The frigate picked up speed but Tyger was in place to intercept in time – and all became clear.
‘He’s a Yankee,’ he said, the colours now no longer end on. But this brought with it a new mystery: what was an American doing this side of the Atlantic, given that Congress, with its Embargo Act, had recently made it near impossible for their merchantmen to trade and therefore need protection?
‘I’ll speak with him, I believe. Lay me a pistol shot to wind’d, if you please.’
There was no sign of fear or trepidation as Tyger eased up on the American. Neither was there any show of respect, but that was to be expected. Kydd had served with their young navy some years before and knew them to be a proud race, not inclined to bow and scrape to any.
The two frigates surged along side by side in the pleasant breeze, giving Kydd time to inspect the American.
He knew that the US Navy had six frigates at least, big ones and well able of handling all in their class, but this was more like a Royal Navy vessel, a mid-range eighteen-pounder and to all appearances as capable.
Scores of curious faces looked back at them from the deck-line as Kydd stepped up to hail. ‘The American frigate, ahoy! What ship?’
A plainly dressed officer on its quarterdeck raised a speaking trumpet. ‘United States Ship Concord, Sam Brightman commanding,’ he replied, in a broad nasal twang. ‘Out o’ Boston. You?’
‘His Majesty’s Ship Tyger, Sir Thomas Kydd commanding, of the Cadiz blockade.’ He hid a smile to hear the colonial accent he’d been introduced to those years ago.
‘What do ye want then, Mr Kydd?’
The curt reply did not invite a conversation but, then, since his time in the USS Constellation things had changed. In an ill-advised show of superior might off the New England coast, HMS Leopard had fired into USS Chesapeake when she’d refused a boarding to search for deserters. It had nearly brought about a war, and relations between the two navies were now delicate.
But did this explain why the crew opposite to a man were silent, tense, watchful – it would be much more in character for them to jeer and hurl insults, good-natured or otherwise.
The two ships seethed along together, the swash and hiss making it hard to discern the words.
‘Just wondering what brings a Connecticut Yankee this side of the ocean, is all.’
A pause before the answer showed that his recognition of the accent had been a surprise, but it brought no warmth in the reply. ‘That’s my own darned business, sir, not yours!’
Kydd’s intuition pricked. Something was not square with his memory of the new navy but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
‘And I’ll thank ye to get out o’ my wind,’ Brightman added venomously.
‘Take us to loo’ard,’ Kydd ordered, racking his brain for an answer.
Tyger spilled wind and eased back, then manoeuvred around the other’s stern, coming up on its leeward side. If he was not careful, this could lead to an incident of international proportions. Should he simply let it go, see it on its way, or …?
If this was a merchant ship it would be easy. Stop and board, let its papers tell the story. But this was a warship and there was no question of a boarding and therefore no way of establishing its legitimacy. He would have to let it go.
Then a glimmer of something began to firm.
It was midday, time for the noon meal, and so close, downwind, snatches of the fragrance of their cooking came on the light breeze. ‘Get Petty Officer Pinto here,’ he rapped. ‘Quickly!’
The thick-set seaman padded up, clearly mystified as to why, with the ship closed up at quarters, Kydd had summoned him.
‘Pinto,’ Kydd said, ‘the barky over there is going to dinner shortly. I want you to take a breath and smell, then tell me what they’re having.’
Around him officers and men recoiled in amazement but they did not dare to make comment.
Taken aback the Iberian-born sailor nevertheless did as he was bade. ‘Why, an’ it’s a right good serve o’ bacalhau to be sure,’ he said mildly, scratching his head. ‘Wi’ garlic and-’
Kydd couldn’t help flashing a grin of triumph at the others. ‘Thank you. Carry on, please.’
It was no American, that frigate. He knew it because his unconscious had told him its smell had not been right. But should he go into action only because of its reek? If he did and the frigate was from the US Navy, it could be a prelude to war and his disgrace. He had to find more.
A sarcastic bawl came from Concord’s quarterdeck. ‘You planning on gabbin’ some more, or do we get about our business?’
He had seconds only to … There! He had it! The frigate’s proud colours aloft – thirteen stars for the thirteen colonies that had rebelled.
With rising elation he remembered that in Constellation they’d been at pains to show him the new flag authorised only two years before – and it had fifteen stars. Whatever this ship pretended to be, it most certainly was no proud member of the US Navy.
‘Run out the guns!’ he ordered crisply, then bawled, ‘Concord frigate – heave to! I mean to board you!’
There was hesitation and Kydd thought he hadn’t been heard. Then the American colours were snatched down and the familiar red and yellow of the Spanish took their place. At the same time a savage chorus of squeals sounded as gun-ports opened, and down its length the black snouts of guns appeared.
Kydd acted instantly. ‘Helm hard up!’ he roared and Tyger swung immediately downwind – but towards Concord, her bowsprit slewing in an arc until it aimed like a spear into the enemy’s bowels. Taken utterly by surprise, the frigate hesitated – fatally.
One or two of her guns fired, the shot going wide, but its captain had seen the trap: if he did likewise his stern-quarters would rotate obligingly past Tyger’s broadside and he would be disembowelled. Flinching from Tyger’s coming fire, he went the other way and inevitably caught the wind aback, slowing in a cloud of flat and angrily flapping canvas.
Tyger completed her turn and, under the impetus of the breeze, gathered way and passed by the high stern of the helpless ship, her guns steadily crashing out one by one, the mullioned windows dissolving into flying shards leaving smoking black cavities and trailing wreckage.
Just as soon as she was past, Tyger wore about in a wide circle.
It gave Concord the slenderest margin to recover, to throw out jibs and staysails a-weather to fall back on her original tack, but by then Tyger was fast coming up – with her opposite broadside.
There was chaos on the enemy decks as they bore down, Kydd saw grimly, but it was no time for pity. Once again she passed the battered stern and her guns began their execution.
Afterwards, with perfect discipline, Tyger prepared to go round again but there was no need: colours jerked down wildly and Tyger came to a graceful stop, the enemy lying to under her guns.
‘Mr Bray, do take possession, if you will.’
The kill had been rapid, efficient and bloodless, as far as his own ship was concerned. It was clear evidence that this Spanish captain had little combat experience and he felt a twinge of sympathy for the man that he’d come up against a veteran like Tyger.
Bray needed no urging. Blaring for a boat’s crew and marines, he was off promptly, the rowers bending to it with a will. Not only was there head money, gun money and the rest, but there was every prospect the fine-looking frigate would be bought into the Royal Navy to the satisfaction of their purses.
For Kydd it was the more serious business of securing the vessel.