Authors: Julian Stockwin
He kept his fears to himself as they reached out over the grey polar seas under the steady northeasterly. The course was simple—due south to Europe, and in a short time there was a welcome hail from the masthead, then distant sails could be seen generally.
“Damn m’ eyes, but I’d like to be on their quarterdeck when they sights a frigate in pursuit!” chuckled Joyce, rubbing his gloved hands.
“An’ he’s putting about!” came an astonished cry a little later.
Instead of their view of the distant stern of the ship, now the three masts were separating in a turn-about.
Kydd watched intently … and the ship hardened on a course taking them at right angles away in a desperate flight close to the wind.
“Hey, now!” he couldn’t help blurting in satisfaction. “And he’s a bad conscience, I believe!”
No ship confident of its flag or papers would be fleeing so. This was now a straight chase!
“Follow his motions,” he instructed, and
Tyger
heeled as she put down her helm to run parallel some miles to windward. They could never escape this way, for with her superior speed, all
Tyger
needed to do was bear down and close until it was all over. And no darkness to put an unfair end to the pursuit, either.
Horner nodded at the binnacle. “You’ve seen what he’s up to? Headin’ north—into the pack-ice. Where no fool goes, ’less he wants t’ shake hands with a polar bear.”
The wind dropped to a whisper; the two ships ghosted on, a bare two miles apart. They stayed that way for half a day, frustrating to a degree, but then, under a crystal blue sky, the horizon softened and a long white layer extended across their entire vision—freezing fog.
The image of
Walvis
wavered and disappeared into it, her mastheads briefly visible before they, too, were swallowed.
“As far as we go, I think, Cap’n?”
“Where he can go, so can we,” Kydd said stubbornly.
“That there’s the ice edge—an’ worse. No place for—”
“We go in.”
As soon as they entered the fog-bank it was another world. The surprising warmth of the sun was cut off, as if a door had been closed, and the cold set in, fierce and piercing in the soft white anonymity.
The ship began taking on a fairy-tale appearance of a sparkling loveliness as the glistening fog particles froze to a rime that covered everything: deck, rigging, sails and every individual rope that ran aloft.
“You see why I said—”
“Thank you. Mr Hollis, relieve every man of the watch-on-deck one by one. They’re to go below and get on every bit of clothing against the cold as can be found. Sealskin, fearnought, leather—Mr Horner will go with ’em to advise.”
The ship stole on, the lookout at the fore-masthead relieved every fifteen minutes peering into the featureless white blanket.
An ominous thud and the frigate trembled. She had shouldered aside a wicked floe bigger than their launch.
“Sir, I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Hollis muttered uncomfortably.
Kydd said nothing and unaccountably the fog-bank thinned and they were through—and not a mile ahead was their quarry, nosing along the edge of the ice.
“Got him!”
“I don’t think so,” Horner said heavily. “See this?”
He waved at the scattered ice fragments. The sea they swam in had subtly changed. Between the larger floes there was a peculiar wide scattering of floating platelets in an almost oily carpet.
“Frazil ice. Temperature drops any more an’ we’ll have ice rind—and then you get out fast.”
Kydd said nothing, watching his prey so close. Both ships were barely making way in the near complete calm, sails hanging loosely and giving an aimless flap every now and then. If they could catch a random cats-paw of wind it would be sufficient to bring them up and, fantastic as it seemed in the surroundings, there could be gun-play and a boarding.
The small breeze was running parallel with the edge of the ice and Kydd could see now what
Walvis
was up to. She had been looking for a way into the pack and had found one. Angling behind a long floe, she eased in, the flash of wet bearing-off spars visible as her sailors poled their way past. Then they were inside some ice-lagoon and still under way deeper in.
“Don’t even think on it, Cap’n!” Horner grated. “If you does, I quit! Hear me?”
By now
Tyger
was close to the ice edge herself. In horrified fascination men watched the unending floes drifting and heard a ceaseless tiny creaking and muted cracking as they gently rose and fell on the slight swell. Delicate frost-smoke hung over the surface of the sea, playfully plucked and flurried to eddying wreaths by a polar zephyr.
Kydd’s thoughts raced. The rational course was to give best to one with superior knowledge of these regions and sail away before some hideous Arctic fate overtook them. But that would be at the cost of his only chance of coming out of his High North expedition with something to show for it.
So near!
Boats?
No, boats coming down a defined lead in the ice were a perfect oncoming target. A charge over the ice? How did he know if a floe would take their weight? If it didn’t, their end would be immediate and awful.
Here he was with a man-o’-war of unanswerable force and under her guns not a mile away was her prey—but he was completely helpless!
Horner was not going to let it go. “See all them ice-hillocks another mile in? That’s your ice fast to the shore. It comes out an’ meets the drift ice on its way in with terrible force. If the wind’s offshore, you has a chance. Wind turns onshore, why, you’ll be crushed between ’em like an egg-shell!”
Ominously, Kydd could see that, just as had been predicted, the frazil ice was coming together in a continuous greasy-looking thin sheet.
They had been lucky, he knew. On mess-decks and in wardrooms he’d heard tales of ferocious storms raging out of the Arctic wilderness and if one struck here …
“It’s freezin’ in, Cap’n,” warned Horner. “Time we was going.”
The weather was changing—Kydd felt it in his bones. How long could he afford to wait? The smaller
Walvis
could lie there indefinitely if it was equipped for long-distance voyaging in these parts but
Tyger
was ill-equipped and vulnerable. Was it right to risk her and her company for the sake of what was really personal advantage?
He shivered and pulled his coat tighter as a slightly stronger wind flaw cut into him … and something Horner had said returned. What was it?
The slight wind! His unconscious mind had registered that it had shifted a point or two and strengthened a little.
“Sir, we should leave while we can,” the muffled voice of his first lieutenant came, and in his anxiety he’d even gone so far as to touch Kydd’s arm.
But, with a fierce glee, Kydd had seen how he could win. “Mr Joyce, I desire
Tyger
to lie off at two cables distance. Mr Hollis, a file of marines and a boarding party to muster at the mainmast now.”
They looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone mad.
“Carry on, please!” he ordered crisply.
With a grudging smile Horner tipped his hat to Kydd and watched
Walvis
warp about and make for the open sea—and, reluctantly, into
Tyger
’s embrace.
“
DON
’
T
CONCERN YOURSELF
, m’ boy, your prize will be taken care of by
Whippet
when she heads off with my dispatches. Now, tell me all about it—I’m sure it’ll be a rare tale!”
Kydd knew the bluff Admiral Russell would not take kindly to tacking and veering about the actuality and opened up to him, freely admitting his motives for the daring thrust into the High Arctic. The chase after the furs had been a long shot but what had he had to lose?
There was professional talk on the suitability of Archangel as a second port—regretfully dismissed—and conditions while working ship in freezing weather.
Then Russell asked, “Tell me, why did the barky decide to give himself up from the pack-ice so conveniently?”
Kydd debated whether to claim the credit himself but answered, “Something my pilot mentioned. He said the worst danger for navigating in the north is when the fixed ice coming out from the shore meets the floating pack driven in by the wind. Any ship between will be helplessly crushed. The Hollander was safe until the wind turned onshore. Then he had the choice of being sunk and marooned on the ice as he watched us sail away or …”
“You sighted his papers?” the admiral asked, clearly keen to know if indeed there was a case for condemning
Walvis
as prize, given her rich lading.
“I did, sir.” Kydd went on to tell him how he’d found the ship was merely a ferry, trans-shipping the cargo to a disguised blockade-runner waiting in Tromsø fjord in north Norway ready for the dash south. It must have seemed wildly improbable that a British man-o’-war of size would ever chance on Archangel, still less Spitzbergen, he added. Then he beamed. “I fancy, sir, we’ll soon be sharing in as rich a prize as any these last years!”
Russell gave a sad smile. “Not as who would say. Won’t even make the prize court, o’ course.”
“Sir?”
“Your action must count as a considerable success—at thwarting a smuggling ring. Kydd, I have to tell you, the offence for which we take reprisal with this prize is nothing but an offence against the revenue service of Russia. See if you can find in our orders-in-council where the fur of the Arctic fox is listed as contraband. You won’t. So what we see is the property of the Tsar of Russia rightfully restored.”
“So—”
“I expect the tsar will be generous in his thanks and no doubt our Dutch friends will at this moment be marching off to Siberia in chains, but as to lawful prize …”
Seeing Kydd’s crestfallen look he gave a chuckle. “It has its bright side. I dare to say we’ve a reasonable claim to salvage on the cargo, a tidy sum. And undoubtedly it affects you personally too, Kydd.”
“Sir?”
“What would our grateful tsar say if he found the Admiralty had rewarded the captain responsible with the loss of his ship? The politicals would never allow it. No, m’ boy, I do believe you’ve
Tyger
to yourself if you want her.”
In the solitude of his cabin, thoughts crowded in on Kydd.
Tyger
was his—but for how long? Despite Russell’s words, he felt it was a reprieve only. He had to go on to achieve a standing that made him untouchable by the Admiralty and restored him to favour with the public.
Actions that resulted in distinction and acclaim could never be commanded on a whim. In all his past triumphs he had been in a position that allowed various elements to be exploited to advantage—
and
he had had the freedom to act. In a fleet there would be little chance in the short term of coming on such a situation.
But, an inner voice offered, hadn’t his greatest laurels been won at Curaçao, part of a squadron?
He grimaced. There was little of the far exotic about duties with the North Sea Fleet and far less likelihood of such derringdo in these waters but it couldn’t be ruled out entirely. His future course was now clear: while there was even the slightest chance of distinction he would make damned sure he was ready.
He would bring
Tyger
up to a fighting pitch such as he’d achieved with
L’Aurore
—forge a blade that he could take into any contest and be sure of victory.
Before, he’d not felt a rightful captain of
Tyger
. She’d started as a punishment ship, a place of exile, and he’d not given her the interest and attention she deserved, especially with the shadow of losing her before him: then she had been a fleeting and temporary command, which it would have been unwise to take to his heart.
It was different now and he vowed he would cleave to his new ship. There were pleasing and appealing aspects of her character that reached out to him—those bluff, no-nonsense bulldog lines, the massed eighteen-pounder great guns, her willingness to brute through head seas and fearlessly carry high sail …
He and the ship’s company had met in the worst possible circumstances and he’d not been inclined to test their limits under those conditions. Now they’d seen him in action and he’d given them a prize of sorts. It was a start but he was not naïve enough to think that this meant he’d won their loyalty—that only came with trust and that, in turn, with shared danger. But time was not on his side …
He began jotting down what he must do. Gunnery, sail-handling—these prime battle-winners were top of the list.
Their brush with the frigates in the “bullion shipment” had been revealing: there’d been no flinching or hanging back but there’d been a stiffness in working the guns, betraying a woeful lack of practice compared to the fluid choreography in
L’Aurore
. He’d long learned the lesson that halving the time for the load-and-fire cycle had the same effect as doubling the number of guns, in a frigate duel effectively pitting the enemy against the broadside to be expected from a ship-of-the-line. Every split-second saved would translate in a long, close action to many more strikes, any one of which could be a settler.
Smart working of sail was far more than mere practice. Necessarily, there was a distancing in the layers of command. In a first-rate man-o’-war the captain on the quarterdeck would issue an order, which would go to the officer in charge of that part-of-ship and his team; the petty officers would pull the men together and make it happen, knowing their individual strengths and weaknesses and alert to any slacking or fumbling, while the officer stood braced for any external change in circumstances. It took trust by the officer, trust from the petty officers and mutual professional respect. So recently emerged from mutiny, these strands of interdependence were frayed at best and his officers must look to restoring them as soon as possible.
Bowden understood the importance of this, he felt; Brice was gifted, his men at the foremast the only ones showing positive signs, but his first lieutenant …
Hollis was from a good family, but in a ship of war that was a disadvantage. Used to unquestioning obedience from servants, his instinct was to issue a stream of directions and leave it at that. Under stress of a mutinous situation he’d become more strident, distant and critical, and while at present the men took his orders, that precious two-way reliance was lacking.