Tyger

by Julian Stockwin

  It didn’t register in the flailing grind and Kydd felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Sir.” It was the boatswain demanding he yield his place.

  Kydd fell back exhausted, tripping over and ending on his knees.

  Half a dozen hands helped him up but his eyes were only for the pump.

  Herne had caught the rhythm quickly and was bulling the crank around, now whirling at an astonishing speed.

  Staying to catch the next handover, he prayed it was working. If anything was going to deliver them, this was it.

  A wave of exhaustion swept over him in a dizzying flood. Just as he had so long ago, as a common foremast jack, he sought the ship’s side and sat down, leaning against it. Folding his arms he put his head on his knees and let go of consciousness.

  The morning brought two desperately desired things. The water had not only been halted but was down a full eight inches—and land was sighted, the low mudflats of Essex. They were just to the north of the Thames, with small miles to go. It was impossible, incredible, but release was only hours away.

  But they were not home yet. Ahead were the notorious sandbars of the estuary, said to be the worst a seaman could face. Low in the water, Tyger would touch at the slightest mis-navigation and she could leave her bones within sight of her rest.

  In the hard easterly there was little shipping and the pilot cutter came streaming out promptly, the grizzled old pilot mounting the side in astonishment.

  “As you’re Tyger an’ all?” he said breathlessly.

  “It is,” Kydd said wearily. “You’ll get your fee, never fear. Now I’ll have you know we’re well down on our marks, four feet or more, take mind of this, sir.”

  “Tyger, begob!” He snatched off his sou’wester and looked at Kydd in open admiration. “An’ the country’s in a rare moil t’ hear of your great fight. And to think I’m here to—”

  “Sir. We have to make Sheerness with the greatest urgency. Do you—”

  “So you shall, sir! You’re grievous mauled an’ will make port or I’m to swing for it!”

  “One thing.”

  “Anything you wants, sir!”

  “Your cutter. Do send it into Sheerness dockyard directly and I want a hundred fresh men ready for me the soonest. Compree?”

  Tyger crept ahead in the white slashed seas, the familiar bleak outlines of Sheppey firming with the dark silhouettes of the ships of the Nore in a long cluster to larboard.

  What did he mean, the whole country alive with news of their engagement? It would have to be Admiral Russell sending an immediate dispatch by fast packet, which, with their slow progress, had given time for the news to spread.

  A desolate curtain of rain enveloped them and drove down on the distant cliffs and marshes, obscuring the shoreline. When it lifted it revealed an astonishing sight. From Garrison Point, the fort, all along the foreshore there were people, hundreds, a thousand. Scorning the rain and winds and, without question, there to welcome them home!

  The pilot cutter must have brought the exciting news and the whole town had turned out.

  A firework soared up, then several. From the fort came the crump of guns—no naval salutes would greet a mere frigate. Boats could be seen putting off and by the time they’d rounded the point to reach shelter they were surrounded by yelling well-wishers, soaked to the skin.

  Tyger came to and picked up moorings even as dockyard boats were putting out, filled with men.

  “Get those men to work this instant!” Kydd bawled. It would be a sorry end after all that had passed to sink at their moorings.

  He turned to the master shipwright, who stood respectfully but held up his hand. “I’ve orders that give you the highest priority for a docking, sir. The master attendant is turning out Hibernia as we speak.”

  “Thank you. I desire you will allow me to make use of your boats.”

  “By all means.”

  From below came a procession. Stretchers with wounded, pale and bloody. Some moaning, some very still. They were handed down into the boat with the utmost care and it put off.

  Another piteous procession followed them. Five canvas shrouds. These were sent down with equal tenderness as Tyger’s company lined the side, taking off their hats. The milling boats quietened as they made way for men taking their last journey back to the land that had given them birth.

  “Sir. The men are now all relieved at the pumps. We’ve … we’ve made it, sir.” Bray’s voice had turned husky and Kydd was nearly overcome, it coming from such a lion-hearted soul.

  “Ah, yes. You’ve just an hour to write liberty-tickets for the whole ship’s company. They’ll go ashore at once, do you hear?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  It was all so unreal, so dreamed of but never expected.

  “Sir?” Bowden seemed to sense his mood and spoke quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the admiral. Came aboard without we knew he was here. Will you see him?”

  Kydd blinked. Admirals only came out to ships with much fuss, fanfare and good warning. Was this a matter of some urgency? Kydd hurried to greet him.

  “Ah, Sir Thomas! My, are we glad to see you. Word from the North Sea squadron was that you were sore injured, and when Lively lost you, we thought you’d gone down.”

  “I’ve the entire ship’s company to thank that we didn’t, sir.”

  “I’m sure. Now, I know you’re much overborne with matters but I can’t allow that you will refuse me if I desire you to come to dinner very soon and tell me all about your great action.”

  “I’d be glad to, sir, should I be at liberty to do so.”

  “Splendid! Perhaps at—”

  But Kydd’s first lieutenant had come up and was standing by impatiently.

  “Yes, Mr Bray?”

  “Could I have a word, sir?”

  They went to one side and Bray coughed in embarrassment, saying, “I’ve never heard of it in all my years in the service.”

  “What’s that, then, Mr Bray?”

  “It’s like this, sir. When I told the clerk to prepare the liberty-tickets he said as how he’d been approached by the men who said they’d be damned if they’re to take their rest before the barky does. They’ll not set foot ashore afore they sees Tyger’s safely at her ease in dock.”

  “Thank you for telling me this, Mr Bray. They shall in course be allowed to stay aboard.”

  The admiral looked on in concern and, when Kydd returned, asked, “Not a case of worriment, I trust?”

  “No, sir, just … nothing as can’t be arranged.”

  “Well, sir. If there’s anything I can do, please tell. You’re to be indulged, I believe, sir!”

  In a surge of feeling, Kydd replied, “Yes, sir, there is one service that would gratify me in full measure.”

  “Do fill and stand on, sir!”

  “The people conceive that they will not step ashore while Tyger awaits her rest. Their wish is to stay aboard until then. We’re at a stand for comforts and so …”

  “Yes?”

  “I ask that you do send out the marines to every tavern, ordinary and hostelry in Sheerness. They’re to bring back to Tyger a piping hot pie or similar, enough for all our company. This to be to my expense, of course.”

  The admiral looked at him in astonishment, then leaned forward and barked, “Impossible!”

  “Sir?”

  “I won’t have it!”

  “Sir.”

  “This will be done—but to my expense.”

  After Kydd had seen him over the side he called for Bray once more. “The men to remain aboard. There’s only one thing I can do.”

  “Wives and sweethearts?”

  “Just so.”

  The word was passed and spread ashore. In a remarkably short time a joyous armada of boats put off and Tyger was invaded by a gay throng of womenfolk.

  Kydd watched from the quarterdeck, his heart full. The mortal tiredness had receded and it was time to take joy in the hou
r.

  He especially rejoiced at the news of gunner’s mate Stirk. The tough old seaman had come to and, with no sign of derangement, was able to let his views be adequately known about being landed from Tyger.

  Then across the thronging decks he saw a pair threading through, moving purposefully towards him—and rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

  “Nicholas! Cecilia! Wha’?”

  “Well, we were just passing by and—”

  “My love, don’t chouse Thomas so. Dear brother, your hero fight is known throughout the land these last days, since those dispatches. We heard even in Wiltshire, and Nicholas put a carriage on the road in the same hour, you must believe! He worked out that the nearest dockyard you’d make for would be Sheerness and he was right, the darling man, and here we are!”

  To see his sister and her noble husband, his sea companion of years, was touching to a degree. He’d sent a terse message before he’d first joined Tyger under a cloud and they would have had no news since then.

  “So this is your new ship, Thomas,” Cecilia said, looking around her curiously. Her striking dark good looks were arresting in such bare surroundings. “It’s so much bigger than L’Aurore.”

  “Yes, sis. An eighteen-pounder o’ the first water,” Kydd said proudly, then led them below to his cabin

  She saw the needlework sampler on the bulkhead and rose to read it.

  Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

  In the forests of the night;

  What immortal hand or eye,

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  “How intriguing!” she said in admiration. “Who wrote these words, I wonder?”

  They turned simultaneously to Renzi, who held up a hand and gave a wry smile.

  “It was written while we two were in Seaflower cutter in the Caribbean. By a gentleman who was taken up for sedition on the eve of Trafalgar for saying, ‘Damn the King. The soldiers are all slaves!’ Your William Blake is not to be claimed by those who set at an eminence England’s crown and sceptre.”

  “But Thomas’s ship was named after this, I’m sure of it!”

  “I feel that it is rather more the stout Tyger of Sir Francis Drake, as mentioned by Shakespeare, my love.”

  “I’m keeping it anyway!” Kydd said rebelliously, and shepherded Cecilia back to her chair.

  Tysoe entered with refreshments. The silver salver had an ugly twist and scoring on one side. “My lord, I do apologise for its appearance. We did not entirely escape the malice of the enemy as you may see.”

  “And I didn’t like to remark it, Thomas, but your ship is sadly out of countenance. She must have suffered, poor creature.”

  “No more than our gallant crew, Cec,” Kydd said, in a low voice. Then in a stronger tone he declared, “But she’s blooded now, and when she’s set to rights we’ll take the tight little barky out to meet the enemy and bid Boney do his worst!”

  “I’ll drink to that in a bumper!” Renzi said, raising a glass.

  The three did so, then Renzi regarded Kydd with a quizzical look. “Knowing you, old trout, I’m sanguine you’ve given no thought to what it is you’ve brought to pass.”

  “We came through it without disgrace, Nicholas. That’s all I desired.”

  “As I thought. I beg you will understand that the world will no longer remember Sir Thomas of Curaçao. From now on, the frigate captain who faced three frigates and bested them will be ranked with Pellew and Blackwood, his name coupled with his ship, like Keats of the Superb, to the glory of this kingdom. It will be by his bare name that Kydd of the Tyger will be spoken of henceforth.”

  Kydd coloured, but muttered darkly, “As will give the Admiralty something to choke on!”

  Renzi smiled gently. “Dear fellow, forgive me if I point out some home truths. Your contretemps with Lord St Vincent is as nothing in the eyes of the world now. No one is listening to the old gentleman these days, for the navy and the world are quite changed and his views are sadly set at naught.”

  “His friends their lordships, the damned villains, have a lot to answer for, Nicholas. Why, when—”

  “A mort of perspective will ease your ire, my distinguished friend. You’re as yet untutored in the dark arts of politics and power—do believe me when I say there are tides of animosity and adulation both of which swish about figures at an eminence. There are cabals and conspiracies, alliances and antagonisms that ebb and flow with the fevers of the hour.

  “Inevitably you will be perceived as owing allegiance to one or another and therefore an enemy to the rest. I counsel you to accept your lot and pay no mind to the shrill cries of the other side, for at the height of your fame you may assuredly count on a quantity of the envious, the mal-prepensed, the petty to take pen and wit against you.

  “Rest on your laurels, dear friend, for they’re hard-earned, and do scorn these lesser creatures.”

  Kydd reddened again, then looked up and spoke softly. “Nicholas, my dear and true friend. Those times we were watch-on-deck together in Artemis, even through to the old Tenacious—do you remember? I took in a hill of your advice and it brought me to … to here, to this hour. How can I not hoist it aboard?”

  There was a muffled sob as Cecilia got up and ran to Kydd, crushing him to her. “You wonderful, wonderful man!” She gulped, tears starting.

  “Er, sir?” It was Bowden, standing at the cabin door and somewhat at a loss at the sight.

  “Yes?” Kydd managed to disengage himself.

  “So sorry, sir, but you’re wanted on deck.”

  “What is it that …”

  His words died away at the sight before him. Every one of the Tygers was silently standing there.

  “Off hats!” roared the boatswain.

  Bowden stepped forward. “Sir Thomas, I’m desired by the ship’s company of HMS Tyger to make presentation of this loyal address to you, captain of their ship and commander of same in the late battle.”

  Dumbstruck, Kydd just had the wit to doff his own hat as Bowden unrolled the parchment written in a hand uncannily similar to Dillon’s.

  In ringing tones he declared:

  To his honour,

  Captain Sir Thomas Kydd of the Royal Navy.

  May it please you, sir. We, the dutiful and loyal ship’s company of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Tyger hereunder subscribed, do wish it known and witnessed our true and humble duty to you, our worthy and well-beloved captain, and pledge our undying devotion and obedience in whatsoever perils and adventure His Majesty commands his ship doth perform.

  In this, our expression of fidelity and loyalty, we trust you will always be attended by success and happiness in the years to come.

  Signed this day …

  He concluded with an elegant bow, which Kydd jerkily returned. The scroll was formally presented.

  “Th-thank you, Mr Bowden. And I do thank you for this, the Tygers. From the bottom of my heart. I’ll never forget you all—”

  But Kydd couldn’t go on and had to turn aside as his vision misted, for he now undeniably had the greatest prize he could ask for: Tyger’s heart and soul.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Of all the characters in history I’ve come across while researching the sixteen volumes in the Kydd series to date, there’s been none like Rear Admiral Sir Home Riggs Popham KCB (as he eventually became). He served under the Duke of York in the army, was a scientist, secret-service manipulator, fellow of the Royal Society, inventor of Nelson’s Trafalgar code of signals, originator of the Sea Fencibles and a Member of Parliament all through the time of his contact with Kydd—but never once did he take his ship against the enemy.

  Yet, gifted as he was, for some reason he had a genius for making enemies—from the visceral hatred of St Vincent and nearly the entire Board of Admiralty to many of the highest in the land. The closest I could come to putting my finger on it is to conceive that he never bothered to conceal his intelligence in his dealings with lesser mortals. I kept coming across asides like “incurably plausibl
e” and “he suffers from an excess of cleverality.” Whatever the reason, his court-martial was the sensation of the age, leaving none in the land without an opinion. It polarised the navy and Kydd’s experiences were typical. You’ve not heard the last of this cryptic figure in Kydd’s future adventures …

  Despite his taking against my hero I’ve to confess much admiration for John Jervis, Earl St Vincent. Denied the life of a sailor by his parents, he nevertheless ran away to sea. His service spanned the Seven Years’ War, the American War of Independence, the Revolutionary War, the Napoleonic War, and he was still standing at Waterloo. His devotion to the navy was intense and unwavering. When Britain was hysterical at the threat of invasion he famously said, “I do not say, my lords, that the French will not come. I say only they will not come by sea!” His uncompromising stand on mutiny and discipline made him much feared, but the same approach nearly cost England the war when, as first lord of the Admiralty, he ruthlessly moved against corruption in the royal dockyards and the timber cartel that was manipulating prices for the most vital raw material of all. They responded essentially with an embargo, and the crusty lord, utterly refusing to give way, provoked an instant crisis. It took all the diplomacy of Nelson himself to resolve it. Such a man of indomitable black-and-white views was never going to be biddable in politics and he was removed from office subsequently.

  And I couldn’t resist the piquant tableau of the founder of Australia, Captain Arthur Phillip, in his old age acting the press-gang chief, hating it but doing his duty for his country in its time of peril. Incidentally, recent research has thrown up that, almost certainly, he was a paid secret agent of the Crown in deeds of derring-do that had considerable effect on the conduct of the war.

  In the course of working on this tale I became particularly fascinated by my Arctic research. There was indeed half-hearted thinking to resurrect Archangel to act as a fall-back port if the Danes sided with the French to close off the crucial Baltic trade, but as it turned out, events took another course. Nevertheless, with my modern charts and pilot to hand, I stand amazed and humbled at the sheer grit and fortitude of those who voyaged in these regions in days of sail. In conversation with W. K. De Vaney, an Arctic hand of no small experience, it was eye-opening to pore over the great narratives of the historic Arctic to reveal what had to be borne to allow routine human existence in those latitudes.