Tyger got under way without delay while Kydd wrestled with his conundrum – sail north or south, or even west across the Atlantic? Strachan had seen the French once only, heading out into the murk just hours before, but had no indication of their eventual course.
If north it could only be Brest – where Allemand would meet the traditionally largest blockade fleet. It would be well matched to his own in any confrontation with no assurance of being able to push past to a combining. Not really a choice for the French.
If south, then the possibilities were many more.
Along the north coast of Spain, in Ferrol and Vigo, there were concentrations of naval strength. These were sufficient for the Admiralty to mount a squadron of deterrence but not enough to attract as a strategic destination for Allemand’s break-out.
Further on was Lisbon, newly taken by Bonaparte and a major port. Still with no French naval presence to speak of, it was an obvious objective. Kydd could make straight for the north-west corner of Spain, trusting he’d pass Allemand and his squadron sailing at the speed of the slowest and be in place to intercept them before they made their southing to Lisbon.
The fresh gale increased, its spiteful blast sending painful stinging spray across the deck but Kydd relished it. The lighter-built French ships would be at a disadvantage in these conditions and could not carry on sailing like Tyger, built for ranging the oceans of the globe.
Once he sighted them, all uncertainty would vanish: he’d clamp a hold on them like a bulldog for as long as it took to bring up the British battle fleets – if he was right in his reasoning about Lisbon.
Their new course meant the north-westerly was coming in from directly abeam, hard and savage, driving surging rollers mercilessly at Tyger’s sides in an unending series of white-capped combers. However, Kydd kept bar-taut high canvas aloft that took the wind’s force in a constant stream and held the masts a-slant, while the fierce waves coming in merely lifted and settled the ship as they passed under her keel.
The high, craggy coastline of Galicia appeared ahead as the day broke, bare mountains, dark and bleak, above a band of white mist thrown up by the Atlantic in its age-old battering of the land.
Kydd had now firmed his plans. Whatever their final destination, Allemand’s squadron must round this corner. A little further was Ferrol but they had to pass him first to make it.
Here they would stand off and on for three days, and if the enemy was not sighted in that time he would have to accept that he was wrong and must think again.
For the rest of the day there was no sign of them as the gale blew itself out. At night they were granted a gibbous moon that would throw a passing fleet into stark shadows – but none came.
Chapter 11
The next day opened on a dreary waste of tumbling waters, but as the light strengthened a cry came from the masthead. Sail had been sighted further out to sea, not one but several – many.
In huge relief, Kydd set Tyger to close and quickly had his glass up.
It was a grand and fearsome sight. The great four-decked battleship was Allemand’s 120-gun behemoth. Accompanying it, in a loose gaggle, were four 74s and an escorting frigate on either beam. With them was a cloud of sloops and victuallers. This was a full-fledged sortie out for trouble – and Kydd had been proved right in his thinking.
Possibly they thought that Tyger had chanced on them, part of the watch and guard squadron off Ferrol or further to the south. Whether this or any other conclusion, the reaction would be the same – they’d expect the frigate to close with them to get a measure of their force, then spread all possible sail in a hurried dash to warn the British fleet commander, unavoidably giving away its position.
This was not how it would be, though: Tyger was a scout with an independent command and would not be quitting her place. It would be a challenge to get a warning off but Strachan had made its final destination their overriding goal.
Easing her helm, Tyger fell away, letting the squadron pass well out to sea, a succession of men-o’-war in baleful and arrogant progress, who took no interest in breaking formation to go after a single frigate. Kydd kept his ship sidling around their rear for he wanted to make observations and to end in position to windward. For once, the stormy winds were with them: brisk and hard from the north-west they were unchanging and therefore reliable. Tyger slipped into place downwind of the enemy and began her relentless shadowing.
‘Take this down, Mr Dillon,’ Kydd said, bracing his telescope.
One by one he detailed what he saw, other officers contributing their count until a fair picture of what faced them emerged – in strength equal to any the English could bring against them and, if combined with those lurking in port, an irresistible force. An uneasy quiet reigned about Tyger’s deck as men stared across the tumbling seas, none in any doubt of the deadly significance.
As the day wore on the squadron’s track revealed itself – past the dark crags and precipices of the extreme north of Spain southward to the Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death.
Ferrol was within thirty or forty miles, then Corunna. If neither of these was their destination, it would be around the stark headland of Finisterre for the plunge directly south past Vigo to Lisbon. A day’s sail.
They left Ferrol and Corunna out of sight well to leeward, as Kydd had expected, but then everything changed.
In the fading light of dusk the bleak ruggedness of Finisterre passed astern, but the course they’d taken to round the corner of Spain was held – at south-west, diagonally out to sea instead of the drop south.
Then both French frigates fell away from the line and, wearing about purposefully, made for Tyger.
It was a move to be rid of their stubborn pursuer: Kydd had not made off inshore to alert the nearest squadron, which implied he was an independent, bent on staying with them and their eventual purpose.
Kydd immediately gave his orders. As if in dismay, Tyger sheered away, heading inshore. The two followed, barrelling along in the stiff winds, drawing apart to make sure of intercepting.
A wan twilight was all that was left of the day.
Suddenly Tyger hauled her wind and, in a dizzying curve, took up as close to the breeze as she could, then headed back out to sea. Too late, the two frigates realised they’d been deceived, swinging about in an ungainly rush. But Kydd had won through and was making his offing.
In the fading light the squadron’s sails were still in sight but Kydd didn’t care if they disappeared. His move had ensured he held a trump card: he could keep up this manoeuvring as long as they wished it, but in the end, inevitably, they had to break off to resume escort on their commander and his squadron. In so doing they indicated its whereabouts, like a pointing finger.
Kydd’s duty was to keep from engaging or undertaking any risky act that could result in a reduction in capability. The stakes were too high.
And his plan depended on his ship having the speed to get away and close as needed. However, the Royal Navy had an unbeatable edge. It kept the seas in all weathers, honing ships and men to perfection, while the French were bottled up in harbour for months at a time with little opportunity to shape raw crews to the same degree of skill. All other things equal, the Royal Navy could out-manoeuvre and out-sail their opponents.
In these fresh winds Tyger was comfortable and secure and, recently docked, had a clean bottom; Kydd would have no qualms about clapping on sail. If, however, the weather turned light and placid the finer-lined French craft – as his old L’Aurore – would relish the conditions and it would be a different story.