Tyger (19 page)

“Oh dear—it’ll mean extra tides for someone but don’t worry, I’ll see to it. Be ready to load it on the barge when it comes. Good day to you, sir.”

The “Explosive Shot” was mustered under guard by the mainmast well before the flat barge began creeping out from the wharf, watched over by a square of marines, a mystified gunner and a fuming Kydd.

There was no one on it to take delivery so Kydd himself and the guard went into the barge for the journey inshore.

With great care each case was landed and conveyed to a warehouse where they were lined up in order of the number painted on each, and a full guard posted.

Where the devil was the reception escort? The functionaries with documents and receipts? Anyone?

A little later a puffing Beckwith arrived, mopping his forehead. “So sorry, old chap. Didn’t realise the prince was bringing his mother as well.”

“I’m having a signature!” Kydd mouthed dangerously.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you do.” He snatched Kydd’s form and threw off a huge scrawl on it. “There. All done now!”

Just like that. Well, on return he’d now be able to claim his bullion freight money—after his junketing in London it would be a welcome easing of finances.

“Where’s your escort then, Mr Beckwith?”

“Escort? I don’t think we’ll bother with that right now. You can tell your brave fellows they can leave.”

Kydd could hardly believe his ears. “No escort? It’s your worry now but …”

The young man gave a lopsided smile. “Captain. Have you ever wondered what a half-million in specie looks like?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but went to the first case, prised apart the wooden slats on the top and stood back.

Gingerly Kydd went over to see, probably his only chance to take a peek at an unimaginable fortune.

Inside, neatly stacked together, were two neat rows of best Yorkshire furnace bricks. “You see, we took delivery of the real subsidy two days ago. A fast post-office packet that your most creditable decoying allowed to reach here in perfect safety.”

T
YGER
REJOINED THE
N
ORTH
S
EA
SQUADRON
in light rain and a listless grey calm, which barely lifted the signal flags that indicated their station in the line.

Kydd left the deck to Brice and went below to his cabin. He looked about. Tysoe had contrived a certain homeliness with a scatter of small Swedish landscapes and a charming miniature of an unknown young lady. A modest collection of silver now graced the bluff sideboard and colourful covers hid the shabbiness of the two armchairs. His new heavy frigate being denied him, this would be his home for some time. But it didn’t speak of him—it didn’t proclaim that this was where Sir Thomas Kydd lived.

“Come!” he called, in reply to a hesitant knock. It was only the weekly accounts due the flagship regularly each Friday at the routine captains’ meeting. He toyed with the paperwork, his mind straying to the hundreds of men and officers under his command.

Was he winning their souls? After the brief taste of action he’d noticed a distinct loosening of attitudes, and there was a pleasing hum from the mess-deck at meal-times that could be heard through the hatch gratings. But the mockery of the gold shipment had destroyed much of what had been won. At best there was now only a respectful wariness, at worst a cynical turning away.

Nothing like an effective ship’s company should be. They were doing a job, nothing more. How could he bring them together, infuse and inspire them with the spirit that drives men to heroism in storm and battle for the sake of their ship?

Kydd saw there was now no chance of seizing a prize, and the prospects for action were dim, with the enemy retiring to lick their wounds. Ahead lay only the boredom of blockade as summer moved into the miseries of winter.

Two days later the usual cutter from Yarmouth fussed up to the flagship and Admiral Russell’s routine dispatches were transferred into it. No doubt a bag of pettifogging Admiralty and Navy Board correspondence would pass the other way but there would be very little in it to disturb the motions of a crucial blockading squadron.

On Friday captains were signalled aboard the flagship as usual and their small business conducted quickly and efficiently. Kydd had been greeted politely but for some reason the admiral avoided his eye, and when boats were called alongside, Russell quietly asked him to stay behind.

“Sherry?”

Kydd declined politely.

“So you’ve men?”

“Pressed is all, and a few volunteers.”

“And the barky’s tight-found an’ all a-taunto?”

“Not all as I’d wish yet, sir,” Kydd answered carefully.

Russell found his chair, patting the one that faced it. “You’ve done well, m’ boy. Damn well. Can’t imagine how you did it, an’ I honour you for it.” He fiddled with his glass. “So it grieves me more’n I can say to have to tell you this.”

A sudden stab of alarm shot through Kydd.

“Y’ see, I’ve orders to tell you that when you make Yarmouth again you’re to give up your ship.”

There was a moment of disbelief, then a wave of anger. He’d been pitchforked into an impossible situation and when, against all the odds, he’d succeeded, they’d cast him ashore?

“No mention of another, I’m afraid.”

Kydd stuttered his acknowledgement in sick dismay. They’d not succeeded in their object of seeing him fail but now they were turning over what he’d achieved to another.

“I’ve heard from one o’ my officers about your falling athwart St Vincent’s bows over the Popham trial. A sad thing when a sea officer like y’self gets drawn into politicking.”

“That cursed rag! I never said what—”

“Doesn’t signify—it was published an’ that’s that.” Russell gave a small smile. “I’ve a guinea to a shilling that this’n is their way o’ thanking you for your labours. I’m sorry, Kydd, truly I am.”

It was extraordinary that an admiral would criticise the Admiralty before one of his captains and Kydd was touched. But now he had to come to terms with the fact that his remaining sea service in the navy was to be measured in weeks only.

“M’ dear fellow, we both came aft the hard way. If’n there’s anything I can do …?”

“That’s kind in you, sir, but I can’t think what,” he muttered.

After an awkward pause, Russell said doubtfully, “If you’ve a mind t’ stay in your ship for as long as y’ can before …”

Kydd’s first instinct was to get it over with, put it behind him, but he knew in his heart he had to keep the seas for as long as he could, before the inevitable caught up with him. “I’ll stay with
Tyger
—she needs me.”

“As I thought, m’ boy. Well, I’m a mort reluctant t’ put it to a first-rank cap’n as you are, but it’s in my gift to extend your cruise a while longer. Just a trivial bit o’ work—I’d normally send a sloop or such, but my orders say ‘send a vessel,’ which leaves the choice to me. Nothing to set before a prime fighting captain but—”

“I’ll take it.”

“It won’t be without its interest, but don’t think on prizes, or sport with the enemy.”

“Sir. Where?”

“North. As far as you may go. The High Arctic.”

Blinking in surprise Kydd waited for him to continue.

“Through the Arctic circle to the polar regions. Their lordships wish a man-o’-war sent right around the north o’ Norway into the Barents Sea and to the Russian port of Archangel.”

“Wha’?”

“There’s good cause, while the season allows, to make a neighbourly visit, simply to assure ourselves that His Majesty’s interests in the area—which’re pretty slim, incidentally—are safe and in order, but mainly t’ reconnoitre if the French have made any moves into the region.”

“I see.”

“We know for a fact they’ve not been spotted, but that’s not the point. This is only to give good public reason for you being there while you get on with a much more important and discreet task.”

Kydd listened quietly.

“You probably don’t know it, but less’n a century past, Russia had only one port connected directly to the outside world. Just the one, and that was Archangel. Then your tsar, Peter the Great, built St Petersburg, and it took most o’ the trade. Why? Because it’s mainly ice-free and Archangel is locked in pack-ice anything up to eight months in the year. And Petersburg is much closer to Moscow and the heart of Russia.”

He gave a grim smile. “Well, now we’ve got a problem. While we’re allies of Russia we’ve a concern to keep their ports open and trade flowing free, but Boney’s latest victories are giving us a parcel o’ worries.

“St Petersburg is at the head of the Baltic. When he’s finished with the Prussians there’s little to stop him sending his army north into Denmark—and then he’ll have seized the entrance to the Baltic and can choke off all access. We stand to lose our vital naval stores and Russia will be isolated—unless she can find another port. This is really why you’re going north. To see if Archangel can again be that port.”

Kydd shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t just—”

“Easy enough, really. All they want is a report on the depths mid-channel, working length of wharves, repair, warehousing—you know the sort of thing. It’s not your job to make judgement—there’ll be people in London to do that. So, no more’n a week or two at most—don’t delay leaving, you wouldn’t want to be iced in for half a year.”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a useful exercise you’ll be doing but it probably won’t come t’ much. Even Bonaparte would hesitate over attacking a strict neutral like Denmark, but we have to look to all possibilities.”

“Sir. May I—may I thank you for—”

“Be damned—it’s little enough! Off with you, m’ boy. I’ve a notion I’ll be receiving my letter concerning you tomorrow, too late to stop you going …”

Kydd decided to tell nobody of his personal blow. It was hard enough to face up to it himself, let alone to bear any awkward sympathies. In any case, it would not be in
Tyger
’s best interests to learn that they would have yet another change of captain.

For him their mission would be a tough challenge: to penetrate the God-forsaken wilderness between the extreme north of Russia and the polar regions where very few naval vessels had ever been—but for the seamen it would mean the harshest conditions that sea life could throw at them and
Tyger
was not prepared for it.

He’d keep quiet about where they were headed until he had to admit it and trust he could carry the men with him.

His orders were brief and to the point. They required him to put into Gothenburg where he would take aboard an Arctic pilot provided by the British consul. He was further authorised to secure a limited amount of clothing deemed advisable at that season for a voyage to the daunting latitude of seventy degrees north.

The rest was up to him.

The outlines of the Swedish town hove into view. They moored in the outer roads and Kydd wasted no time in getting ashore.

The British consul was fat and expansive and read the admiral’s request with interest. “Well, now, and I won’t enquire what in Hades the navy’s doing in the far north but I’ve got just the fellow. Greenland whale fisheries, married to a Finnish lass. He’s a knowing cove but won’t stand for nonsense. I’ll see if he’s available to you and send him out.”

It was no use delaying any further. The man’s arrival on board would give the game away and there was much to do.

He summoned his officers to his cabin. “Gentlemen, I’ll not have you in doubt any more about our detached service. It’s to the north—the High North!”

Briefly he explained that they were on a mission to show the flag and assure themselves there was not a French presence, without mentioning the real reason.

There was an immediate ripple of dismay.

“Sir, we ain’t equipped! I’ve charts for naught but—”

“Then get some, Mr Joyce,” Kydd said bluntly.

“It’ll be mortal cold, we’d best lay in some—”

“We’ve tickets to ship enough foul-weather gear for all the people. Any more questions?”

Bowden looked concerned. “As far as I’m aware, Sir Thomas, there are none aboard who’ve been to the Arctic regions. How are we to navigate in ice and similar?”

“A pilot is on his way out to us, who will also be in the character of a guide in these matters.”

“He’d better be good,” muttered Joyce.

“The man is from the Greenland whale fisheries and is accounted a taut hand, well experienced. And he’ll be berthing with you, sir.”

The man standing in the door of his cabin was of an age, wiry but with a steady gaze from his soft grey eyes. “Cap’n? Kit Horner, an’ I hear you’re wanting a pilot.”

Kydd motioned to a chair. “Tell me of your experience in the High North, Mr Horner.”

“As I’m spliced to a Sami,” he said, as if it explained everything. Then he added, “An’ thirty years on the Greenland coast, I know the north …”

“Very well, I’ll take you on. You’ll be—”

“Ah, it’s four shillun’ a day, an’ five after we crosses the Ar’tic circle.”

Kydd agreed with a tight smile. “You don’t come cheap, if I might remark it.”

“An’ all found.”

Then it was down to details of the voyage.

Horner rubbed his chin. “Archangel? Bit late in the season, but shouldn’t be a hard beat. Merchant jacks do it every year, o’ course. Could meet wi’ some ice islands but you’ll find the White Sea clear o’ drift ice this time o’ the year.”

“At seventy north?”

“Cos there’s an up-coast current from the Atlantic passes right round an’ into the Barents. We’ll be snug if’n we sail soon.”

His quiet certainty was reassuring and Kydd encouraged him to go on.

It seemed greenstuffs were essential, although scurvy grass could be collected on some islands Horner knew of and provisions were to be had if necessary at certain remote Norwegian coast settlements.

There would be no need for real Arctic clothing for this voyage but a chaldron or two of coal in place of firewood was a good plan to ensure a hot breakfast for the hands—and spirits were a sovereign cure against the cold of a night watch.

Horner had his own rutter, which he would bring with him, and there were charts available from the chandlers, the Dutch being the best. As to the ship, no particular mind need be paid to her fitness in view of the small likelihood of ice but if the cap’n wished he might consider bringing along the makings of a Baltic bowgrace, reinforcing at the bows to shoulder aside small floes to save a constant battering at the hull.