to fight and win in this unfair contest. Nothing else mattered.
Captain Burke rose to greet him with a look of polite enquiry.
“Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, to take command of
Tyger
frigate.” He handed over his warrant.
“Ah. We’ve had word of you, Sir Thomas.”
Burke was of the same rank as he. In the normal course of events, Kydd could expect to know only the company of lowly sloop captains, mere commanders. He felt the tug of temptation to unburden, but his mood was too bleak.
“I intend to assume command and put to sea with the least possible delay,” he rapped. “What is
Tyger
’s condition, pray?”
The man’s expression was guarded. “You’ll know she’s been in mutiny, and that only very recently?”
“I do. That’s in the past—I desire only to proceed to sea with all dispatch, sir.” Kydd’s instinct was to reach open water, then let sea air and ship routines do their work.
“Very well. She was near completing stores when it … that is to say, the mutiny happened, some eight days ago. In all other respects she’s ready.”
Like the majority of mutinies this one had broken out just as the ship was preparing to leave—very few happened on the high seas. And as was the way with mutiny, it had been met with instant justice: corpses at the yardarm only days after.
“My orders are to join the North Sea squadron off the Texel. I should be obliged if you’d honour my demands on stores and powder with the utmost expedition, sir.”
“As you wish, Sir Thomas. I should point out the ship is in … a parlous state, the people fractious and confused. And not having had liberty—”
“What is that to me, sir?” Kydd said tightly.
“—she’s grievous short-handed.”
He went on to add that in Yarmouth there were few trained seamen to be had as protections were insisted upon by both colliers and fishermen.
“Is her captain available to me?”
“Captain Parker? He is—but you’re not to expect a regular-going handover from him. The man’s in a funk over events and is ailing.”
“I’ll see him directly. Do send to
Tyger
that I’m coming aboard by the first dog-watch, if you please.”
Some hours later Kydd was in possession of a pathetic and disjointed account of a passionate rising, put down bloodily and untidily. Parker was a crushed man and Kydd had to come up with his own reading of what had happened.
A weak captain, hard first lieutenant—it had happened so many times before. He didn’t need much more. This captain was out of touch with his men, unable to read the signs, and had lost the trust of his officers.
As well, it had been a miserable year or more in these hard seas without action to relieve it, except for one incident. One day, out of a grey dawn, they had come across a French corvette. Finding themselves inshore of it, and therefore cutting it off from safety, it should have been easy meat. They had gone for it, but before they could engage,
Tyger
had missed stays and it had escaped. They had botched the elementary manoeuvre of going about on the other tack.
This could only speak of appalling seamanship—difficult to credit in a frigate after a year at sea—or a command structure that was fractured or incompetent. The effect had been a destructive plunge in morale and men deserting. With the inevitable suspending of liberty ashore, trusties suffered with the disaffected. A fuse had been lit in the prison-like confines and it had detonated when the ship received orders for sea.
God alone knew what he’d meet when he went aboard, for nothing was changed, nothing solved. The men were the same, as were the conditions that had sent them over the edge.
Kydd presented himself at the headquarters of the Impress Service. An aged rear admiral greeted him with respect and politeness but told him there was little hope for men in the shorter term. There was no receiving ship at Yarmouth to hold the harvest of press-gangs, and in the near vicinity pickings were slim
Captain Burke rose to greet him with a look of polite enquiry.
“Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, to take command of
Tyger
frigate.” He handed over his warrant.
“Ah. We’ve had word of you, Sir Thomas.”
Burke was of the same rank as he. In the normal course of events, Kydd could expect to know only the company of lowly sloop captains, mere commanders. He felt the tug of temptation to unburden, but his mood was too bleak.
“I intend to assume command and put to sea with the least possible delay,” he rapped. “What is
Tyger
’s condition, pray?”
The man’s expression was guarded. “You’ll know she’s been in mutiny, and that only very recently?”
“I do. That’s in the past—I desire only to proceed to sea with all dispatch, sir.” Kydd’s instinct was to reach open water, then let sea air and ship routines do their work.
“Very well. She was near completing stores when it … that is to say, the mutiny happened, some eight days ago. In all other respects she’s ready.”
Like the majority of mutinies this one had broken out just as the ship was preparing to leave—very few happened on the high seas. And as was the way with mutiny, it had been met with instant justice: corpses at the yardarm only days after.
“My orders are to join the North Sea squadron off the Texel. I should be obliged if you’d honour my demands on stores and powder with the utmost expedition, sir.”
“As you wish, Sir Thomas. I should point out the ship is in … a parlous state, the people fractious and confused. And not having had liberty—”
“What is that to me, sir?” Kydd said tightly.
“—she’s grievous short-handed.”
He went on to add that in Yarmouth there were few trained seamen to be had as protections were insisted upon by both colliers and fishermen.
“Is her captain available to me?”
“Captain Parker? He is—but you’re not to expect a regular-going handover from him. The man’s in a funk over events and is ailing.”
“I’ll see him directly. Do send to
Tyger
that I’m coming aboard by the first dog-watch, if you please.”
Some hours later Kydd was in possession of a pathetic and disjointed account of a passionate rising, put down bloodily and untidily. Parker was a crushed man and Kydd had to come up with his own reading of what had happened.
A weak captain, hard first lieutenant—it had happened so many times before. He didn’t need much more. This captain was out of touch with his men, unable to read the signs, and had lost the trust of his officers.
As well, it had been a miserable year or more in these hard seas without action to relieve it, except for one incident. One day, out of a grey dawn, they had come across a French corvette. Finding themselves inshore of it, and therefore cutting it off from safety, it should have been easy meat. They had gone for it, but before they could engage,
Tyger
had missed stays and it had escaped. They had botched the elementary manoeuvre of going about on the other tack.
This could only speak of appalling seamanship—difficult to credit in a frigate after a year at sea—or a command structure that was fractured or incompetent. The effect had been a destructive plunge in morale and men deserting. With the inevitable suspending of liberty ashore, trusties suffered with the disaffected. A fuse had been lit in the prison-like confines and it had detonated when the ship received orders for sea.
God alone knew what he’d meet when he went aboard, for nothing was changed, nothing solved. The men were the same, as were the conditions that had sent them over the edge.
Kydd presented himself at the headquarters of the Impress Service. An aged rear admiral greeted him with respect and politeness but told him there was little hope for men in the shorter term. There was no receiving ship at Yarmouth to hold the harvest of press-gangs, and in the near vicinity pickings were slim
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