Kydd took a cold supper, still shaken by events. Too keyed up to sleep, he decided to take his customary turn around the upper deck even though it was well into the night.
It was chilly and he hugged his coat to him as he left the group around the helm and made his way forward.
The ship heaved at an increased swell. Cloud had come up to blot out the moon-there’d be heavy rain before morning.
Jumbled thoughts raced through his mind as he slowly paced along, the darkness now near absolute, the white of wave-crests almost luminous out in the blackness.
He reached the fore lookouts and returned down the opposite side, trying to come to a conclusion. But nothing made sense and things were getting worse.
Turning at the taffrail aft he began another pace forward.
The officer-of-the-watch, Nowell, and the quartermaster stood silently, watching in blank curiosity.
Passing the boats on their skids amidships Kydd felt the beginnings of despair. There was only a short time to pull off a miracle and he didn’t have anything. If he couldn’t …
At the sound of a sudden scuffle behind him he twisted round. A blow aimed at the back of his head took him on the side instead. Disoriented, he fell to his knees-and they were on him.
Instinctively he seized a rope and clung to it, lashing out viciously with both feet, which connected solidly with two of the assailants. They staggered back, the third irresolute.
Kydd let out a choking cry, then a shout.
His attackers turned and fled but in the dark he hadn’t been able to see their faces clearly.
Gasping, he waited for help-but then, in sudden dawning realisation, he understood: he was succeeding. He now had conclusive proof that there was an evil mind behind the whole thing, holding his crew in thrall by some means but now so desperate to stop him that he’d taken the grave risk of having him attacked on his own ship-because he was getting through to the seamen.
In a haze of relief that overcame his pain he heard running feet and the quartermaster, followed by Nowell, arrived.
“Sir-what …?”
Kydd was ready for it. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr Nowell. I tripped and hit my head. That’s all. A bit of a sea tonight, don’t you think?”
If he could just find this devilish plotter and put an end to him-he’d cleanse the ship of the man’s malign sway over the Tygers.
CHAPTER 10
NOWELL STOOD DOWN FROM HIS WATCH at midnight, handing over to Paddon, who listened with barely hidden contempt to his recitation of sail carried, course and weather conditions before dismissing him without a glance.
The young third lieutenant left the deck, desolation descending on him, as it seemed to so much these days. The ship was a nightmare of contradictions, a parody of what he had learned of sea service as a shy but eager midshipman.
The men were unreadable, their looks calculating and hostile, and he sensed a dangerous, edgy undercurrent. Their captain, the acclaimed Sir Thomas Kydd, didn’t seem to have any notion of how to put an end to it.
He reached the bottom of the ladderway and turned aft for the gun-room when Smyth, a master’s mate, emerged out of the gloom. “Begging y’r pardon, sir,” he said, with a sketchy salute. “The master wonders if he can have an urgent word wi’ ye.”
At this hour? But it was the courteous Le Breton, who, of all of the quarterdeck, was the most calm and reliable. No doubt it would be for a good reason.
“I’ll come now.”
“Ah, not in the gun-room, sir. In the boatswain’s storeroom, like.”
Nowell thought this odd, but then assumed that the problem was in the odorous recesses of the orlop, forward.
Smyth carried a lanthorn, and as they approached the store, Nowell saw several figures outside, waiting.
“The master?”
“Inside, sir.”
Nowell entered cautiously. Le Breton was sitting on an upended barrel at the far end among the hanging tackles, blocks and tools. A lamp on the deck cast a ghostly light up at him in the gloom. The reek of rope and Stockholm tar was almost overpowering.
Smyth followed him in. The door closed quietly.
“Do sit,” Le Breton said politely, indicating another barrel near him.
Nowell hesitated. “Master, is there something you wish to discuss? I’ve just come off watch and-”
“There is. A matter of great importance to us all.”
Nowell sat and waited uncertainly. There was a gleam in the master’s eye, which unsettled him with its uncharacteristic fervour.
“What I have to tell you is a fact that you must accept here and now, for there is no changing it. It will happen and there is not one thing anyone can do to stop it.”
“Go on,” the third lieutenant said, as a chill stole into his vitals.
“Tomorrow there will be a rising of the hands and this vessel will be handed over to the French Navy.”
Nowell gulped. “How do you know this, Master?”
Le Breton smiled thinly, “Because it will be my doing. I will not bore you with details but it’s sufficient to tell you that my allegiance lies with the people, not their rulers.”
“You’re French! An agent sent to-”
“It doesn’t really signify. What does is that tomorrow a frigate will rendezvous with this vessel, summoned by Mr Paddon’s ‘deserter.’ It will be the signal for us to complete our task and take charge of this ship. It will then be handed over and carried in to port.”
“I-I don’t believe you! The men would never-”
“My dear sir, they will-and I’ll tell you why. I have five other agents to spread my tidings that every man who stands on the right side when called upon will then be the possessor of a purse of gold, together with safe passage to any country or territory they so desire. Those who do not … well, let us say they must take their chances.”
Nowell tried to think. It must have been in the planning for some time, awaiting a suitable victim, and they had found one in Tyger. Le Breton was masquerading as the sailing master indicated on his warrant, the actual one removed. And with a grave shortage of seamen it wouldn’t have been too difficult to insert those five others-ostensibly volunteers of foreign extraction-into Tyger to plan and supervise the disaffection and poisoning of the crew to the point at which they could be relied upon to rise in mutiny at the right time.
A climate of fear would have been easily generated by the simple means of keeping secret the identity of his agents. In this way any who tried to raise the alarm could never know if he had been seen and betrayed. It explained the fear and distrust that had driven the Tygers into a fragmented mass.
A sudden jet of terror came. It made no sense for them to let him in on their plans unless … “Why are you telling me this?” he croaked.
“We need an officer.”
“Why me?”
“Mr Nowell, it doesn’t take much discerning to mark you out as a very unhappy man,” Le Breton said softly, looking up at him in a kindly way. “You’ve suffered more than most at the hands of those who call themselves your betters. You deserve a new start.”
With a numb inevitability Nowell saw where it was all leading.
“As an officer, your share of the proceeds in gold would be much larger, undoubtedly sufficient to set you up as a gentleman of affluence, of leisure. In Portugal, the Caribbean, even America, you could be sure of a welcome and a place in society as a respected figure of means. Who knows? A good marriage, a family …”
A vision grew and matured, an intoxicating one of dignity and esteem, of repose and peace in a country far away from the madness of war.
Le Breton smiled. “You’re considering your position. That is good. But you’re wanting reassurance that you’re coming over to the winning side and I can appreciate that. Let me tell you more of what’s planned and why it cannot fail.
“It requires only a dozen or more to declare themselves ready to act and I can state positively that we have more. These are merely the active players-many others will join us when they see how swiftly we succeed when my order is given, and how much they stand to lose if they don’t.” He spoke as if he was giving a lecture, calm, reasoned and persuasive.