The boat was new varnished, picked out in scarlet and green; even the oars were delicately tipped in white and the tiller worked with decorative knots. The boat’s crew were kitted in smart black and yellow striped jerseys, blank expressions on each sea-weathered face. His coxswain Halgren’s usual characterful sea headwear was now a smart low-crowned black hat, with an elaborate Tyger to the fore, picked out in gold thread.
Kydd stood for a moment to acknowledge the crowd’s adulation, then gave the order to put off for the stirring vision of the powerful frigate at anchor by the point.
Tyger was in such different shape from what she’d been those weeks ago when she’d faced three of her kind in a battle to the finish. Given priority by a gratified Admiralty, her hurts had quickly been made good and no expense spared to bring her to a distinguished splendour – bright-sided, gun-port lids in scarlet, new bunting, and her figurehead a dazzling white and gold.
Such a contrast with the mutiny-ship he had first come aboard. Now there was no row-guard slowly circling, no boarding nettings rigged to deter desperate men from deserting, no dowdy neglect or decrepit makeshift: she was the picture of a prime frigate in the first line of securing freedom of the seas for Great Britain’s widening empire.
When Halgren’s answering bellow, ‘Tyger!’ had formally advised the frigate of her commander’s approach, there was an instant response. To the urgent rattle of drums men swarmed up the shrouds in a disciplined rush. Reaching the fighting tops, they extended out along each yard-arm and, clasping hands, stood motionless.
Coming aboard, from the corner of his eye Kydd took in the figure of Stirk, standing with the side party. There was a tiny flicker of conspiratorial recognition on the hard face, then a return of the blank countenance. They’d had rare times ashore in Scotland but it was clear that this would never be touched on. Kydd was the captain, back in his rightful domain; Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate, just where he wanted to be.
There was a moment’s stillness. Then the figure at the mainmast head, the highest point of all, raised his cap and whirled it about with a cry. From two hundred throats came an answer: the full-hearted roar of a cheer – and another, and another.
Kydd stood bare-headed, his mind charged with emotion as the noise volleyed and echoed in the anchorage. This was his ship, and he and her company were now indisputably one with her.
As he entered his cabin Tysoe, with impeccable bearing, took his boat-cloak and gold-laced bicorne. Kydd settled with a sigh into his favourite armchair at the stern windows. As if by magic a plate of delicate caraway biscuits had appeared on the occasional table at his side, with a single glass of Manzanilla Pasada.
The great cabin was transformed. The stored furniture from L’Aurore, his previous command, had been sent for, the Argand lamps, miniatures, ornaments – even the ornate multi-compartmented escritoire. Silver gleamed on the sideboard and the central table shone in a deep lustrous mahogany. His bedplace now held a proper cot, and the washstand was equipped with all of the conveniences that a gentleman of fashion could possibly desire.
Another sigh escaped. In the short time that had passed since L’Aurore had been in the Caribbean, Fortune had both smiled and frowned on him.
Chapter 33
That evening Kydd dined his officers in his great cabin. He entered in full dress uniform, resplendent in sash and star. Without a word all rose in respect until he had taken his chair.
Kydd sat in affable humour, but there was no getting away from it: he was being held in a reverence bordering on hero-worship. He didn’t know whether to be irritated or touched but one thing was clear: it had put a distance between himself and them. Would Dillon, his confidential secretary, who had not yet arrived back on board, be in the same thrall to one whom history had singled out for notice?
After the murmured toasts a deferential silence descended once again. Kydd tried small-talk with his first lieutenant, Bray. The man rumbled a polite reply in monosyllables while the table waited: it was tradition that no officer might address the captain unless spoken to first, but this didn’t mean they couldn’t talk among themselves.
The first dishes were brought in and wine poured. Still the stiff formality. The dinner progressed, an elegant repast. The cloth was drawn and a stoppered decanter of port was placed before the mess president. An awestruck Mr Vice intoned the loyal toast and glasses were raised.
Everyone sat rigid.
Something had to be done. Excusing himself to the president Kydd left the great cabin. He returned shortly with a smug expression. Out of sight beyond the polished bulkhead there was movement and into the respectful quiet came the sound of a violin, experimentally drawing long chords before launching into a lively tune. Then, a fine voice broke into song. It was Ned Doud, quartermaster’s mate and long ago shipmate of Tom Kydd. His once-youthful timbre was now broad and full and he sang powerfully, with feeling, the old forebitter favourite, ‘The Saucy Arethusa’:
‘Come all ye jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,
While English glory I unfold,
Huzzah for the Arethusa!’
The officers looked about, bemused. Kydd watched, waiting for reaction. Then he slapped his glass down and sang lustily, in a fine baritone:
‘Let each fill a glass
To his fav’rite lass;
A health to the Capt’n and officers true,
And all that belong to the jovial crew
On board of the Arethusa!’
Brice, the boatswain, and the gunner took up the refrain, waving their glasses in time with the music but the others hesitated.
Kydd roared out, ‘Mermaid!’
The capstan fiddler launched the sprightly tune and the hidden Doud lifted up his voice:
‘One Friday morn, when we set sail,
And our ship not far from land;
We there did espy a fair pretty maid
With a comb and a glass in her hand, her hand, her hand -
With a comb and a glass in her hand.
‘While the raging seas did roar,
And the stormy winds did blow …’
This time there was no hanging back in the calamitous tale of the ship that dared sail on a Friday – producing, in the confined space of the cabin, a deafening roar of good humour.
It was not until much later in the evening that the gathering broke up.
Chapter 34
Yarmouth Roads, Norfolk
It was a bare day’s sail to Yarmouth, through blue seas and a quartering breeze. In accordance with her resumed commission, Tyger was to rejoin the North Sea squadron directly after making her number with the naval base.
To Kydd’s surprise, not only the squadron but Admiral Russell’s flagship and a surprising number of battleships and other vessels were crowded into Yarmouth Roads. Coming to a smart moor in the wreathing smoke of their salute, Kydd wasted no time in reporting his ship to the admiral.
‘Do sit, m’ boy. So glad t’ see you. Sherry?’
Russell was brief and to the point. The squadron was recalled from station off the Dutch coast for a particular service of grave importance, which would be revealed in due course. They would be part of a larger force to be sent on a mission into the Baltic under the command of a senior admiral. Beyond that he was not at liberty to say.