from merchantmen unless a Baltic convoy had arrived.
The old sailor suggested that his only hope was to wait for the next periodic sally by his gangs in the north but that was not due for some weeks yet.
Kydd accepted the news without protest, knowing that it was well meant, and from a man retired who had felt it his duty to return to the colours to do what he could for his country, and who had been handed this thankless task. It was only by accident as he was leaving that he found he had been talking to Arthur Phillip, the man who had led the first convict fleet to establish a settlement at Sydney Cove in New South Wales.
There was no point in putting it off for much longer. He would take command of
Tyger
this hour.
But when he returned to the naval base he found waiting not a ship’s boat but a local craft: there were not even sufficient trusties in
Tyger
to man a boat.
They put out from the little jetty and shaped course for the ship. She was anchored far out, a diseased ship kept away from the others. It was a hard pull for the men at the oars but it gave Kydd some time to take in her appearance, her lines. A bulldog of a ship. Bluff, aggressive, there was no compromise in her war-like air.
And as far different from
L’Aurore
as it was possible to be. Where before there had been grace and willowy suppleness, it was now power and arrogance, the masts and spars thewed like iron and the gun-deck in a hard line, with guns half as big again.
Yet it reached out to him: this was a British ship, her stern-quarters without the high arching of the French, her timbers heavier—she was built like a prize-fighter.
As they drew nearer he could see other details. She was shabby, uncared-for. Her black sides were faded, and there was no mistaking an air of sullen resignation. Her figurehead—a spirited prancing tiger wearing a crown, its raking paws outstretched—was sea-scoured and blotchy.
Along the lines of the gun-ports boarding nettings had been rigged to prevent desertion and two shore boats pulled around lackadaisically in opposite directions on row-guard.
They shaped up for their approach and Kydd could see other signs of neglect: standing rigging not with the perfect black of tar but with pale streaks of the underlying hemp showing through where worn, the running rigging hairy with use where it passed through blocks and not re-reeved to bear on a fresh length. Even her large ensign floating above was wind-frayed, the trailing edge tattered and decrepit.
A side-party of sorts was assembling and Kydd prepared himself for the greatest challenge of his life.
The pipe was thin and reedy. The man wielding the call—presumably the boatswain—looked as if he’d be better off cosily at home by the fire.
Kydd stepped over the side and on to the deck of HMS
Tyger
.
There was no going back now.
The line of side-party glanced towards him as he came aboard: some with a flicker of curiosity, most impassive and wary. All individuals, all strangers, every one tainted by past events in one way or another.
A tall officer was at the inboard end of the line and took off his hat. “Hollis, first lieutenant, sir. May I present your officers?” he said formally, in clipped tones.
Kydd would have rather he explained why his boat had not been properly challenged but decided to let it pass.
The second lieutenant, Paddon, seemed mature enough but returned his look with defensive wariness. The third, Nowell, was young, barely into his twenties, and appeared lost and frightened.
An equally young lieutenant of marines, Payne, nervous and edgy, completed his commissioned officers and it was time for the ceremony.
“Clear lower deck, if you please, Mr Hollis,” Kydd said crisply, and while the pipes pealed out at the hatchways and companions he walked slowly aft to take position and waited, watching while the ship’s company of
Tyger
came up to present themselves to their new captain and hear him formally take possession of his
The old sailor suggested that his only hope was to wait for the next periodic sally by his gangs in the north but that was not due for some weeks yet.
Kydd accepted the news without protest, knowing that it was well meant, and from a man retired who had felt it his duty to return to the colours to do what he could for his country, and who had been handed this thankless task. It was only by accident as he was leaving that he found he had been talking to Arthur Phillip, the man who had led the first convict fleet to establish a settlement at Sydney Cove in New South Wales.
There was no point in putting it off for much longer. He would take command of
Tyger
this hour.
But when he returned to the naval base he found waiting not a ship’s boat but a local craft: there were not even sufficient trusties in
Tyger
to man a boat.
They put out from the little jetty and shaped course for the ship. She was anchored far out, a diseased ship kept away from the others. It was a hard pull for the men at the oars but it gave Kydd some time to take in her appearance, her lines. A bulldog of a ship. Bluff, aggressive, there was no compromise in her war-like air.
And as far different from
L’Aurore
as it was possible to be. Where before there had been grace and willowy suppleness, it was now power and arrogance, the masts and spars thewed like iron and the gun-deck in a hard line, with guns half as big again.
Yet it reached out to him: this was a British ship, her stern-quarters without the high arching of the French, her timbers heavier—she was built like a prize-fighter.
As they drew nearer he could see other details. She was shabby, uncared-for. Her black sides were faded, and there was no mistaking an air of sullen resignation. Her figurehead—a spirited prancing tiger wearing a crown, its raking paws outstretched—was sea-scoured and blotchy.
Along the lines of the gun-ports boarding nettings had been rigged to prevent desertion and two shore boats pulled around lackadaisically in opposite directions on row-guard.
They shaped up for their approach and Kydd could see other signs of neglect: standing rigging not with the perfect black of tar but with pale streaks of the underlying hemp showing through where worn, the running rigging hairy with use where it passed through blocks and not re-reeved to bear on a fresh length. Even her large ensign floating above was wind-frayed, the trailing edge tattered and decrepit.
A side-party of sorts was assembling and Kydd prepared himself for the greatest challenge of his life.
The pipe was thin and reedy. The man wielding the call—presumably the boatswain—looked as if he’d be better off cosily at home by the fire.
Kydd stepped over the side and on to the deck of HMS
Tyger
.
There was no going back now.
The line of side-party glanced towards him as he came aboard: some with a flicker of curiosity, most impassive and wary. All individuals, all strangers, every one tainted by past events in one way or another.
A tall officer was at the inboard end of the line and took off his hat. “Hollis, first lieutenant, sir. May I present your officers?” he said formally, in clipped tones.
Kydd would have rather he explained why his boat had not been properly challenged but decided to let it pass.
The second lieutenant, Paddon, seemed mature enough but returned his look with defensive wariness. The third, Nowell, was young, barely into his twenties, and appeared lost and frightened.
An equally young lieutenant of marines, Payne, nervous and edgy, completed his commissioned officers and it was time for the ceremony.
“Clear lower deck, if you please, Mr Hollis,” Kydd said crisply, and while the pipes pealed out at the hatchways and companions he walked slowly aft to take position and waited, watching while the ship’s company of
Tyger
came up to present themselves to their new captain and hear him formally take possession of his
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