Tyger (26 page)

“We’ll have ’em handing sail now. Each mast separately to furl its tops’l then set it again. Begin with the fore.”

This time he could see each individual seaman at work. He didn’t yet know names but he had faces. He watched intently; the character of each couldn’t be hidden and now he was building a true picture of
Tyger
’s ship’s company, its strengths and weaknesses.

“Mr Hollis.”

The first lieutenant came over to the weather side of the quarterdeck, guarded and defensive.

“At the mainmast. What do you think of ’em?”

They were trying hard, the young petty officer of main-top going like a demon, flinging himself out on the yard at the front of his men in his eagerness.

“Doing well, I should have thought, sir.”

“You don’t see anything wrong, who’s to say, a failing?”

Hollis looked up, shading his eyes and answered woodenly, “They appear to be succeeding, sir.”

“I’m not satisfied,” Kydd said flatly.

“Sir?”

“The captain of the top. He means well but he’s no leader. It’s not for him to be going out on the yardarm with his men, he should stay in the tops and take charge from there. How can he see if his men are all of them pulling their weight? What if the order is countermanded under stress of battle and he needs to regroup?”

The lieutenant continued to gaze up obstinately.

“No, Mr Hollis. This man is keen but inexperienced. Better an older hand. Do you know of any such?”

Hollis glowered but did not answer.

“And the man passing the earring, do you not feel—”

“Sir! If you feel my watch and station bill is—”

“I’m saying it were well you knew your men better, Mr Hollis.”

The morning wore on. He took to asking each officer in charge names for Dillon to take down in his notebook. That knowing old salt who always tailed on to a line last so he could take it easy out of sight of his shipmates. The young and nimble lad out on the yard who was a born top-man. The petty officer at the fore-topmast stay-sail who for some reason was hanging back from driving his men.

As they laboured Kydd sensed antagonism rising, the dull animus of men driven hard beyond the normal—but he was not going to let up with the sceptre of defeat hanging over
Tyger
.

He was rapidly getting to grips with it, throwing
Tyger
into all points of sailing, feeling her strength and power, her breeding. There was nothing like
L’Aurore
’s delicacy in light winds but very little to complain about, and running large she hadn’t that lurching long roll and for that he was grateful. He sensed she would be at her best in hard winds: a fresh gale would have her joyously breasting the combers and he looked forward to matching her up to some of the blows he’d experienced in his last command.

All in all he was more than satisfied—especially with her striking manoeuvrability. Sweet and sure in going about and lightning sharp to answer the helm in any circumstance, this was something to be treasured—only if the sail-handling could match it. He would make sure it did.

At midday he stood the hands down for dinner.

The afternoon generally would see one watch go below, but not today. These were the only precious days of independence away from the fleet he could count on.

“The men are going to smell powder now, Mr Hollis. Both watches, gun by gun.” He’d taken the precaution of consulting with the gunner about their practice allowance. As he’d suspected, there had been no expenditure for months while Parker had struggled to keep his hold on the ship.

He could feel the lieutenant’s hostility.

“We’ll start with a little dry practice. Mr Bowden?”

Among the waiting gun-crews there was a stillness, a naked loathing that radiated out.

“Carry on.”

He let them go for three “rounds,” then casually ordered, “Sail trimmers to stand clear.”

The gun numbers detailed for going aloft in an action stood back, bewildered. To the remaining crew he rapped, “Run out your guns!”

It brought gasps of dismay for the cold iron of the big guns was a preposterous mass for the reduced men at the tackle falls.

He waited with a grim smile to let them feel the impossibility, then stepped forward. “You’ve never seen close action, you lubbers, have you? Let me tell you that calling away sail trimmers is no excuse for standing about idle while the enemy pounds us. When they go aloft it’s every man on the falls, gun-captain included, and only after the gun’s close up do they go back to their place. Let’s have it done, Mr Bowden.”

Next he would see what an eighteen-pounder could do after
L’Aurore
’s twelves, a good one-third smaller weight of metal.

A target was knocked up: an empty barrel with a pole nailed to the side bearing a large red flag.

It went over the side, rapidly left bobbing jauntily astern until it was a tiny red blob on the face of the ocean.

“Larboard first, start from forward. Lay us to weather of the mark, four cables distant,” Kydd snapped at the sailing master, an unnaturally subdued Joyce.

He clattered down to the gun-deck and hurried forward to where the gun-captain of the first was making preparation. These long eighteens were a byword in the navy for accuracy at a distance, if served well, and had the weight to make themselves felt.

The gun-crew readied.

“In your own time, two rounds at your target.”

Kydd saw that Bowden was leaving the loading and pointing entirely to the gun-captains and silently approved, even if the young man was doing his best to ignore him.

These eighteens were big beasts, half as high as a man and over a dozen feet long and now the skills would turn from backbone and sinew to hand and eye … and of one man, the gun-captain.

Kydd, however, turned his attention away from the gun-captains—Bowden could be relied on to pick up shortcomings in working the gun. He was interested in the results, out there where the speck of red in the distance nodded cheekily to leeward.

The first gun banged out, the slam of concussion and then the reek of powder-smoke briefly enfolding him. It was a fair shot, twenty feet to one side but reasonable for elevation, and Kydd was impressed. Not with the marksmanship but the fact that these long eighteens had such a flat arc of fire—the white plume of first-strike was close to the target even at this range.

He felt the gun-captain’s darted glance at him but he gave no notice and continued his gaze to seaward.

The second round was closer still but if the target had been extended to be an imaginary frigate it would have missed astern of it. “Off the target, complete miss,” he growled.

The gunner made much of noting the expenditure of each ball but it was within allowance and Kydd ignored him.

Other guns on the larboard side did even worse, and after he had given orders to wear ship to bring the starboard side to bear, he paced grim-faced along.

The first two guns did not improve the showing. The third gun took its time but the result was dramatic—the sudden rise of the plume within only a couple of yards and perfect for elevation. Its second round was even better, the ball within feet of the flag, so close it fluttered in alarm.

He turned to congratulate the gun-captain, who looked back at him with a controlled blankness. It was Stirk, come up from his station as yeoman of the powder room.

“Well done, that gun,” he said loudly. Stirk folded his arms and gazed back without comment.

It was too much to expect the next gun to match up. Neither did the remainder on that side.

When it was all over Kydd summoned the gunner to him. “Mr Darby,” he said acidly, knowing that his words were being overheard by all. “Pray do explain to me why the Tygers are so wanting in the article of laying a gun. With one exception, that is.”

He knew very well, of course. Not only had he kept the L’Aurores on their toes with exercises but they’d been in savage actions many times, while
Tyger
…

“Most would think it good practice, sir,” the gunner said woodenly.

“But I don’t. The rest of the afternoon all gun-captains will muster in the fore-bay and take instruction from the yeoman of the powder room.” He waited, then said, “And in the last dog-watch we’ll try again.”

This time there were savage murmurs and he looked around sharply until they’d subsided. “Carry on, Mr Hollis.”

It was unfortunate for them, what with all the impedimenta of live firing to set up yet again and in their own time, but he was well aware that these two days were the only ones he was going be free to do as he wished.

“Can’t do it!” the gunner said, with a smirk.

“Oh?”

“We’ve shot away our allowance. Ain’t none more!”

“Then we’ll use next quarter’s in advance!” Kydd retorted icily, turned on his heel and stalked away.

The next day was the last before arriving. With names noted previously he harried the first lieutenant to make changes, demotions, rating up the promising and reconfiguring watch and stations against the strengths and weaknesses he’d seen. Then he piled on more pressure at guns and sail.

They had to succeed!

There was some improvement, but apprehension crowded in on Kydd at the vision of a well-found French frigate circling for the kill—it was common knowledge that, with his battle fleets helpless in port, Bonaparte was taking the opportunity of sending his frigates to sea on predatory cruises with ample, picked crews against the short-handed and weather-ravaged British. The odds were against them from the start.

Kydd flopped into his chair in his cabin and held his head in his hands, thinking of his days in
L’Aurore
, the ship he had left so reluctantly, which had borne him to glory and distinction and in which he had put down so many memories.

“Come!” he called irritably, at a knock on the door that interrupted his thoughts.

It was Dillon, with a sheaf of papers. “Sir Thomas, they’re outstanding these five days—”

“Not now, Mr Dillon.”

“I do advise they are—”

“I said not now!”

“Sir, if another time is more convenient, I’d be happy to comply,” Dillon said, with quiet dignity.

“Damn it—just go!”

“Very well, sir.”

At the door Dillon hesitated, then turned to face Kydd. “Sir, I’m your confidential secretary and—and I think there’s something you should know.”

“I told you to leave. Now do so or I’ll have you thrown out!”

Pale-faced, Dillon stood his ground. “Touching as it does on your command of this vessel.”

Kydd shot to his feet, the chair knocked askew. “What in Hades gives you the right to criticise
me?
” he barked in a fury. “If you’re not out of here in ten seconds I’ll give you a spell in the bilboes, so help me!”

“Sir. The officers are convinced you’re a glory-seeker, and the men that you’re a blood-and-guts hellfire jack!”

Kydd went red and bawled for the sentry.

The marine entered, confused, looking from one to the other. Dillon slipped out past him.

“Go,” Kydd croaked at the sentry, who lost no time in making his exit.

Shaken by the episode, Kydd tried to think. His thoughts steadied as he realised that Dillon had risked a great deal by telling him what he thought—and that took back-bone. He’d felt that it was important Kydd should know the mood of the ship, and that could only have been motivated by a sense of respect and loyalty to him personally. In his black mood he’d wronged the young man.

And what Dillon had said—that the ship believed he was a despised glory-seeker, one who put personal vainglory first before the needs of the service—stung. From the choice of words he must have heard the seamen’s verdict first-hand and it was a damning one. Nothing was held in more contempt and loathing than an officer who looked to honours and glory over the bloodied bodies of his recklessly sacrificed men.

Nobody, officer or man, in
Tyger
knew the full story of why he’d been sent to the ship. As far as they were concerned, the Admiralty had sent a known hero to turn around a mutinous ship in the shortest possible time and he had—but he’d not left it there. His bullying haste to get the frigate to what they would see as impossible levels of perfection could only mean that his head had been turned by public adulation and he wanted more, no matter what it cost.

How ironic! He was doing it for his own very real reasons, but because of his single-minded and unforgiving drive even Bowden and Stirk, who knew him of old, must be persuaded of his glory-seeking.

Soon he’d lose any loyalty that was left, and end in the forefront of the battle waving his sword but none following. He’d seen it happen in the Caribbean to another captain and squirmed at the thought that it could happen to him.

But if he slackened off not only would he lose his chance to bring
Tyger
to warlike readiness but the whole thing would be put down to tyranny and nit-picking over drill times.

If only Renzi were there to calmly dissect and analyse! In fact there was no one—not a soul—with whom he could talk at the level he needed.

But he had known that when he first boarded the ship and must live with it.

He summoned Tysoe. “Find Mr Dillon and, with my compliments, if he is at leisure I should be happy to see him.”

Dillon entered, his expression set and defensive.

Kydd rose and, with a smile, indicated a chair. “I’ve asked you here to offer my apologies for my unforgivable lapse in behaviour.”

“Sir.”

“Which was not occasioned by your good self, I hasten to add.”

It was not proving easy. “A captain must have many worries.” The tone was careful, noncommittal.

“Ah, just so. As you of all must know.”

“Sir. May I speak plainly?”

“Please do.”

“What I’ve seen of you in these last weeks is not the Captain Kydd I know.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t wish to pry but I’m of the mind that a matter of great personal moment lies upon you at this time, Sir Thomas.”

“That may be so.”

He continued, in a low voice, “And of all men within the compass of this vessel there is only one who does not have the comfort of … a friend. If it is of service to you, I would be honoured to share your burden, the matter most scrupulously to remain between us alone.”