command.
Kydd had done this before and knew what to look for in an able and trustworthy crew but he did not see it. The men came slowly, resentfully, hanging back, surly and suspicious, crowding the upper deck but with none of the half-concealed banter and out-of-routine jollity of seamen in good spirits. He could feel in the stares and folded arms a dangerous edge of defiance and he tensed as he took out his commission and stepped forward.
“‘By the commissioners for executing the office of the Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom of Great Britain …’” He read loudly and forcefully, conscious of an undercurrent of muttering that the dark-jowled master-at-arms did not seem to notice.
The time-honoured phrases, rich with meaning, rolled out in a measured rhythm ending with the customary “‘… as you will answer to the contrary at your peril.’”
It was finished. At the main masthead his pennant broke out, taking the wind and streaming to leeward where it would stay night and day until it was hauled down at the end of the commission or …
Now was the usual time for a new captain to address his ship’s company, to set the tone, inspire and give ground for confidence in the man to whom the seamen must trust their lives.
But this ship was on the edge and he knew nothing of the men or their mood.
“Officers and warrant officers, my cabin, fifteen minutes. Carry on, Mr Hollis.”
He left the deck, feeling a need to claim at least some part of the ship as his own.
The great cabin, with a table big enough to seat eight, was broad and spacious, the sweep of stern-lights square-patterned and plain, the curve of side timbers restrained but massive.
Pathetic traces of its last occupant remained: a wistful miniature of a woman in lace, an amateurish landscape, a side-table with unremarkable ornaments. On one wall there was a needlework sampler with some doggerel beginning, “Tyger, tyger, burning bright …”
The bed-place still had the cot and wash-place trinkets—it would all have to go. His personal effects from
L’Aurore
were in store and this space would be achingly bare but it couldn’t be helped.
His gear was a change of linen only: Tysoe would be arriving in the morning with his remaining baggage and what cabin stores he could lay hands on at this notice.
There was only one chair at the table—it seemed that Captain Parker expected his visitors to stand. He sent for wardroom chairs and settled to wait.
They came together. Kydd motioned Hollis to the opposite end of the table and let the others find their places.
The next few minutes could make or break him. Much depended not on what he said, but how he said it. Should he come in hard and single-minded, tough and unbending—or was it to be understanding and forgiving, willing to give them latitude?
“Mr Hollis, be so good as to introduce the warrant officers.”
The gunner, Darby, came across as professional enough but bit off his words as though he paid for each one.
The boatswain, Dawes, did not inspire. Defensive and fidgety, he did not seem to know the condition of
Tyger
as well as he should, and Kydd sensed an element of mistrust in the attitude of others to him.
The sailing master was of another stamp entirely. In his thirties, young for the post, Le Breton was from Guernsey, its countless reefs and currents a priceless school in seamanship. Soft-spoken and quiet, he let others make the running and only then offered intelligent comment. Kydd warmed to him.
The surgeon and purser were not present, having sent their apologies.
“I’m Sir Thomas Kydd, late of
L’Aurore
frigate,” Kydd began. There was little change in their expressions but he knew what they were thinking: what was a knighted sea-hero so lately in the public eye doing in a contemptible mutiny ship?
“I’m sent here on short notice to relieve Captain Parker.”
They listened in watchful silence.
“I know of this ship’s past. Mutiny. I don’t care about
Kydd had done this before and knew what to look for in an able and trustworthy crew but he did not see it. The men came slowly, resentfully, hanging back, surly and suspicious, crowding the upper deck but with none of the half-concealed banter and out-of-routine jollity of seamen in good spirits. He could feel in the stares and folded arms a dangerous edge of defiance and he tensed as he took out his commission and stepped forward.
“‘By the commissioners for executing the office of the Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom of Great Britain …’” He read loudly and forcefully, conscious of an undercurrent of muttering that the dark-jowled master-at-arms did not seem to notice.
The time-honoured phrases, rich with meaning, rolled out in a measured rhythm ending with the customary “‘… as you will answer to the contrary at your peril.’”
It was finished. At the main masthead his pennant broke out, taking the wind and streaming to leeward where it would stay night and day until it was hauled down at the end of the commission or …
Now was the usual time for a new captain to address his ship’s company, to set the tone, inspire and give ground for confidence in the man to whom the seamen must trust their lives.
But this ship was on the edge and he knew nothing of the men or their mood.
“Officers and warrant officers, my cabin, fifteen minutes. Carry on, Mr Hollis.”
He left the deck, feeling a need to claim at least some part of the ship as his own.
The great cabin, with a table big enough to seat eight, was broad and spacious, the sweep of stern-lights square-patterned and plain, the curve of side timbers restrained but massive.
Pathetic traces of its last occupant remained: a wistful miniature of a woman in lace, an amateurish landscape, a side-table with unremarkable ornaments. On one wall there was a needlework sampler with some doggerel beginning, “Tyger, tyger, burning bright …”
The bed-place still had the cot and wash-place trinkets—it would all have to go. His personal effects from
L’Aurore
were in store and this space would be achingly bare but it couldn’t be helped.
His gear was a change of linen only: Tysoe would be arriving in the morning with his remaining baggage and what cabin stores he could lay hands on at this notice.
There was only one chair at the table—it seemed that Captain Parker expected his visitors to stand. He sent for wardroom chairs and settled to wait.
They came together. Kydd motioned Hollis to the opposite end of the table and let the others find their places.
The next few minutes could make or break him. Much depended not on what he said, but how he said it. Should he come in hard and single-minded, tough and unbending—or was it to be understanding and forgiving, willing to give them latitude?
“Mr Hollis, be so good as to introduce the warrant officers.”
The gunner, Darby, came across as professional enough but bit off his words as though he paid for each one.
The boatswain, Dawes, did not inspire. Defensive and fidgety, he did not seem to know the condition of
Tyger
as well as he should, and Kydd sensed an element of mistrust in the attitude of others to him.
The sailing master was of another stamp entirely. In his thirties, young for the post, Le Breton was from Guernsey, its countless reefs and currents a priceless school in seamanship. Soft-spoken and quiet, he let others make the running and only then offered intelligent comment. Kydd warmed to him.
The surgeon and purser were not present, having sent their apologies.
“I’m Sir Thomas Kydd, late of
L’Aurore
frigate,” Kydd began. There was little change in their expressions but he knew what they were thinking: what was a knighted sea-hero so lately in the public eye doing in a contemptible mutiny ship?
“I’m sent here on short notice to relieve Captain Parker.”
They listened in watchful silence.
“I know of this ship’s past. Mutiny. I don’t care about
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