Tyger (12 page)

As soon as it came out Kydd knew it was the wrong thing to say. After their searing experience, and now being virtually imprisoned in an unhappy ship, they’d no doubt welcome any chance to get out.

“We’ll start shortly. I’ll desire each of you to make report individually and alone, no need for formality. Mr Hollis to begin, other officers and warrant officers after.”

They made to rise and he added, “I take it the ship is in routine. I’ve no wish to interrupt. Please continue watches as usual.”

Kydd was left alone and he leafed through the existing captain’s orders. There were no surprises, no concessions or idiosyncrasies that he could see. Almost certainly these had been inherited from the preceding captain unchanged. He’d leave it a while before he—

There was a knock and a face appeared around the door. “Sir?”

“What is it?”

“Ah, then, oi’m Flynn, y’r steward, sir,” the man said, letting himself in. “Just thought how ye might fancy a bite, like.”

Unusually, Kydd preferred his manservant to attend at his meals as well. Tysoe was one of nature’s gentlemen, quiet and unobtrusive, and knew him and his ways completely. “Not at the moment, Flynn. I’m very busy. We’ll have a talk about things later.”

“The ol’ cap’n, why he—”

“Later.”

Hollis arrived soon after and began to lay out the quarters bill. Kydd asked him bluntly, “How’s
Tyger
’s manning at the moment?”

“Complement of two hundred and eighty-four. We’re seventy-one short-handed.”

Kydd nearly choked. This amounted to the loss of one in every four men at every gun and station. How could they possibly …?

“I see. Are you able to—”

“Watch and stations are complete, quarters one side of guns.”

There was something hostile about his manner, a holding back. Probably he’d considered it reasonable to be promoted to command but instead must stay where he was while an Admiralty favourite had been put in over his head.

A twisted smile surfaced on Kydd’s face: he’d find no ally or friend in this officer.

“Well done then, Mr Hollis. I’ll take it that we’re ready for sea.”

There was no response. The man sat rigid, tense.

“Tell me, what’s your feeling of the people at the moment?”

Hollis gave a thin smile. “Whatever ails the rogues is still there, cankering, festering. They’re in an evil taking and are not to be trusted. Nothing that a taste o’ discipline won’t cure in the end.”

“Very well. I’ll take your views into account,” Kydd responded. But this was confrontation, not enlightened leadership—and he’d noticed not a single “sir” in the whole exchange.

The boatswain was visibly sweating when he lumbered in. He had his books but Kydd waved them aside. “I see much that needs attention, Mr Dawes. How can this be?”

“Why, sir, and how this ship’s bin in a rare state for months. I dursn’t come hard on ’em, if y’ gets m’ meaning.”

The man was cowed and intimidated—broken by the mutiny?

“Mr Dawes, I desire you as of this moment you take survey of this ship. Any line or spar as can’t stand up to a North Sea blow, do tell me directly.”

The gunner was brief and to the point. Short near half the quarter-gunners and with a sick armourer, he could not vouch for the condition of their armament, although in the absence of any past engagement with the enemy they retained a full complement of powder and shot.

It would have to do.

Then the sailing master came in.

“Sit down, Mr Le Breton. I’ve a notion you’ll know your nauticals, a Guernseyman like you. I had service there in a brig-sloop some years ago and well do I remember the Little Russell at low water springs.”

“Sir.”

“You’ve long service in
Tyger?
”

“A little over a year, Sir Thomas.” As with many of his countrymen there was the quaint tinge of a French accent in his words.

“Then you’ll know her little tricks. Do tell me something of her, if you please.”

He deliberated before he answered. “A strong ship, full bow and clean tail. Likes a blow but needs a firm hand always. Stays about reliably, up to twelve knots on a bowline, and tends to sail stiff, so sky-sails will not be impossible. Deep in the hold and so plenty of endurance.”

Kydd was a little disappointed that for some reason Le Breton had not shown anything like affection for his charge, describing the ship as if standing outside her. But then he reasoned that, after going through what he must have during the mutiny, he could be forgiven for holding
Tyger
at arm’s length.

“Fair weather?”

“Prefers a fresh, quartering breeze is all I can say.”

“Foul weather?”

“A good sea-boat. Dry.”

Again, distancing. “Would you say she’s ready for sea?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

“Confidentially, Mr Le Breton, what is your opinion of our ship’s company?” It was an unfair question but he could glean much from his answer, both about his crew and the man himself.

“They’ve been through a serious mutiny, sir. They’re melancholic, down-hearted. For myself …”

“Yes?”

“I believe there’s no better medicine than the open sea. Work to do, a different view each morning. Idleness at anchor can only breed … unhappiness.”

“My feeling exactly, Mr Le Breton.”

At last a principal in
Tyger
he could rely on!

As he left, Kydd heard the faint strike of eight bells. The men would be going to their grog and evening meal—he would give a lot to hear what was being discussed over the mess-tables.

The thought of this brought on a pang of hunger. In his anxieties he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. And pointedly there had been no invitation from the wardroom to dine.

“Flynn!” he called.

There was no response. The man was probably at his own meal and grog, and Tysoe was still ashore.

Kydd was suddenly overcome by a wave of desolation as he looked about his bare cabin, shadows deepening in the evening gloom. Would he still be standing at the end of it all?

His steward finally appeared, resentfully wiping his mouth.

“You mentioned a bite?”

“Officers’ cook ain’t victualled for youse … sir, and y’ didn’t bring yer own.”

“Then I’ll take a dish of mess-deck scran.”

Flynn blinked and looked at him as though he hadn’t heard right.

“Now!”

In theory Kydd was, as any officer, entitled to take ship’s food, but the captain?

He ate slowly by a single candle, listening to the timber creaks and muffled groans as the ship lifted to the slight swell and snubbed to her anchor. Every vessel had a different pattern, which varied as well with the direction of the roll. How long would it be before
Tyger
’s characterful sounds became familiar?

There was little more he could do before morning but so much would face him then.

Paperwork by the mountain was needed to complete the handover. He was expected to sign that he accepted the state of accounts of the three main figures: purser, gunner and boatswain. In the usual formal procedure he would have taken the time to have them mustered before him, and the outgoing captain would have an interest to make sure it went smoothly.

Now he was being asked to sign for them unseen and take personal responsibility for deficits.

And, crucially, did he have sufficient confidence in his officers that he could take
Tyger
to sea? He had grave reservations, but unless he went with what he had, there would be endless weeks of soul-destroying idleness.

If he ordered them to up anchor, would the hands obey or would it trigger a bigger, final, mutiny?

He pushed away the remains of the pottage, unable to finish. His time among the indulgences of London had spoiled him but these were now but a dream in the face of what threatened.

The empty cabin smelt alien and musty and he felt another wave of bleakness clamping in. He got up and made for the open deck. It was dark and, except for a lanthorn suspended in the rigging above the huddled watch, there was nothing but the dimness of a cloudy night and the occasional fleck of foam.

A figure among the watch group straightened in alarm. It was Nowell, the third lieutenant.

“Why, Mr Nowell, what brings you up on deck?” Kydd asked mildly. “Is there any complication at all?”

While at anchor it was quite in order for the officer-of-the-watch to spend time in the warmth of the gun-room, on call by the mate-of-the-watch.

“N-no problems, sir,” the young man stuttered. “I thought as I’d, er, take the air for a space.”

Kydd sensed agitation. “That’s well, Mr Nowell. It’s my invariable practice to take a turn around the deck before I retire. Shall we walk together?”

He waited until they were out of earshot and opened, “Your first ship as lieutenant?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“A hard enough thing to face a mutiny, then.”

There was no answer, and Nowell stared obstinately out into the blackness.

“I was once in a mutiny,” Kydd continued. “At the Nore in ’ninety-seven. Not as I’d wish to go through it again. We were five weeks under the red flag and—”

“It’s not over, I know it. They’re talking, whispering and I’m … I’m not easy moving about the ship at night. They look at me without saying anything but when I pass by, give me a cruel smile as if …”

Kydd felt for him. The young lad, so recently a midshipman, was having to find his place as an officer and had been pitchforked into the worst kind of situation to be found at sea.

But the fact that he was confiding in his captain was disturbing: it meant that his fellow officers were not extending a comradely understanding, were keeping aloof. Had they retreated into themselves, separate islands, as the vital officer corps of the ship fell apart?

“It’ll be better for everybody once we get to sea, Mr Nowell, just you see.”

There was a question he had to ask: “If you say the mutiny is still threatening, that means the ringleaders were not all caught. Have you any notion of who it could be that’s causing unrest among the men?”

“None, sir,” he said miserably. “They don’t talk in front of me.”

Shunned by the men, left on his own by the officers, the young man was going through hell.

“Well, I don’t expect trouble but if you do hear anything, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“I will, sir. And … thank you, sir.”

As he returned below he tried to put the young officer’s troubled admission aside, but it stayed.

“L’tenant Payne to report.”

The young marine officer came in hesitantly. “You wanted to see me, Sir Thomas?” He looked as edgy as Nowell had.

“This is a ship lately out of mutiny. I don’t want to know what happened, but it would oblige me should you tell me your dispositions for the night.”

He gulped nervously. “Oh, er, the same as Captain Parker posted up.”

The man had obviously been left on his own to take responsibility for the ship’s main recourse in time of mutiny, and he without even the time at sea that Nowell had had.

“So where …?”

“Magazine, your cabin, spirit room, gun-room door, hourglass—”

“Very good.” These were the usual postings but if more were added this would not only goad the sailors to see themselves under guard but would reveal that their captain was afraid.

“Look after your men. We may have need of ’em.”

A brief flash of terror showed. “Yes, sir,” he replied faintly.

Last Kydd saw the master-at-arms, making his routine report that the silent hours had begun and that all lights had been doused. “Come in, Mr Tully,” he called, to the dark figure in the doorway. His corporal stayed outside with the lanthorn.

“I want you to tell me the temper of the people,” Kydd asked quietly.

The man’s face tightened. “Nuthin’ to report, sir.”

“That’s not what I asked. It’s your opinion I’d like to hear.”

“Not for me t’ say, sir,” Tully said, in a flat voice.

“Well, are they, who shall say, reliable?”

“Can’t answer that, sir.”

The gaze was steady, the replies quick. This man stood between the seamen and the officers and in normal times his allegiance was a given. But Tully was a survivor: things could go either way.

It was disquieting. It could only be that subversion was so widespread and imminent that Tully couldn’t now risk being seen on the wrong side. Not only did it imply that his loyalty was in doubt but it also appeared he had certain knowledge of a conspiracy that had every chance of succeeding. Why did he not tell of it?

“Very well,” Kydd said. “You’ll inform me if you hear anything.”

“Sir.”

Kydd lay awake, every strange noise and playful slap of a wave jerking him alert. At last he drifted into a troubled sleep.

The night passed without incident and the ship met a cold dawn with little ceremony. If there was any defiance or rebellion brewing they were probably biding their time until they knew more of their captain.

Kydd took a quick breakfast of burgoo and went up to see the change of watch.

It was a sullen, listless show. The oncoming officer-of-the-watch, Paddon, seemed disinclined to stretch them and contented himself with the minimum necessary. Was he concerned that if he had them knees down deck-scrubbing it would provoke a rising?

Now would be the right time for a taut captain to come down hard and lay out just how he wanted his ship run, but Kydd had a bigger problem: how to get
Tyger
to sea.

At ten a shore boat brought the welcome sight of Tysoe, imperturbably seeing his baggage and stores up the side.

“The boat to lay off,” Kydd ordered.

To his credit, there was only a moment of wide-eyed disbelief as Tysoe entered the bare cabin. Kydd had ordered all of Captain Parker’s personal ornaments and knick-knacks to be placed in the cot and taken ashore by the waiting boat. For some reason he kept the needlework but everything else went.

“Sir Thomas,” Tysoe said, troubled. “You have no bed.”

“Draw a hammock from slops, there’s a good chap,” Kydd replied instantly.

The morning went quickly. He put off seeing the purser with his accounts but asked for the master, telling him they would be going to sea in the near future. “To join the North Sea squadron. Do you have good charts from the Texel to France? I rather think that’s where we’ll be employed, Mr Le Breton, and I’ve never served on that coast.”