Tyger (25 page)

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.”

Now he would find out what
Tyger
was made of.

He stood by the helm. “As close by the wind as she’ll lie,” he told the quartermaster.

“What course, sir?”

“Never mind that, do as I say.” In these well-known waters there was no concern about picking up their position again later.

The helmsman eased his wheel to meet the wind, gingerly glancing up to the edge of the topsail for the least fluttering—too close and there was every risk of slamming aback.

Kydd sniffed the wind. Not bad. Sheet in a little more on the driver and an easing on the outer jib? It was done and he was rewarded by another half-point into the wind even if at the cost of an increased stiffness in the roll.

Around the deck seamen stopped what they were doing to watch.

A little care with the trim, and he could probably get another knot out of her in this steady southwesterly but this was not a painstaking investigation—all he wanted for the present was a feel of how
Tyger
took to various conditions.

“Shall you be exercising gun-crews, sir?” Hollis said stiffly.

“Not now,” Kydd said. “Sail-handling first. Do hold yourself ready for manoeuvres later.”

So she was capable of a workmanlike close hauling. But there was more to it than that—how did she answer while straining so? A sluggish response to a sudden helm order while in an engagement was a grave disadvantage and therefore situations involving it would need to be avoided, if at all possible, in the deadly cut and thrust that was a frigate duel.

He hesitated for a moment. “I’ll take the wheel,” he said, to the startled helmsman, taking a spoke with one hand, the age-old signal for a handover. At his nod the man released one spoke and Kydd took another, testing the pressure on the wheel as the man gradually released his other hand and stepped back.

He now had
Tyger
under his hands and the memories flooded back.

The last time he had been at the wheel was as a young seaman so long ago in
Artemis
32, defying the Southern Ocean off Cape Horn—or was that the old
Trajan
in the Caribbean?

The feel of a live helm was thrilling and satisfying, the thrum and tug connecting him directly to
Tyger
’s beating heart.

She had a surprising amount of resistance to the little corrections he made and concentrated effort was needed at the wheel. In common with most British-built ships, her rudder was broad and deep, plenty of bite—and that translated to hard work but masterly manoeuvring.

Putting real force into it, he piled on the turns, and instantly
Tyger
paid off to leeward, the sudden change in heel sending men staggering.

This was a battle-winner! As the frigate steadied, he put on opposite turns and, without hesitation, she came up to the wind, under his touch willingly stretching out ahead. He glanced up, applying small corrections until he saw the sail luff begin a fretful fluttering.

In spreading satisfaction, he took in the line of deck as it swept nobly forward to her stout bowsprit lifting and falling. He was suddenly reluctant to give up the wheel—it brought memories of times when his only cares were his grog and his shipmates.

Then his eyes took in the faces looking down the deck at him, puzzled, suspicious.

He focused on one in particular: boatswain Dawes wore an expression that was anxious, sagging. The man was out of his depth in a first-rank ship of war, his age and comfortable ways unsuited to a frigate like
Tyger
, and he was terrified he’d be found out.

“Duty helmsman to the wheel,” Kydd rapped.

With the ship reverted to the sea watch, he went to the boatswain. “I mean to put the ship to the test, Mr Dawes. What do you say to sending down a topmast at all?”

“Sir, could be tricksy dos, the seas bein’ up as they is.” The eyes pleaded with him.

“Well, shifting one of the great guns from fore to aft—that’ll need cross-tackles and preventers, don’t you think?”

“Ah, Cap’n Parker, we never done that, not at all, Mr Kydd.”

“You can’t conceive any need to mount stern-chasers aft in a hurry? Come, come, sir, this is what you must expect in a prime frigate like
Tyger
.”

“Aye, sir.” There was resignation and dull resentment in the reply.

Kydd knew Dawes had to go but a boatswain was appointed to a ship by Admiralty warrant and could not be turned out by his captain. He had to be made to leave the ship of his own accord. “Then we’ll think of something else to stretch our stout crew,” he added.

Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw Bowden watching with a tight face. He shifted his gaze deliberately to his second lieutenant, who looked away bleakly.

Kydd turned to his third lieutenant: “Mr Brice. I desire to exercise the people at putting the ship about. Both watches on deck, to work sail, first one, then the other.”

“Sir.” Standing tense and wary, his expression was unreadable.

“Ready your men. Start with the starb’d watch and they’re to go about on the larb’d tack at my word. I shall be timing them.”

“Aye aye, sir.” He turned away. “Hands to stations to stay ship,” he blared.

Kydd pointedly withdrew his fob watch and held it prominently. “Carry on, please.”

Even under pressure it was as he’d seen before. Slow and deliberate, cautious. The other watch of the hands was the same. The time was not disgraceful but neither was it outstanding.