Tyger responded with a will, her roll lessening, the thump of her bow working into the seas less violent. As he always did, Kydd warmed to her bluff and hearty ways. This was a ship he could take into any peril, knowing she would not fail him.
The wind in his teeth and the taste of salt spray was such a contrast to the rural tranquillity of Knowle Manor, now just a warm memory. He and Persephone had parted lovingly, she now in possession of a detailed ship’s chart of the Iberian coast and he with a lock of her hair in a silver box, while Tyger’s cabin spaces now boasted a fine show of rural Devon miniatures around the bulkhead. Blockade could be long and tedious but he would not want for reminders of home.
Dillon had procured stocks of books in anticipation, his fascination with languages apparently limitless. The gunroom had laid in various defences against ennui and Kydd knew the long-service seamen had, besides their scrimshaw and needlework, any number of games of chance, from the venerable and illegal Crown and Anchor to cards and dice.
‘Glass dropping, sir,’ remarked the sailing master, Joyce. ‘As I recollects once in ’eighty-five after the American war. Raisonnable frigate, we was, or was it ’eighty-six? Anyways …’
Kydd let the man chatter: a yarn-spinner was a marked asset on watch in dirty weather. Each of the officers had a fund of experiences and memories they could draw upon, and at every telling, a yarn would grow taller. A man of years with the navy could be relied on to pull out a story to suit any occasion and need never fear to be scorned.
‘A black line squall out o’ the north, that’s what did for us …’
Joyce had seen more than most: ships long gone, men lost to history but not to their shipmates – even Nelson, as a junior lieutenant. This translated to a compendious and sweeping acquaintance with the sea world that was priceless in a tight situation. He had a wife in Sheerness and never failed to bring fascinating curios to her in an attempt to ward off her nagging that it was time for him to retire to the land. But Kydd knew that the only way Joyce would quit Tyger was with ‘DD’ next to his name in the muster roll – ‘Discharged Dead’. Would he himself at some point leave the sea for good? He knew Persephone would never press him to do so, and while Bonaparte continued to threaten England he had his duty. Yet who could foretell the future?
Scud was beginning to drive across the sky in ragged streamers below an ugly grey background of cloud. It would get blashier before it got better, and the watch hunkered down below the bulwarks.
‘We’ve a current with this blow, Mr Joyce. Shall we ease to loo’ard, do you think? We’ve offing enough, I believe.’
As always, the master paused, sniffing the wind fastidiously as though seeking an answer from its origins, then allowed that he thought it possible.
Tyger fell away a little, the coast of France under her lee still a good dozen leagues distant. Their change of tack across the north of Spain would take care of the additional easting but now the frigate was more in tune with the wave motion and gratifyingly more comfortable.
Kydd went below to take his noon meal with the thought that, by forty degrees latitude, they would probably clear this roil of thick weather, a matter of a couple of days at most. They were fully stored and watered and could look to immediate employment in Collingwood’s scouts or cruisers. A storm-worn and fatigued frigate would in turn be released to its well-earned rest.
He’d hardly started on his soup when his ears pricked. Against the solid roar of the wind he’d heard a faint hail from the tops. A lookout had seen something: mindful of the wear and tear on her gear a merchant ship would not be making the crossing of Biscay in this weather. Only a warship would be keeping the seas.
At this latitude it was probably one of the Rochefort blockaders, even if she was quite a distance out and therefore off-station. There would be no need to close with her.
Kydd continued with his soup, in a half-filled bowl and on a neat doily wetted to prevent it sliding into his lap.
There were more hails. The entire squadron this far seaward? He frowned but stayed with his soup – it was good.
Bray knocked on the door. ‘Sir – sail to the east’d and signals us.’
This could not be by flag: nothing could be seen at that distance. It had to be a throwing a-fly of the fore-topsail or other contrivance to attract attention.
‘Very well. I’ll be on deck directly. Bear away for him, if you please.’ There was still time to finish the soup.
When Kydd made the quarterdeck, not only was the vessel in sight but others had been spotted beyond. ‘Interesting,’ he muttered. ‘This is certainly the Rochefort squadron – that’s Sir Richard Strachan’s command, o’ course. And those are his sail-o’-the-line. Bear up for C?sar, his flag – that big eighty-gun fellow in the middle.’
The fleet was in extended order of sailing over miles of sea but it was hardly making way.
Tyger came up with the flagship and hove to, gratefully in the lee of the two-decker.
‘C?sar, ahoy! Tyger frigate bound for Cadiz station as per orders.’
A figure in the waist hailed back, but the roaring wind snatched away the words.
‘Cannot … hear … you!’ Kydd bellowed, gesticulating unmistakably.
The figure threw down his speaking-trumpet in vexation, then, in exaggerated movements, indicated a launch alongside, pitching and heaving. The largest boat aboard, it had been put in the water as Tyger approached.
Its crew tumbled in, double-banking the oars, then pushed off into the narrow sheltered area between the two ships. This gave Kydd time to don oilskins and sea boots, and when it thumped alongside, he grasped a man-rope and dropped into the wildly bucking boat. He was helped into C?sar and led aft to the half-deck under the poop, where a ruddy-faced officer waited.
‘My thanks for coming aboard in this, sir,’ he opened gruffly. ‘As you may believe, it is of a dire necessity.’ Under a worn cloak Kydd caught the gleam of an admiral’s lace.
‘Sir Thomas Kydd, captain, Tyger 32-’
‘What’s your state?’ Strachan wanted to know how fit his ship was for sea.
‘Just out of dockyard, water and stored, orders to join Admiral Collingwood off Cadiz and-’
‘Sent from heaven above, by God! You’re now taken under orders, Kydd.’
‘Sir? I can’t-’
‘You can and will,’ the admiral snapped. ‘For one very good reason. The French are out, damn it, and I’m at a frightful stand. Until you came along, that is.’
‘May I know-’
‘Why they came out and why aren’t I after them? It’s simple. This dirty weather stopped the victuallers attending on the fleet. We’re down to our last piece o’ hard tack, no more beef or pork, and in distress for water. I came out to see if I could find what’s holding ’em and Allemand took the chance to put to sea with six o’-the-line, which includes a brute 120-gun first rate. It’s obvious to anyone I can’t go after ’em, no endurance.’
It was the very thing to be feared above all others. If this force joined with one more it would need another Trafalgar to put it down.
‘Then-’
‘As of this moment you are to go after them and stay with ’em wherever they go. Mark my words, sir – you lose them at your peril!’
Kydd knew this meant doggedly keeping them in sight and sending word back as and when he could. Pursuing battle fleets would thus be spared useless casting this way and that in a futile search of an empty ocean or, worse, the splitting of forces to look into every possible bolt-hole.
It was a frigate’s job, and Tyger was eminently fitted for the task.
‘Aye aye, sir. Um, your orders, sir?’
‘You’ll have them directly.’ Written orders, albeit brief, would be needed to justify to the Admiralty the withdrawing of a valuable frigate from the order of battle, however important the object.