Junot and his entourage were rapidly removed from Tyger in a great show of splendour and formality, the returning hero with his spoils of war, a 74-gun battleship sent out to receive him and overawe the single-decker that had conveyed him. To head off any show of mocking or ridicule, Kydd had all but a handful of the men confined to the lower deck while this was proceeding but he couldn’t hold back a tidal wave of shouts and jeers afterwards.
The mountain of baggage swayed down into the lighters and quite suddenly Tyger was clear of the interlopers.
And time to be quit of the scene of their debasement.
‘Sir. A word.’ A grim-faced Bray took him to one side and told him about the appalling mess their guests had left, after days of seasickness, carelessness with food and the discarding of refuse straight into Tyger’s previously pristine scuppers.
As the once-proud frigate turned her bowsprit for the open sea Kydd’s heart wept at what she’d become. And on the faces of her officers and crew he saw that he was not alone.
There was only one thing that could give them back pride in themselves and their ship – and lay the unfortunate episode behind.
Far out to sea, where the ocean breezes blew clean and free, Kydd gave orders that saw Tyger strike every sail safely down to bare poles.
He didn’t have to explain, and joined the others at the boatswain’s table where he collected his rag and, with Bray as his matey carrying the soogee bucket, marched forward and began the arduous process of ‘clean ship’ – as it had never been done before.
From the trailboards of the beakhead to the balusters of the stern-lights, relays of men scrubbed and swabbed, sluiced and soaked hour after hour until Tyger emerged cleansed and bright, the seamen’s souls and spirits renewed and restored.
Sail set and course laid, the ship settled down to splice the mainbrace and toast their future in a bumper.
Chapter 58
‘A sight to warm the cockles!’ Brice said, with feeling, as they felt their way to an anchorage with the fleet off Lisbon.
The docks and quays were near hidden in the press of shipping that lay there. Trade was now well and truly astir, all ocean-going and all British, testament to the failure of Bonaparte’s economic blockade, the Continental System.
There was no need for Kydd to make his number with Rowley, for his interrupted cruising off the Portuguese coast would resume after he’d watered and stored. There was opportunity for liberty for both watches, though, and lazily he reviewed possibilities for a jaunt of sorts ashore. Possibly with Bowden, or Dillon who was keen to sharpen up his Portuguese, with its apparently beguiling Celtic expression of Vulgar Latin.
The decision was made moot by the pleasant young lieutenant in command of the aviso greeting them. ‘Much has changed you’ll find, Sir Thomas. If you’ve a yen to linger ashore might I recommend the Captain’s Club? Much cried up as a rendezvous for the heaven-blessed of the sea.’
The absence of the French from anywhere that could be termed close by, along with the great increase of shipping in the Tagus, had revitalised the ancient city. Well supplied with exotic provisions from over the seas it had an air of gaiety and busyness that made a stroll through the old streets a distinct pleasure.
And the lieutenant was right: in the immemorial way of it, the English had not wasted any time in founding an establishment where they might relax in comfort, and the esteemed Captain’s Club was in a leafy side-street off the Praca do Comercio on the waterfront. The membership was delighted to welcome their distinguished visitor, and Captain Sir Thomas Kydd was installed without delay.
It was a fine building, the interior of a pre-war style of opulence, on all sides cool marble and balustraded galleries.
‘So good to see you again, Sir T,’ greeted Hayward of Vigilant, lifting a glass in the handsome dining room. ‘Always entertaining when your good self is tops’ls over.’
‘Just right glad to be rid of those Crapauds,’ Kydd said gustily, making much of his ruby-shot Dao. ‘As were a scurvy thieving crew.’ He watched Hayward surreptitiously. Would he be mocked or disdained for his degrading voyage?
‘Oh, yes, as I heard,’ Hayward returned. ‘Bad luck to land the job, old fellow. But I do envy you. Is it true that, before you scuttled back, you got a grand view of the French Navy in its lair?’
Kydd relaxed. Rowley was not going to get his satisfaction of casting him as the poor wight remembered as the one who had played deliveryman to the French.
‘What’s the news?’ he asked. ‘Lisbon’s looking so dimber these days.’
‘Why, better by the day. We’ve His Nibs, Sir John Moore, now landed with a respectable army and in barracks in town somewhere. He’s to march on Spain fairly soon, chasing the French back – but there’s a bit of a pother in this, as far as the Dons are concerned.’
‘Oh?’
‘The French are falling back fast – it’s a treat to see. Only a day or two ago, we had news that they’ve abandoned Madrid, would you credit it?’
‘Damned good to hear. The Dons?’
‘Well, the junta they started in Cadiz is not good enough. They want a Grand Supreme Junta. That’s well and good, but the beggars can’t seem to decide things.’
‘Their constitution, laws and similar?’
‘Not at all. They’re at a stand as to what to call each other, the colour of their pantaloons, who’s to bow to whom, do they need a new palace and such, before ever they’ll get on with the war.’
Kydd chuckled. ‘Your Don is always looking to his dignity, very proud. I’d say leave ’em to it, if they-’
‘We can’t. Think on it – if there’s no one in charge, who does Moore talk to about strategicals, co-operation? And when our Foreign Affairs wants to send arms and coin to support, who do they give it to? No, m’ friend, this is a fair way to lunacy.’
‘A hard thing for us.’
‘Harder still for the French. Ha! They don’t know whether we’re going to land more troops and, worse, where. After Bailen they’re fearful of the Spanish and are on the run everywhere. Some say as they won’t stop until they’re safe behind the Ebro.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A river, runs parallel with the Pyrenees on the Spanish side, about eighty miles off the French border.’
‘So close!’
‘Quite.’ Hayward laughed. ‘Boney’ll be sore vexed, it all happening so quick. But there’s problems for us, too. Nobody has any real idea where the French are this hour. And without a doubt the Frogs at the Ebro don’t know where their forces are either, the roads being so wretched and impassable. Moore will have to tread carefully – he could well trip over a lost army.’
‘Don’t jest,’ Kydd said. ‘If that’s the story inland, will it be any different on the coast? Some ports are still held by the French, who won’t know everyone else is falling back, and ready to give us a hot time if we think to land.’
‘I’ll agree – but if we’re on the Portuguee coast we’ve none of that to worry on. They’re all our friends, my philosophy to take relish on this station while the Dons sort ’emselves out betimes. There’s compensations – shall I tempt you to some of these local victuals? Right tasty, your chilli sardines.’
Even before the larboard watch could taste the sweets of the shore, Tyger received her orders.
Curt, with nothing in the way of explanation, they were on a single paper. That she was, in accordance with instructions received direct from London, simply to cruise in the north of Spain and take any opportunity to harry the enemy, subject to local conditions.
No intelligence included, or helpful pointers to what ‘harry’ meant – a frigate was not intended to confront an army beyond the intercepting of its coastal supply shipping. And local conditions? This couldn’t mean weather, as this was a given in any naval service. It must imply the likelihood or no of Spanish co-operation, which, after Cadiz, Kydd knew was anything but probable.