory. Appalled, he grunted to Hollis to stand the men down and stalked off to his cabin.

  Kydd waited grimly for the men’s breakfast to finish and on the stroke of one bell the boatswain’s calls pealed out.

  “All hands! All the hands! Clear lower deck! Haaaands to muster!”

  They came aft—the entire ship’s company. Cooks and gunners, seamen and officers, carpenter and marines. In a sea of faces they crowded the gangways and upper deck, interest, suspicion and resentment in equal measure.

  He nodded at the boatswain, who blasted out a “still” on his pipe.

  The muttering and murmuring died away as Tyger’s company waited to hear what their captain had to say.

  “Tygers!” he roared. “You’re hailed aft for one reason, and one reason only. I’m captain and this is my ship—and it’s yours as well.”

  He let it hang for a space, looking from one to another.

  “So why am I ashamed of it?

  “It’s not because of what happened under Captain Parker—that’s over and finished. I don’t give a brass razoo about it. But what I saw at gun practice yesterday was a dance of cripples! I won’t have it! This is a top fighting frigate and I mean to take her into the hottest part of any battle, ready or no!”

  He was not reaching them. Stony faces, folded arms and a sullen silence.

  “You say we took on those men-o’-war on the way to Gothenburg. I say we ran away! No fight worth a spit and no mill man to man. Then a cruise in the ice and never a shot fired. You’re soft and useless, and if a half-good Frenchy lays alongside he’ll have us.

  “So these are my orders starting today. From now on, before the forenoon watch turns to, it’ll be quarters and practice for an hour. And again at six bells in the afternoon. If I don’t see progress, and that quickly, there’ll be more in the first dog-watch, damn it.”

  This was met with savage murmurs: the dog-watches were traditionally a seaman’s own time, to be spent yarning and taking leisure on the fore-deck.

  Kydd looked down on the gun-deck at the row of guns being exercised. Time and time again the tons’ weight of gun was run out, sweating crews heaving wearily at the side-tackles, drawing it back in with the rear training tackle, ram-rod whirling as powder charges, wad and ball were fumbled towards the muzzle in a never-ending round.

  He had been on a gun-crew himself and knew what he was
asking of them but he took no pity on them. It had to be done.

  Forward, Bowden was taking his gun exercise by quarter-gunner—four guns at a time, allowing the others to catch their breath.

  “Compliments to Mr Bowden and he’s to know that at close quarters every gun is served,” Kydd snapped to his messenger. “I want to see all his guns in action at once.”

  Only long familiarity born of the same crews working together could bring about the fluid, unconscious ballet that was a battle-winning line of guns. In combat each crew needed to ply their gun in the confines of the narrow space between the pieces without tangling with the next gun-crew, who could be counted on to be out of synchrony with them. It was something they had to sort out for themselves: whether the loading number took his charge direct from the powder monkey or it was passed to him by the side-tackle men; whether these same men ducked or stood aside as the long stave was reversed end for end by the rammer to become a sponge, stabbing deep into the muzzle.

  The afternoon practice was even worse. Kydd took in the shuffling and lethargy, the creaking, stiff motions, the result of bone-cracking weariness and suffering from burning muscles and painful joints. These men were sadly out of condition, clearly not having been exercised in earnest by the previous captain. But who knew when Tyger must face her destiny?

  “Feeble and pitiful. I’ll have a half-hour in the dog-watches and be damned to it!” Kydd bit out.

  Bowden stared at his captain for a long moment, then, expressionless, turned away.

  Three days later Alceste frigate rejoined the squadron and in turn Tyger was detached to the convoy assembly anchorage at Yarmouth Roads. Russell was at pains to explain that Baltic convoy duty, however onerous, was one they all must share in.

  But it was what Kydd had been waiting for. A two-day sail as an independent and no one to see! He wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. Just as soon as the distant topsails of the squadron sank below the horizon he turned to the officer-of-the-watch. “I have the ship, Mr Brice.”