The movement of lieutenants between ships to vacancies and flag posts was not uncommon and a simple exchange was even easier. Tyger’s new first lieutenant was aboard that same morning.
He was thick-set and imposing, with a ram-rod stiff bearing and restless glare.
“L’tenant Bray, Sir Thomas,” he rasped, with a quick bow, his eyes darting about the deck.
“I welcome you aboard Tyger, Mr Bray,” Kydd said politely, “and can only apologise for the haste, not to say inconvenience of your removal from Lively.”
“My pleasure,” came back an instant growl, leaving no doubt that this officer regretted it not at all.
They shook hands with the understanding that introductions and taking up of post could wait until lunch and a meeting with the officers.
It was a cool affair: Bray’s presence was large and disquieting and his dark features never once broke into a smile. His voice was a bear-like rumble. Kydd briefly wondered if he’d done the right thing but the man spoke civilly enough.
In the afternoon, accompanied by a distracted Brice, the big lieutenant took survey of the frigate from bowsprit to taffrail, watched surreptitiously by the seamen, and in the evening disappeared into his cabin with the watch and station bill.
This first was very different from the previous.
Kydd had to wait longer for his new boatswain. It was no trivial matter to summon one at such notice.
However, a sympathetic admiral’s staff did their best and a boatswain for Tyger duly arrived.
A temporary Navy Board warrant had been made out to a Mr Herne, late of a frigate undergoing extensive repair in Sheerness. He came on board the day before they sailed, a neat and seaman-like figure, grey-haired and with the dignity of age.
It was going to be hard on the man-he had to take into charge all the rigging, stores and equipment on a bare handover, then acquaint himself with the ship so that on the next day he didn’t make a fool of himself before his men.
And how would he get along with Bray? From what little Kydd had seen of Herne, he’d gained an impression of a cautious, quiet individual; Bray might want a more assertive creature, as the boatswain was a key figure in the first lieutenant’s role of running and maintaining the ship for her captain.
As was now their practice, Dillon was waiting for him at day’s end, ready to discuss events over a small repast, if invited, and subtly taking the opportunity to bring up matters for attention or diversion.
“You’ll be passing content now, I believe,” he opened, as they sat down to supper.
“How’s that?” Kydd answered, leaning over to take full advantage of the fresh butter while they were in port.
“It’s not escaped my notice that as of this day you’ve achieved nothing less than a clean sweep, fore and aft. Since coming to Tyger you’ve had every officer, the boatswain and master replaced. I dare to say the gunner is now concerned for his position.”
“I suppose you’re right. What do you think of our new premier?”
“Mr Bray? The gun-room thinks him a hard man and are giving him a broad lee.” It was gratifying to find Dillon striving for the sea lingo even if it did sometimes come out a mite curious.
“I asked what you thought of him, Edward.”
“So … I find him a stout enough specimen of the breed of mariner whose bite is undoubtedly worse than his bark.” He hesitated for a moment. “Which is all to the better so far as your own good self is concerned.”
“Yes, I must admit it’s a rattling fine thing to give an order and know it’ll be carried out in every detail, even if it may be at the cost of the men’s feelings.”
“I was rather thinking of another advantage-that from now on it will be Mr Bray who shall be reviled for his slave-driving ways while his captain stands back in saintly detachment.”
It was a good point, and a dry observation uncannily like those from the Renzi of old. Kydd nodded. “As is right and proper in a first.” In quite another tone he added, “Have you that account of our taking of the Dutchman squared away yet? It’s legal evidence and I want it on the mail-boat tomorrow.”
“It’ll be ready, sir.”
Their orders came later that night. Tyger was given the seaward approaches for the convoy assembly and sailing, which suited Kydd well. It meant an earlier sailing but his duty would be merely that of the slow cruising up and down several miles out to sea on deterrent patrol while the convoy was at its most vulnerable, forming up.
The morning saw more than the usual scurry and tension before putting to sea, a tired Bowden returning on board at the last minute and boats plying to and fro even as the hour for departure approached.
Kydd thought it proper to give his new first lieutenant a chance to take the ship to sea, a straightforward enough exercise in Yarmouth Roads, and soon the deck was spurred into hasty activity by a series of uncompromising roars.
He stood back while all customary preparations were put in hand-there was every indication that Bray knew what he was doing and Kydd began to relax.
“Sir.” The gunner came closer and spoke quietly. “Sir, I have t’ tell you. My mate’s not on board.”
“Your gunner’s mate? This is a strange thing, Mr Darby.”
“I-I went to his berth an’ found he … he’s run. Taken his gear and skinned out, like.”
“He deserted?” Kydd said in disbelief. A gunner’s mate was not a common foremast hand with nothing to lose but a well-respected warrant officer.
“Seems he did, sir,” Darby said uncomfortably.
“Then you’re in a pretty pickle, I believe. Why did he do it, do you think?”
“Ah, I asked about, an’ some o’ the hands heard him swear as how after this convoy we’re going into the ice again, an’ he’s not having anything t’ do with that.”
“You know we’re not going to get hold of another gunner’s mate before we sail.”
“Aye, sir. Don’t really know what’s to do.”
“Put your mind at rest, Mr Darby. Are you not aware that your yeoman of the powder room was a gunner’s mate? Let’s see if Mr Stirk feels he’s equal to the task just for now.”
Two hours later, Tyger put to sea without incident and settled to routine.
CHAPTER 16
THE SOUTHERN BALTIC SHORE STANK.
It wasn’t the bodies-they’d been cleared away days before. It was the ever-present stench of East Prussia, with its flat, open plains broken with marshes and waterways, intensively farmed by fearful peasants who hadn’t yet joined the flood of humanity eastwards, away from the rolling thunder of war.
Flugelleutnant Klaus Gursten knew he should be used to it by now but, born and bred a Berliner, he couldn’t warm to these lands, so much in thrall to a medieval past. The people stood about as he and his horse clattered into the farm courtyard, the men in long smocks, the women in stitch-worked dirndls, gaping in wonder at what was happening to their ageless existence.
He slipped from his mount, grunting at the pain of fatigued muscles as a soldier took the animal in hand.
The farmhouse, with its limply hanging liebfahne flag of eagle and up-thrust sword, was the field headquarters of the Prussian commander, Generalleutnant von Hohenlau.
Gursten marched smartly past the two sentries and into a low room. Seated at a large kitchen table spread with maps, von Hohenlau was conferring with his chief of general staff, Gerhard Scharnhorst, a handsome officer in fashionably high collar with a romantic curl of dark hair on his forehead.
Scharnhorst was standing and speaking in low tones. He looked round as Gursten entered and acknowledged his clicked heels and bow with a terse nod. “Yes?” he said, pausing. His campaign uniform was dark Prussian blue with the Brandenburg red cuffs but had little in the way of gold lacings, and Gursten knew he was facing a soldier who had learned his trade and gained field promotion under the peerless Frederick the Great. He had an intimidating presence.