And it was unbridgeable. The worst thing he could do was address them with words to try to allay it, for that would be admitting his anxiety. Through his lieutenants he might have been able to spread a message that things were on the change for the better but with Hollis in open confrontation with them, his second, Paddon, retreating into himself and the third, Nowell, terrified and next to useless …
This united front against him, undiminished and sustained, implied that ringleaders were still at large, planning and co-ordinating. If so, what in Hades did they expect to get out of it? The most probable was that his sudden dash to sea had caught them by surprise, but that would suggest the rising was just to be deferred, almost certainly to when they got back to port. There was precious little time left to him to bring about a miracle.
None of it made any sense. But what he was about to do was the best course: to conjure some prize-money for them.
So much hung on the next few hours. If his reasoning was wrong and they came away empty-handed, it would be a serious matter. But in his bones he knew he was right: this was the way merchantmen behaved under threat.
Sitting alone in the bare great cabin, he hailed for Tysoe. There was no refinement such as a summoning bell yet. He waited. “Tysoe-ahoy there, you rascal!”
His manservant appeared at the cabin door. “Sir Thomas?” he said thickly.
Kydd started in surprise. Tysoe had a bloody scrape on the side of his face, his nose was battered and he moved awkwardly. “You’ve …”
“A disagreement only, Sir Thomas, not to concern yourself.”
“Who did this?” Kydd demanded harshly.
“As I said, sir, there’s nothing that may disturb you. Is there something I can do for you?”
“This is abominable. I want to know who did this to you, understand me?”
In dignified silence Tysoe made ineffectual gestures of tidying up; Kydd knew he was going to get nothing from him.
They closed with the coast and began their cruise northward soon after midday. Tension rose as they took up parallel to the shore. A handful of miles distant only, the low and featureless coastline was plainly visible and, pitilessly revealed by any with a telescope, near useless for navigation.
Here the shape of the seas was disordered, toppling and confused as they passed over the notorious sand-waves below, mighty tide-shaped subsea hillocks that directed surging currents vertically as well as to the side.
The day was perfect, however, and the wind fair and brisk. Sail was seen up against the shoreline but their rig quickly identified them as small fry.
What Kydd was after were the substantial two- or three-masted vessels seeking to break blockade. Hopefully Tyger had been quickly sighted and they had scuttled in haste to their hideaways. Or was he wrong in his reasoning? After all, the Dutch had their spacious inland waterways and canals: why risk the open sea?
And would his men obediently man the boats for the dangerous pull inshore on a hostile coast, or would it bring on what he feared most? As far as he could see, preparations were going ahead without the men balking, even if there was still that same surly reluctance. Was the prize-money bait working? He allowed himself a stab of hope.
Later in the afternoon a sharp-eyed lookout swore he’d seen a three-master close inshore in the haze far ahead but it had then disappeared. This was in the area more or less up with Breesaap but the vanishing act was worrying. It might indicate anything from sail being doused, to invisibility as it snugged into its bolt-hole, to the casual alignment of the masts of two lesser craft.
He would have to take the chance.
For their expedition the launch and red cutter would make the assault and the barge and blue cutter would lie off to seaward, with extra men if needed.
What had been a simple enough drill in L’Aurore was turning into a gravely difficult task. In any close-quarter fighting it was vital to have good fighters to the fore, to press on courageously and without hesitation so others would follow in good heart. Weak or timorous men leading would hang back at the first opposition and all would be lost. Where was he going to find these good men?
He’d decided he would lead in the launch and Paddon would follow in the cutter. It was usual for the captain’s coxswain to take the tiller and stand by him in the action to follow. Aboard Tyger none was yet rated, but Kydd knew whom he wanted. And he’d tell him to muster a boat’s crew he could trust. It would be very much in his interest to go for good men to fight beside him-and thereby Kydd would have his picked men.
The one he had in mind was a fair-headed giant of a man, part of the fo’c’slemen and therefore a tried and reliable seaman. He was quiet and, like so many big men, moved lightly. He carried himself with dignity, almost aloofness, which Kydd put down to his Scandinavian origins. It would be too much to expect him to be completely unaffected by the malign influence of whatever was behind Tyger’s malaise but at the least he could be relied upon to be steady.
He entered the great cabin warily to stand before Kydd, shapeless cap in hand but with a direct and fearless gaze.
“You’re Halgren. A Dansker-Norwegian, perhaps?”
“Strom Halgren of Kristianstad. A Swede, sir.” The voice was deep but soft, the manner wary.
Kydd had an instant taking to the man, the silent strength in his character reaching out to him. This was a seaman who would be an asset in any man’s watch.
“Halgren, I’ve a mind to rate you up. To captain’s coxswain. How does that suit?”
To his surprise, the man dropped his head and shuffled his feet without answering.
“You don’t want the rate? I can’t force it on you.”
Halgren remained doggedly silent and didn’t look up.
“Very well,” Kydd said, trying to keep the bitterness from his words. “Carry on.”
Nonetheless he’d see that Halgren was at the tiller when they went in.
As dusk settled, any anxious eye ashore would have spied Tyger giving up her audacious but fruitless inshore cruise and making for the open sea. But Kydd knew that no master worth his salt would hazard his ship by resuming his voyage among the shoals in the hours of darkness-their prey would still be where they’d been driven.
The frigate sailed hull-down offshore in the gathering dark, then hove to. Conditions were unequalled for what they were about to do: calm seas, a little night breeze and complete darkness until they struck. Then there was the rising of a full moon to aid their carrying to sea a strange vessel.
The only unknown was Tyger’s men.
Boats were manned, arms handed down and stowed, a massive axe new-sharpened for cutting the cable. Paddon in the red cutter embarked and lay off, a shapeless shadow on the gloom of the sea. Kydd couldn’t help noting that there’d been none of the familiar nervous bravado and black humour as they boarded, only a sly and secretive murmuring. But, thank God, they had obeyed his orders and were on their way.
For all that, he was taking no chances, waiting until the barge and other cutter had been filled and pushed off. Then he swung over the bulwark and dropped into the sternsheets of the launch.
It was too dark to make out faces properly but he felt reassured at the sight of Halgren’s bulk at the tiller and the stolid mass of men at the oars.
“Give way,” he ordered, then added loudly, “and stretch out-we’ve a purse o’ Dutch gold each to collect this night.”
This brought an immediate ripple of comment and the occasional chuckle. He’d been right: there was no doubting what had them obediently at the oars now. Dare he hope that this was the turning point?
The boats headed in; he was following a compass bearing to Breesaap and the unnamed little river.
With all his heart he willed there to be a fluyt lying there …
Dimly ahead he could see the occasional line of white at the edge of the sea and he strained to make out features in the low coast, anything that pointed to a river mouth. He couldn’t see one that did-and there was no time to be flogging up and down looking for it. When the full moon rose, the alarm would be raised and then there would be no chance.