Tyger (15 page)

They had deserted him, left him to be taken or killed! The realisation shook Kydd.

A trumpet call sounded in the blackness, much nearer than the other.

He had to do something! But … what?

If he made it to the shore and blundered about looking for a path he’d quickly be found by the locals. And in full uniform what chance did he have in the open country?

Seething with rage and hopelessness, he could do nothing but wait for capture—or some militiaman cutting him down with a musket.

Then, with a catch in his throat at the unfairness of it all, he saw a miracle: out of the same blue river haze, the launch, pulling fast for the ship. They had come back for him—but, in God’s name, why?

Now was not the time to question it and he swung down into the fore-chains and when the bows of the launch touched he jumped in, knocking the bowman aside.

“Back-water!” It was Halgren’s voice, now harsh and commanding.

Kydd made his way aft clumsily through the rowers just as shouts erupted on the opposite bank.

“Hold water larb’d, give way starb’d.”

Through the reeds there was a vivid gun-flash of a musket and then another.

The launch was curving around and unavoidably nearing the bank. Half a dozen gun-flashes came at once, the
whuup
of a ball close, but Kydd knew that they had destroyed their night vision by firing too early and there was little to fear.

He thumped into the sternsheets seat and sat back, breathing deeply with tension and relief.

He got back aboard no wiser as to why they’d come back for him. Was it Halgren, or was it a general consensus with his agreement? The big seaman disappeared quickly and Kydd decided against calling him back for explanations.

But he felt a tiny stab of hope. At least someone cared about what happened to him.

On the other hand, there was no denying the mood was ugly. In the darkness he heard savage shouts, sour rejoinders.

Hollis barely concealed his contempt and Paddon needed prodding to admit the fact that he’d even had one deserter, leaping ashore to vanish into the night. He’d pleaded confusion as to why he’d left Kydd to his fate. Most likely he’d made away without seeking orders just as soon as the situation had become plain.

Only the sailing master showed any kind of sympathy, asking for details and commiserating quietly.

The boats were hoisted in and the ship reverted to sea routine, heading out under easy sail.

Kydd took a cold supper, still shaken by events. Too keyed up to sleep, he decided to take his customary turn around the upper deck even though it was well into the night.

It was chilly and he hugged his coat to him as he left the group around the helm and made his way forward.

The ship heaved at an increased swell. Cloud had come up to blot out the moon—there’d be heavy rain before morning.

Jumbled thoughts raced through his mind as he slowly paced along, the darkness now near absolute, the white of wave-crests almost luminous out in the blackness.

He reached the fore lookouts and returned down the opposite side, trying to come to a conclusion. But nothing made sense and things were getting worse.

Turning at the taffrail aft he began another pace forward.

The officer-of-the-watch, Nowell, and the quartermaster stood silently, watching in blank curiosity.

Passing the boats on their skids amidships Kydd felt the beginnings of despair. There was only a short time to pull off a miracle and he didn’t have anything. If he couldn’t …

At the sound of a sudden scuffle behind him he twisted round. A blow aimed at the back of his head took him on the side instead. Disoriented, he fell to his knees—and they were on him.

Instinctively he seized a rope and clung to it, lashing out viciously with both feet, which connected solidly with two of the assailants. They staggered back, the third irresolute.

Kydd let out a choking cry, then a shout.

His attackers turned and fled but in the dark he hadn’t been able to see their faces clearly.

Gasping, he waited for help—but then, in sudden dawning realisation, he understood: he was succeeding. He now had conclusive proof that there was an evil mind behind the whole thing, holding his crew in thrall by some means but now so desperate to stop him that he’d taken the grave risk of having him attacked on his own ship—because he was getting through to the seamen.

In a haze of relief that overcame his pain he heard running feet and the quartermaster, followed by Nowell, arrived.

“Sir—what …?”

Kydd was ready for it. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr Nowell. I tripped and hit my head. That’s all. A bit of a sea tonight, don’t you think?”

If he could just find this devilish plotter and put an end to him—he’d cleanse the ship of the man’s malign sway over the Tygers.

N
OWELL STOOD DOWN FROM HIS WATCH
at midnight, handing over to Paddon, who listened with barely hidden contempt to his recitation of sail carried, course and weather conditions before dismissing him without a glance.

The young third lieutenant left the deck, desolation descending on him, as it seemed to so much these days. The ship was a nightmare of contradictions, a parody of what he had learned of sea service as a shy but eager midshipman.

The men were unreadable, their looks calculating and hostile, and he sensed a dangerous, edgy undercurrent. Their captain, the acclaimed Sir Thomas Kydd, didn’t seem to have any notion of how to put an end to it.

He reached the bottom of the ladderway and turned aft for the gun-room when Smyth, a master’s mate, emerged out of the gloom. “Begging y’r pardon, sir,” he said, with a sketchy salute. “The master wonders if he can have an urgent word wi’ ye.”

At this hour? But it was the courteous Le Breton, who, of all of the quarterdeck, was the most calm and reliable. No doubt it would be for a good reason.

“I’ll come now.”

“Ah, not in the gun-room, sir. In the boatswain’s storeroom, like.”

Nowell thought this odd, but then assumed that the problem was in the odorous recesses of the orlop, forward.

Smyth carried a lanthorn, and as they approached the store, Nowell saw several figures outside, waiting.

“The master?”

“Inside, sir.”

Nowell entered cautiously. Le Breton was sitting on an upended barrel at the far end among the hanging tackles, blocks and tools. A lamp on the deck cast a ghostly light up at him in the gloom. The reek of rope and Stockholm tar was almost overpowering.

Smyth followed him in. The door closed quietly.

“Do sit,” Le Breton said politely, indicating another barrel near him.

Nowell hesitated. “Master, is there something you wish to discuss? I’ve just come off watch and—”

“There is. A matter of great importance to us all.”

Nowell sat and waited uncertainly. There was a gleam in the master’s eye, which unsettled him with its uncharacteristic fervour.

“What I have to tell you is a fact that you must accept here and now, for there is no changing it. It will happen and there is not one thing anyone can do to stop it.”

“Go on,” the third lieutenant said, as a chill stole into his vitals.

“Tomorrow there will be a rising of the hands and this vessel will be handed over to the French Navy.”

Nowell gulped. “How do you know this, Master?”

Le Breton smiled thinly, “Because it will be my doing. I will not bore you with details but it’s sufficient to tell you that my allegiance lies with the people, not their rulers.”

“You’re French! An agent sent to—”

“It doesn’t really signify. What does is that tomorrow a frigate will rendezvous with this vessel, summoned by Mr Paddon’s ‘deserter.’ It will be the signal for us to complete our task and take charge of this ship. It will then be handed over and carried in to port.”

“I—I don’t believe you! The men would never—”

“My dear sir, they will—and I’ll tell you why. I have five other agents to spread my tidings that every man who stands on the right side when called upon will then be the possessor of a purse of gold, together with safe passage to any country or territory they so desire. Those who do not … well, let us say they must take their chances.”

Nowell tried to think. It must have been in the planning for some time, awaiting a suitable victim, and they had found one in
Tyger
. Le Breton was masquerading as the sailing master indicated on his warrant, the actual one removed. And with a grave shortage of seamen it wouldn’t have been too difficult to insert those five others—ostensibly volunteers of foreign extraction—into
Tyger
to plan and supervise the disaffection and poisoning of the crew to the point at which they could be relied upon to rise in mutiny at the right time.

A climate of fear would have been easily generated by the simple means of keeping secret the identity of his agents. In this way any who tried to raise the alarm could never know if he had been seen and betrayed. It explained the fear and distrust that had driven the Tygers into a fragmented mass.

A sudden jet of terror came. It made no sense for them to let him in on their plans unless … “Why are you telling me this?” he croaked.

“We need an officer.”

“Why me?”

“Mr Nowell, it doesn’t take much discerning to mark you out as a very unhappy man,” Le Breton said softly, looking up at him in a kindly way. “You’ve suffered more than most at the hands of those who call themselves your betters. You deserve a new start.”

With a numb inevitability Nowell saw where it was all leading.

“As an officer, your share of the proceeds in gold would be much larger, undoubtedly sufficient to set you up as a gentleman of affluence, of leisure. In Portugal, the Caribbean, even America, you could be sure of a welcome and a place in society as a respected figure of means. Who knows? A good marriage, a family …”

A vision grew and matured, an intoxicating one of dignity and esteem, of repose and peace in a country far away from the madness of war.

Le Breton smiled. “You’re considering your position. That is good. But you’re wanting reassurance that you’re coming over to the winning side and I can appreciate that. Let me tell you more of what’s planned and why it cannot fail.

“It requires only a dozen or more to declare themselves ready to act and I can state positively that we have more. These are merely the active players—many others will join us when they see how swiftly we succeed when my order is given, and how much they stand to lose if they don’t.” He spoke as if he was giving a lecture, calm, reasoned and persuasive.

“You see, we have surprise on our side. While attention is on the enemy frigate none will suspect us. All men will be at their guns—you’ll know how grievous short-handed we are. At my signal—well, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.”

There was more to it than that, obviously, but the essence was there. On the next day
Tyger
would be carried over to the French. This was now a foregone conclusion. The question was, where did he stand?

“What assurance have we of our reward?” Nowell found himself saying.

“If the word of a gentleman is insufficient for you,” the master said reproachfully, “then might I ask you to conceive of the gratitude to be expected by a government presented with the gift of a most valuable ship of a thousand tons? You can be sure it may be measured in gold.”

From behind him there was a fruity chuckle from Smyth.

“And may I point out to you that this whole proceeding is ordered, with decorum and completely bloodless. What more can you ask of me?”

Nowell realised that in less than twenty-four hours he could be on his way to a new life, an end to this nightmare. “What do you want me to do?”

“Merely to assist me in making the affair bloodless. When my order goes out it will be with moves that are intended to prevent retaliation. Our gallant captain will be taken by surprise but will order the crew to resist. Your job is to countermand his orders and advise the men to stand down and accept the situation. At best they will do so, you being an officer and one they are accustomed to obey. At worst there will be confusion, which will enable us to consolidate our position. You understand me?”

It made sense and Nowell would seem to be trying to pacify a dangerous situation. With this one act he would secure his golden future!

“And this is all I’m called upon to do?”

“Only this. A small enough thing, I would have thought.”

His mind blazed with feeling. To have sweet revenge on Paddon, Hollis and all those who’d made his life a wretched misery! To be quit of this existence for ever and—“I’ll do it.”

“Good. It’s no discredit in any man to bow before the inevitable. Go to your rest now, Mr Nowell, and we’ll speak more of this tomorrow.”

Was that all?

“Yes. Well, good night, Master.” He left.

Le Breton motioned briefly. Two men immediately detached from the several waiting outside and followed noiselessly.

Nowell lay in his cot, his mind racing with possibilities and fears. When next he slept, it would be in a very different world, one that until an hour ago he could never have dreamed of.

Could he find it in him to shout down Captain Kydd when he roared out at the seamen to stand by him? He quailed at the thought, then realised that this wasn’t what he was meant to do. His would be the voice of reason, of sorrow to have to bow to the twist of fortune that saw them all at the mercy of a higher force, to which it would be no dishonour to yield.

Yet Kydd had been the only one who’d been good to him, walking the deck and hearing his anxieties with sympathy and understanding. He wasn’t like the others. And he was a hero, a real one, and had bothered to speak to him kindly when he must have been distracted beyond imagining by the condition of his ship.

It troubled him. This man had accepted the mission to go to
Tyger
and make her whole, and it was not his fault that he was being invisibly thwarted from within.

What would happen to him? Like all those who remained steadfast and true, he would be condemned to rot his life away in a bleak fastness somewhere. The seamen would be taken to a wretched prison or put to hard labour in some ancient port. None would have any chance of release or exchange—Bonaparte knew that British sailors were preventing him achieving his destiny and would never let them go.