The reaction was immediate-expecting it, the French captain rapidly fell away off the wind, his intention to circle around to bring his broadside to bear in place of his stern-quarters.
But Kydd was one step ahead. Instantly he countermanded his order and Tyger stopped her swing and began rotating the other way-and there presented to him was the enemy stern. In aimed shots, the raking storm took the frigate in a blast of destruction down her length that went on and on.
Kydd was not finished-as their guns on that side ceased their carnage he brought the ship over and delivered the other broadside, now at close range, into the appalling swathe of devastation.
For the first time he heard the Tygers roar in an ecstasy of victory that had been long in coming.
When the smoke had cleared and they swept past, the hapless frigate was left in a tangle of wreckage and defeated, only the foremast standing. If their captain survived he would have learned much of the importance of the weather gage in frigate warfare, Kydd mused grimly.
Now the remaining two in chase had this advantage themselves and after witnessing what had happened to their confederate there would be no easy deceiving.
Bonaparte would be merciless to any who shied away with such stakes to be won. They wouldn’t give up, that much was certain.
It was time to flee: there was no question of risking their cargo on the chances of close-quarter combat, but for this he hadn’t even the elementary knowledge of Tyger’s sailing qualities. The one best placed to advise was her sailing master, but he’d been aboard for less time even than himself.
Kydd turned to the first lieutenant. “Mr Hollis. In your experience, what is this ship’s best point of sailing?”
Hollis looked uncomfortable. “Sir, with our previous captain there was no stretching out, he not wanting to risk her sticks. I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you.”
They had to find out, and quickly, or their pursuers would catch them.
Kydd looked soberly out at the distant sails of the two.
It had been an exhausting day, under chase the whole time and, it had to be accepted, the two French appreciably nearer. Tyger had not disappointed him but she was no flyer in light winds as L’Aurore was, and while he now knew a lot more about her, it had not been enough.
He’d tried everything, from fashioning watersails under the stunsails while running large, to all the lore he could muster about dangerous clawing to windward as close to the wind’s eye as he dared contrive.
Night was coming on-some time in the morning there would be a reckoning and Tyger would be brought to bay.
With darkness came the opportunity to slip away-but this would be known to the French. It was another classic situation: if he turned away in the night a pursuer had a one in two chance of guessing which side he had taken. With a pair in chase they could cover both sides, and at a minimum Tyger would find herself at daybreak in a full-scale action with one, the other then attracted to join in by the gunfire and smoke.
Which direction to choose? It made little difference.
Unless …
It was a desperate gamble but would be the last thing they would suspect. Just as long as they were not sighted in the act.
Evening came, and with it the last chance for the French to catch them that day.
Every rope and sail taut they barrelled into the dusk, the picture of a desperately fleeing vessel not daring to take in sail by the smallest amount. Close to midnight a cloud-driven sky brought the blackness Kydd craved. It was a frightful risk but there was no other way.
Working fast, one by one, first the stunsails, then the topgallants and topsails were struck and Tyger straight away slowed dramatically, to the consternation of those not in the know.
But this was only the first act. The second was to wheel about-and as closely as possible to sail back down their own wake!
Necessarily they would pass between the two hunters but by dousing high sail they had avoided the glimmer of white canvas in the crepuscular gloom, and the headlong speed of the chase past them would ensure the danger period would not be long.
He’d given orders that not a sound was to be made. No orders shouted, no watch bell, no careless knock. Their speed was now painfully reduced to ensure there would be no betraying swash of white wake.
At one point Kydd caught a brief sight of a pale smudge out on their beam but he couldn’t be sure and held course for another breathless hour before he took his last action. Setting full sail on once more he put over the helm-for the enemy coast, the Netherlands, which was somewhere to the south and which he knew would be the last place of refuge they would think he would take in preference to the open sea.
At eight or nine knots he needed a good two or three hours southward before he could be sure he was out of sight of a masthead lookout and alter course eastwards-to ease around the vainly searching pair.
Then, as dawn broke, eyes strained across the waters and … they saw an empty sea. They were alone.
Gothenburg was Kydd’s first sight of Scandinavia.
With a pilot on board, insisted upon by Joyce, who had been in these waters in the peace, Tyger wound through an uncountable number of islands of rough cliffs and sea-dark barren rocks that completely obscured the harbour until the last mile or two.
Keyed up to be rid of his special cargo he took little interest in the unfolding seascape, the ancient medieval clock towers and waterfront bustle.
They came to anchor and, without a moment’s delay, Hollis was on his way ashore to alert the embassy. He was back within the hour, accompanied by a young man who introduced himself as Beckwith, under-secretary at His Majesty’s embassy.
“You have something for me?” Kydd asked.
“Oh, you’ll be meaning this.” It was the signed paper, all present and correct.
“Very good. You’ll oblige me by taking this freight off my hands, Mr Beckwith. It’s caused us no end of vexation.”
“I suppose it has. Well, let’s see if we can’t take delivery in the next few days. We’re awfully busy with the visit of Prince Gustaf-”
“The next few days?” Kydd exploded. “I’m damned if I’ll wait, sir! I want it all ashore this day or I’ll know the reason why!”
“Oh dear-it’ll mean extra tides for someone but don’t worry, I’ll see to it. Be ready to load it on the barge when it comes. Good day to you, sir.”
The “Explosive Shot” was mustered under guard by the mainmast well before the flat barge began creeping out from the wharf, watched over by a square of marines, a mystified gunner and a fuming Kydd.
There was no one on it to take delivery so Kydd himself and the guard went into the barge for the journey inshore.
With great care each case was landed and conveyed to a warehouse where they were lined up in order of the number painted on each, and a full guard posted.
Where the devil was the reception escort? The functionaries with documents and receipts? Anyone?
A little later a puffing Beckwith arrived, mopping his forehead. “So sorry, old chap. Didn’t realise the prince was bringing his mother as well.”
“I’m having a signature!” Kydd mouthed dangerously.
“Oh, yes, I suppose you do.” He snatched Kydd’s form and threw off a huge scrawl on it. “There. All done now!”
Just like that. Well, on return he’d now be able to claim his bullion freight money-after his junketing in London it would be a welcome easing of finances.
“Where’s your escort then, Mr Beckwith?”
“Escort? I don’t think we’ll bother with that right now. You can tell your brave fellows they can leave.”
Kydd could hardly believe his ears. “No escort? It’s your worry now but …”
The young man gave a lopsided smile. “Captain. Have you ever wondered what a half-million in specie looks like?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but went to the first case, prised apart the wooden slats on the top and stood back.