Authors: Julian Stockwin
K
YDD RETURNED
,
MUCH CHASTENED
, to a concerned Tysoe.
Time was ticking by: if he failed to come up with some public gesture of repudiation of the article he’d be damned for a Popham admirer. But by evening he’d reached the conclusion that there was no chance of a resolution.
He retired to bed with the forlorn hope that it would blow over in time and that he’d be well advised to keep away from everybody until it did.
In the morning four letters arrived. The first he opened was from a complete stranger.
… why should we not believe that yourself and the notorious Captain Popham made assault on the Spanish colonies for reasons of personal plunder? At the sacrifice of lives and honour … by turning on the Admiralty who employ you, in the basest way, in that they cannot reply, you have betrayed your comrades and your country … the name of Kydd will for ever be associated with …
The others would no doubt be in the same vein. He hadn’t the stomach to read them. It was now becoming clear that, far from dying down, the affair was heating up.
In the days that followed there was a riposte in the government-leaning
Review
, attacking him personally and asking why the Admiralty did not take certain measures against him. Worse was the
True Briton
, which ran a feature that listed all the merchants, liberals and others who were loudly supporting Kydd in his comments.
By the fourth day he’d accumulated more than fifty letters. He took harsh delight in not giving the writers satisfaction by reading them, but he knew there would be an accounting. The blow would fall, as Bazely had warned.
Then a letter bearing the Admiralty cipher came. He tore it open.
You are hereby required and directed forthwith to repair on board Tyger frigate and take upon you the charge and command of Captain in her accordingly …
This was nothing less than a formal letter making him captain of a ship!
… strictly charging the Officers and Company of the said ship with all due respect and obedience … for His Majesty’s Service. Hereof nor you, nor any of you may fail, as you will answer the contrary at your peril, and for so doing this shall be your warrant.
An enclosed slip of paper briefly informed him that the said ship was lying in Yarmouth Roads, of the North Sea squadron under the flag of Admiral Russell, and was ready for sea. No reason was given for the sudden change of captain—or why his prestigious new heavy frigate appointment was being overruled.
Was this the blow he’d been dreading? That he’d been given an inferior command?
But the correspondence carried no implication of retribution. It would have been easy to find some excuse to withdraw the offer of the new frigate and simply let him rot, unemployed.
Why another ship? Was it simply that they wanted him out of the country, back at sea where he’d be out of the way? Or was there a more sinister motive? The only course to find answers and clear up the mystery was to brave the den of lions that was the Admiralty.
As he took his seat in the captains’ room it fell silent. Then a whispering began that Kydd pointedly ignored but his face burned.
The clerk hurried away with his card, but there was some delay before he was called.
When he entered the first lord’s room Mulgrave greeted him with awkward geniality. Two grim-faced admirals, whom Kydd did not recognise, stood behind him.
“Ah, Captain Kydd. So glad to see you again. Are you well, sir?” He did not introduce the senior officers.
“Thank you, sir. Yes. My lord, I’ve come this morning to beg explanation of my letter of appointment. It appears to contradict the understanding I’d been given concerning command of the new heavy frigate now building and—”
“Quite. The reason is simple, Sir Thomas. Under advice by my sea lords you’re to be given an immediate important appointment, your good self being highly commended by them for the post.”
“May I know the reasons, my lord?”
“Why, your record of service to His Majesty, Sir Thomas. It has been distinguished and meritorious but has certain … characteristics that single you out for the post.”
Unease began to spread in Kydd’s vitals. “For this particular ship, my lord?”
“Yes. HMS
Tyger
, frigate.” He went on, avoiding Kydd’s eye, “You see, er, she was lately taken in mutiny and we rather thought a firm hand is what is required to bring her back to fitness for war.”
“And my new heavy frigate? After this may I look forward to—”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Sir Thomas,” he said awkwardly. “It’s been promised to the Lord Faulknor.” Mulgrave’s manner softened a little. “Believe that I’m truly sorry to have had to rob the victor of Curaçao of his reward.”
One of the admirals coughed meaningfully, but was ignored.
“If there’s anything I might do …?” Mulgrave added.
Kydd tried to gather his thoughts. He knew the unwritten rules: if he refused the appointment without good reason nothing would be said, but he would never be offered another command.
There was one thing he could ask. Captains were entitled to “followers” if they went on to another ship. These were usually midshipmen, coxswain, others, all of whom in
L’Aurore
had long gone on to who knew where. But …
“There is, my lord. I desire that I might name my officers.”
There was an intake of breath from the admirals.
This first lord had an army background, which Kydd was bargaining on to work in his favour. He looked surprised but assented quickly enough. “If it is convenient to the gentlemen concerned, you shall have them.”
To his credit Bazely did come on Kydd’s hastily penned request to meet.
“So you’ve taken a broadside from their lordships,” he said, when Kydd outlined what had transpired at the Admiralty.
Kydd nodded while Tysoe dealt with the drinks. “I’m to have another frigate. And to sail immediately. I’m supposing it’s to get me away to sea.”
“You got off very lightly, m’ friend, don’t ye mourn it.”
“The ship’s been in mutiny and they want me to cure ’em.”
“Ah.”
“Name of
Tyger
, lying at Yarmouth. Don’t know else.”
Bazely sat bolt upright. “Did ye take her? Tell me ye didn’t!”
“I did—why not?”
“I heard fr’m Parlby, she was in mutiny well enough. Bloody business, two men dead. Court-martial in Yarmouth found three ringleaders and set ’em t’ dangling at the fore yardarm. Kept it as quiet as they could, but there’s talk. An’ it ain’t pretty, m’ lad.”
Bazely sat back with a cynical smile, cradling his brandy. “Neatly done. Very neat—can’t ye see it? You’ve been trussed up like a turkey dinner!”
Kydd glowered, then downed his brandy savagely.
“They offer you a swine of a command on th’ strength you’re from afore the mast and a hero both. If ye refuse, ye’re finished and off the books. If ye take it, there’s no chance in hell you’ll succeed.”
“Why not?” Kydd snapped.
“M’ friend, think on it. The barky must’ve been in sad shape to think on mutiny, worse to rise in one. They got three leaders an’ made ’em suffer for it. That means the rest get away wi’ it, and that’s where they stand now, your declared mutineer agin them as were too shy to join ’em, mess an’ watch split down th’ middle, shipmate agin shipmate. Your petty officers too scared t’ keep discipline, the officers in fear o’ their lives.”
“I know what a mutiny is,” muttered Kydd, icy memories of his part in the great fleet mutiny of 1797 flooding back.
“Then ye’ll know as a ship out o’ discipline is a useless fighting machine. They’ll not fight for you, an’ ye needs must haul down y’ flag to the first Frenchy ye sees. Kydd, m’ sad cock—ye’re meant to fail!”
Kydd scowled at his words. In ’97 the ships at the Nore had not been part of a combat fleet, being a reserve of vessels under repair and press-gang receiving hulks. This was different. He was being expected to take a front-line man-o’-war lately in open mutiny out to face the enemy—like a gladiator wearing leg-irons.
“The mouldering bastards,” he said thickly, realising that the proof of what Bazely was saying lay in the fact that it was practice for a ship in mutiny to be taken out of commission, the crew scattered among the rest of the fleet and a new ship’s company brought in on a fresh commission.
Tyger
would be putting to sea with the mutinous crew unchanged. There was precious little he could do to bring about anything miraculous before the first deep-sea encounter. Bazely was right, damn it to Hell!
It stung. The Admiralty was now against him and seeking vengeance.
He motioned to Tysoe. “Leave the bottle, if y’ please.”
With a troubled glance, the valet left.
Kydd downed his glass in one and poured more. This was not the pleasant sharing of libations with a friend, it was a furious need to deal with the frustration and anxiety that had built up over the few days past.
“Mulgrave was decent enough. Granted me leave to name my officers while all the time these gib-faced admirals gobbled away.”
“I’ve not heard o’ that ever given, cuffin. It’ll make it easier for ye.”
“Ha! Don’t know why I asked for it, really. I’m never going t’ involve my fine fellows of
L’Aurore
in this stand o’ stinking horse-shit!”
Bazely nodded. “This I c’n understand o’ ye, Tom.”
Kydd found himself recounting his brush with mutiny in his first ship as a young seaman but stopped short of telling all of the fearsome days at the Nore when as a master’s mate he had sided with the mutineers.
Bazely listened with sympathy.
With exaggerated politeness born of alcohol, Kydd turned to him. “I’m t’ thank you for your concerns, Bazely. As I’m qui’ capable o’ dealing with this’n.”
“O’ course ye are, old trout.”
Befuddled with drink, Kydd felt the anger coming back. It was so bloody unfair. That scuttish reporter had had no right …
The evening wore on until it didn’t matter any more.
Kydd woke blearily to a disorienting jolting and swaying. It seemed he was in a coach. Opposite sat Tysoe, with a blank expression. Next to him a plain woman was wearing a look of extreme disapproval, her yeoman farmer husband sitting beside him, trying to keep as far away as possible from him.
With a parched mouth and throbbing head Kydd tried to make sense of it all. Tysoe and Bazely must have bundled him aboard the coach to Yarmouth; he was on his way to take command of
Tyger
—his punishment ship. The other passengers must think him a rake or worse, but at least he wasn’t in uniform.
He shied at the thought of stepping aboard in his condition, and rising emotion took him again at the low ploy of the Admiralty, the image of the craggy but malevolent Earl St Vincent thrusting before him.
To go from hero of the hour to this in so short a time was hard to bear and he gulped back his feelings as they entered the outskirts of Yarmouth.
They were dropped at a mean inn and Kydd collapsed wearily in his room.
His head still swam but it didn’t stop the thoughts that stampeded unchecked.
One in particular grew. Why not quit while he was still on top? As far as both the public and the navy were concerned he was still a fresh-returned hero, victor of battles and a name to conjure with. If he put to sea in a fragile, mutinous ship and lost to the French, he would never be forgiven by those who had celebrated him before.
It was an attractive course: he wouldn’t get another command, but the public would assume he’d left the sea to rest on his laurels, like many had done before him, and Sir Thomas Kydd would find an admired and respected place in society where he would be valued for his experience and achievements.
All this could be thrown away if he meekly took what the Admiralty was dishing out and it went badly.
A maudlin rush of memories came. His translation from foremast hand to King’s officer—he’d made the conscious decision to take the harder route, not to be a tarpaulin officer but learn to be a gentleman, enter society on their terms, not his, and it had paid off handsomely. It had been a hard lesson and dear Renzi had been crucial to both the deciding and the accomplishing, so here he was, a figure in the quality and a hero to boot.
Cruel self-doubt mocked. A hero? Was he really … one like Nelson?
At Curaçao he’d been consumed in the mad onrush of events and could not have acted differently if he’d tried. And back at Camperdown, where he’d been singled out for the quarterdeck by his courage, there he’d done only his duty, harshly driven by previous events, the great mutiny at the Nore.
Other times: in
Tenacious
at the Nile? He’d taken away the ship’s boat in deep pity for the men struggling for their lives in the water. It was only common logic that they themselves would not be in peril so close to
L’Orient
’s gigantic explosion—the wreckage would go up and over them.
It was early dawn when he woke. He threw off his bedclothes and went to the pitcher to slake his thirst.
Tysoe noiselessly appeared with his robe.
“Thank ye,” he croaked. “I’m not playing their game, Tysoe. Pack the gear, we’re leaving.”
The man stood unmoving, his face sagging.
It goaded Kydd. “Didn’t you hear me?” he raged. “I said I’m not going through with it. Be damned to that parcel o’ stinkin’ shicers but I’m not falling for it.”
Tysoe’s expression turned to one of devastation.
“Get out! Be buggered t’ your wry looks! Get out, damn ye!” Kydd roared.
Hesitating, the man gave a dignified short bow and withdrew.
In a paroxysm of fury, Kydd seized the pitcher and smashed it to the floor.
Breathing deeply, he crossed the room, threw open the window and stood there, letting the fresh morning air do its work.
There was a fine view of the sea with the first tentative rays of light tinting it, the sun’s orb just beginning its lift to full daybreak. And inside the sandbar a gaggle of ships at anchor, prettily silhouetted against the dawn—King’s ships.
Could he turn his back on this?