Tyger (22 page)

His mind refused to let go. Just how could such smuggling be organised?

Ironically the biggest single obstacle was breaking the Royal Navy’s blockade of the continent. Even if they got to sea Russell’s vigilant inshore squadron would pounce and the valuable cargo would be seized. This had never happened that he’d heard of, so there must be another way.

It had to be by ship—but how the devil was it done that none could see?

A faint raucous cheer came from the first Tygers arriving. There’d be sore heads in the morning if there was nobody to tell them of the potency of Russian liquor.

Idly his mind wandered back. If
he
were in charge of the fur smuggling he wouldn’t trifle with piecemeal shipments, any one of which could tip off a naval boarding officer to the existence of the operation. But only small brigs and sloops could make it up the Dvina as far as Archangel. Trans-ship at sea? Too risky and open to spoilage.

It was a conundrum … but then something Bellingham had said flickered into an idea. He’d said that the shed had been near the whaling-ship grounds, the White Sea Company, controlled by the Dutch. What if …

Yes! It made sense. The whalers returned from their hunting grounds with their oil, which was landed, and then they went back to their hunting grounds—with clean, empty vats! If the furs were stored in those, suitably protected, who would think to stop a whaler on its way out?

So this was a method to get the furs away—but what advantage did it give? Whales were taken at sea and brought to their shore station to be flensed and tried. What better than to use this base as a depot to consolidate the shipment? If so, they could be picked up all together by a ship of size only once a season with much-reduced risk. And at such a place, necessarily remote and inaccessible, they would be perfectly safe …

He sat up suddenly. All this was quite possible—but that didn’t prove a thing.

He could do nothing in Archangel. Once at sea he could stop and search a whaler on its way out, but that had two problems: those ships were flying the flag of Russia, an ally, and any such interference would cause an international incident—and if he did board one, he would get only a small part of the trade. It made more sense to find the base and, with it, the entire shipment.

However, he had no right to set one of His Majesty’s valuable frigates charging about searching for a fairy-tale haul of furs without solid evidence. All he had were the ramblings of a deranged prisoner of the Russians.

He had to have more.

A passing burst of noise showed that the Tygers were not wasting time. He gave a twisted smile in acknowledgement of times long ago when he had stepped ashore with his shipmates in foreign parts. They’d found the grog-shops and roystered happily with mariners from all the seven seas regardless of creed or language.

He remembered once when he and Stirk had … That was it!

Impatiently he waited until his confidential secretary returned. “Mr Dillon, I have a task for you—that is, if it is not too great an imposition.”

The young man heard him out, then beamed. “It shall be done, Sir Thomas.”

An hour later, in the third one he tried, Dillon finally found Stirk and his shipmates, gleesome and happy amid the din of a press of humanity in the smoky tavern.

The grizzled gunner listened in amazement to what Dillon was asking. Then, laughing together, they went outside and around to the back of the dark-timbered hovel.

Minutes later, Stirk returned in the company of a rollicking young Jack Tar in smart sea rig who rolled as he walked and looked right primed to blow out his gaff.

“Arr, me hearty!” chortled Stirk, slapping him on the back. “Yo ho ho, an’ a bottle o’ the right true stuff!”

Inside Doud and Pinto started with astonishment. Before they could say anything, he roared, “Mates, this skiddy cock is me old shipmate off the
Saucy Sue
as was, come t’ see how we Tygers has a good time.”

They blinked at him, speechless.

“Bring y’ arse to anchor, lad,” Stirk insisted, making a place for him.

A black leather tankard was shoved into Dillon’s fist. “Beer is all, we has no truck wi’ the Russky cat’s piss.” Leaning forward, he whispered hoarsely, “This berth do ye? Or?”

Dillon paused, pretending to swig his beer, and decided. “Er, I’d rather I sat in Ned Doud’s place.”

“Outa there!”

Muttering, Doud was made to change places.

“Orright now, cock?”

It had worked! Kydd could barely suppress his elation. Not only did he know for certain that the furs went out with the whalers but he had the priceless additional piece of information that the last shipment of the season was about to depart!

The whaling men in the tavern would never know that among the jaunty British sailormen on the ran-tan there was a scholar of modern languages, only too eager to round out his education by overhearing what they were saying.

There was little point in staying any longer in the town so Kydd returned thankfully to his ship and Tysoe’s ministrations.

In a hot tub he settled to think about what he could do with his new-won knowledge.

From casual talk with Horner he’d discovered that, while Britain kept to the Greenland whale fisheries, the Russians and Norwegians hunted in the seas around the appallingly remote and desolate icy fastness of Spitzbergen.

As a storehouse and base it would be perfect. The whalers could earn good money on the empty outward voyage and that was all they needed to do, as usual returning with oil. So far removed from the shipping lanes there would be no chance of unwelcome visitors, and the actual taking up of the furs for entry to Europe would be more than two-thirds through waters never cruised in by any man-o’-war.

The final passage through the blockade would no doubt be achieved by some means but if Kydd was to make his move it would be well before that.

The elements were clear: he could not move against the whalers. Spitzbergen was Norwegian territory, nominally controlled by Denmark and thus neutral territory. He could not land a party and seize the goods.

That left the one course. He had to intercept the ship sent to pick up the season’s furs—after it had loaded and sailed, and was on the high seas.

The chances of being in the vicinity when that happened were too ridiculous to contemplate—except for one thing: Dillon had learned that the last whaling ship of the season from Archangel was about to sail, which implied that the year’s haul of furs would be ready to pick up in Spitzbergen and there would be no reason for them to delay. In fact, it was more than likely that the ship was waiting there at this very moment for this final consignment before sailing.

This was now a very real possibility and a flood of renewed energy went through him.

Tysoe brought his robe and Kydd paced up and down—he was now seriously contemplating a voyage to the true Arctic, to the very edge of the ice pack and the spawning ground of ice-mountains. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such a venture and, apart from Horner, there was no one aboard who had been there.

If he was wrong in his reasoning the whole thing would end in failure. Did he have the confidence in his own judgement to go ahead? The worst they could do was strip him of his command, which they were doing anyway.

But would
Tyger
and her crew back him in his last great adventure?

“No,
AN
’
THAT
’
S
M
’
LAST WORD
on it!” Horner folded his arms and returned Kydd’s gaze defiantly.

“Sir, you’re engaged to be this ship’s pilot in polar waters. I fail to see why Spitzbergen is not to be included in such.”

The sturdy whaleman said nothing.

“And I have a duty to the admiral to satisfy myself that there are no Frenchmen there. The only way to do that is go and find out,” Kydd added.

“Cap’n, this is y’r true Arctic. Ice floes, wind blast as’ll freeze your soul, ice mountains bigger’n a ship-of-the-line—it’s no place for a King’s ship, I’m telling you!”

“You’ve been to Spitzbergen.”

“Aye. Mate of a Scowegian whaler f’r two year. That’s how I knows—”

“I’ll double your fee.”

“I got no charts o’ the place. No one has. Whaling seamen know it by eye, hand on the lore down the generations. You have to, your lives depend on it.”

“As that may be, but—”

“Double and a half.” Horner bit his lip, hesitating. “And a certificate sayin’ as how I’m agin the voyage and I’m t’ be cleared o’ blame should we run afoul of the ice or such.”

“Done,” Kydd reluctantly conceded.

In the senior petty officers’ mess Stirk slapped down his cards in annoyance. “Matt, stick y’r head out an’ see what all that fuckin’ noise is about.”

Brewer, captain of the main-top, leaned over and pulled aside the painted canvas screen. “Hoi! Jemmy, what’s to do, as you’re disturbin’ the peace, like?”

A tow-haired ship’s boy detached himself from an excited group and raced across. “You ain’t heard? We’s going t’ the North Pole an’ all!”

“What’s he say?” grunted Pollard, the hard-faced boatswain’s mate, fingering his cards impatiently.

“Says we’re goin’ to the North Pole, Kip.”

“He what? Squeaker, get y’r arse in here an’ explain y’self!”

“We are an’ all, Mr Pollard. I heard the sailing master say as we ain’t got no charts for the North Pole.”

“He’s joshing, is all,” Brewer said, grunting. “An’ where’s he say we’re really off to?”

“T’ the north, Spitsbugger or somewheres,” the boy came back.

“An’ where the hell’s that?” Pollard growled, looking at the others.

“Spitsbuggen,” Brewer said loftily. “I heard on it from m’ dad. Was in
Carcass
when they went explorin’ in the High North thirty, forty year ago. Had along Our Nel as a younker, nearly lost the number of his mess to a polar bear an’ then they all gets trapped in the ice, ready to be froze t’ death, when the wind changes and they gets out.”

The thought of Horatio Nelson taken by a bear before ever he could go on to glory made them blink.

“What’s he say it’s like, cully?”

“Straight outa Hell!” Brewer said. “As no man wants t’ go back. Cold as’ll freeze your tears, quit calm in the forenoon, ragin’ black storm in the afternoon. I could tell ye a yarn or three as’ll curl your whiskers—”

“What we goin’ up there for?” Pollard snarled. “Bears an’ ice—we’s a frigate. Mongseers are what we’re after and we ain’t seen a hair o’ one since we came t’ this turdacious hole!”

“Stow it, Kip,” Stirk said. “Owner knows what he’s doing. Where’d you hear for sure there’s no Frenchy hidin’ there? Come on, mate, tell us how y’ know.”

“That’s not m’ point. If’n it’s as bad as Brewer says, they got no right t’ send us inta the ice. Stap me, the North Sea oggin gets t’ my bones, this’n is like to have m’ balls fall off. No, mate, this is bad cess, nothin’ good t’ come of it and all round sailors droppin’ dead wi’ cold.”

“So what are you goin’ to do about it, mate?”

“Me? Not just me—all on us! It’s agin justice to make common sailors go where it ain’t natural, like that there. We stands square up against an enemy, yeah, but not go prancin’ around in the snow an’ ice. Besides, we—”

“An old shellback like you, Kip, don’t like the sea life cos it’s uncomfortable?”

Pollard breathed deeply. “I don’t have t’ take that from you, Toby! You know right well what I mean, it’d be a hell voyage an’ they got no right to force us. I say we stand fast, refuse t’ sail!”

Stirk made to rise. “If I’m a-hearing what I think I am …” he grated.

“Give us a clinkin’ good reason, then, why we has t’ go.”

“I’ll give ye a few, cully! Ever thought why a prime fighting captain like Tom Cutlass gets removed into a piss-poor barky like
Tyger?
”

“T’ sort us out, like.”

“No, y’ doesn’t know the half of it. It’s a punishment, for talkin’ wry about the Admiralty an’ standin’ up for his old commodore. In all the papers, ’cept you wouldn’t know that. He faces down you shy cocks who mutiny and looks fair to makin’ this ship a half good ’un. You do it again, he’s finished.”

“A dead shame,” sneered Pollard.

“You want more? Then why d’ye think me an’ Ned came aboard this rotten scow—f’r our health? No! Becos we knows Mr Kydd from way back. He’s always treated us square, never shy of a mill, an’ sees his men right afore ’imself. And he’s a lucky bastard—I’ve got a tidy pile o’ prize-money just a-waitin’ for when I swallows the anchor, thanks to followin’ him. Now, you wants to throw him over for some scruffy strut-noddy as is the admiral’s son?”

“Yair, well.”

“An’ I tell you this, Kip. He’s on to somethin’—I’ve seen the signs afore! Don’t know what it is, but when he treads up an’ down the quarterdeck with that looby quiet smile o’ his, then he’s got it planned. We’re in for some high bobbery afore long, I promise ye.”

“Doesn’t change things, mate. It’ll be mortal cold and—”

“See here, y’ codshead. I’m layin’ a guinea to a shillun’ that before ever the hook is up Our Tom’ll see us right in the way o’ cosy rig an’ such. You on?”

“I know what you’re saying to me, Mr Harman, believe me, I do,” Kydd said.

The purser sniffed as if he’d been asked to commit a crime.

“Very well. See Mr Blunt and treat with him against this list of clothing—and you’ll go with a note drawn on my own account in London. Will that satisfy?”

The story given out was that the frigate was making motions to the east before returning in a broad sweep in keeping with their mission to search out any French presence.

The sailing master was cast down. “If’n you’d told me, sir, I’d have found charts somewhere. All I has is this geographical picture o’ the High North as I uses to get m’ bearings. Shows your Spitzbergen but we can’t navigate by it, much too small.”

“I should have given you instructions, I admit this. But if you’ll get us to a few leagues off, Mr Horner will be there to tell us our reckonings,” Kydd consoled him. “And think on this. We’ll be the first navy to visit for a long time. The hydrographicals will want good observations, so know that I’ll have a good journal kept to pass in at the end of our voyage.”