Tyger Page 7

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll always remember my service in L’Aurore, whichever ship I end in.”

  “I’m sure you will. I’d offer you a place in my new frigate but it doesn’t even kiss water this year and that kind of time in idleness would not be good for your record.”

  “I understand, sir. I … I do have friends in high places,” he said lightly, “who will I’m sure bend every effort. I now bid you farewell, sir,” he said formally, “and pray we will meet again.”

  Kydd took his hand. “I’m sure we will. Take care of yourself, younker.”

  CHAPTER 6

  IT WAS A RELIEF that the court-martial was behind him. Arriving back at the White Hart, Kydd wanted nothing more than to leave it all in the past and re-engage in the agreeable socialising to be had in London before duty reclaimed him.

  He took an early night and was up promptly. A note to Bazely was quickly returned with a reply: he’d be delighted to rendezvous at the Quill and Wig with a view to planning further capital delights.

  Tysoe laid out the tailcoat and pantaloons and took pains in seeing him as taut-rigged as every fashionable man-about-town. The hessian boots were tight and caused Kydd to wince as they were fought on, but a glimpse of his figure in the long mirror showed the trouble was worth it.

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “A gentleman as begs Sir Thomas should spare him a minute or two,” the landlord said apologetically. “Said as how it’s a matter of urgency.”

  “Very well. Five minutes,” Kydd answered, easing his cravat a trifle.

  A scruffily dressed individual with his hat in his hands and an ingratiating air appeared. “Sir Thomas? So kind in you to see me.”

  “Your business, sir? As you see I am in haste.”

  “Sir, I’m Josiah Knowles, you may have heard of me.”

  “No?”

  “May I introduce myself? I’m a reporting agent for the very respected True Briton newspaper.”

  “What’s that to me, sir?”

  “It’s my honour to cover the biggest story this age, the court-martial of Sir Home Popham.”

  “And?”

  “This is my difficulty, Sir Thomas. I attended at Portsmouth and followed the trial with great diligence, but there are certain matters that are still obscure to me. I know you were with Sir Home at the Cape, Buenos Aires and similar, and beg to say my readers would welcome your views on this dolorous proceeding.”

  “You were there? Then, sir, you must report what you heard. I’ve nothing to add to what I said as witness.” The man was demented if he thought he would share his private opinions with a reporter.

  “The daily trial transcript is a dull enough thing, Sir Thomas. You’ll know that the affair has seized the fancy of the public and they want more—the politics, the people, the plots. Are you sure you’ve nothing further you can tell me, sir?”

  “I have not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to an important appointment.”

  “Sir Thomas, we can go so far as to—”

  “Good day, Mr Knowles. Show him the door, if you please, Tysoe.”

  “This’n is Parlby, o’ Wyvern sloop as was—you do remember, old trout?”

  “Channel Groper, smart hand against the smuggling sort, of course I do!”

  It was now some years in the past, a fellow commander on small ships in the front line against Bonaparte, but Kydd quickly recalled those feverish days. Parlby beamed at being remembered by one who had done so valiantly since.

  Bazely waited until the ale came, then leaned back expansively. “So. It’s got all London a-spin. An’ you’re one who was there. Tell me, cuffin—how did it go for ye?”

  They were in high-backed chairs away from the others, so Kydd described the sight of seven admirals and five captains arrayed against just one man: Popham’s unquenchable verbosity; Jervis’s lethal questioning. Then he told them of his own testimony, all the time having been conscious that St Vincent would seize on any sign that he’d taken sides. And he ended with the seething crowds insisting their hero had been vindicated when in fact the verdict had undeniably been guilty.

  “I’m thinking it all would’ve been a mort different if he’d held fast to Buenos Aires, o’ course. We’d all be dancing t’ quite another tune!” Bazely said. “I wasn’t there, but you were,” he went on. “What do you say, if he’d had the men and guns in the first place, we’d be talking about our South American empire? After all, see what he achieved wi’ just two thousand against forty thousand …”

  Kydd smiled bitterly. “There you have it. Damn it all, he took Buenos Aires, and God knows, while we suffered under siege for so long, hoping every day to see our reinforcements come, we did have our views.”

  “That?”

  “That if the Admiralty had seen fit to get off their arses and move smartly with the reinforcements when they got Popham’s dispatch in the first place, it would have been quite another story.”

  “Why did they not?” asked Parlby.

  “Not so hard to fathom. Popham’s a genius for making enemies. My taking is that there’s plenty he’s annoyed in the Admiralty, and they made sure of it that he’d fail.”

  Bazely cocked an eyebrow. “You’re probably in the right of it, Sir Thomas. God forbid I start makin’ enemies among their sacred lordships.”

  “Nor me,” Kydd said fervently. “I kept a close reef on my jawing tackle—that you must believe—and, in course, our conversation here is just between ourselves, hey?”

  The two nodded.

  “So. What of the morrow? You said …?”

  “Ha! A day at th’ races, just the ticket wi’ the ladies. Never seen a one didn’t adore the gee-gees with a gent o’ fashion. Will you be—”

  There was a sudden scraping from close behind their high chairs and as they looked around curiously a figure scuttled away.

  By the end of the day Kydd was five guineas richer and in possession of a solemn promise from Miss Sophy respecting a grand assembly at Almack’s in the coming days. They dined well and Kydd went to bed with a light heart.

  In the morning he suppressed a stab of guilt. In ships of war at sea they’d be meeting the dawn at quarters, fearful of what the light of day might bring, the captain alert on his quarterdeck at the head of his men.

  Here, the question of greatest weight was whether to rise now … or stay abed.

  He lazed a little longer until his conscience overcame him, then ate a hearty breakfast, nothing to do until he met Bazely later for an evening out on the town.

  Tysoe answered a knock at the door. It was the landlord, who made much of offering a morning paper.

  Kydd saw that it was the True Briton.

  As was usual for the quality newspapers the front was all advertisements, the meat always inside.

  Curious, he turned the pages. There was a sizeable leading article in big print and—

  He jerked upright, frozen in horror.

  LEGENDARY SEA HERO ACCUSES ADMIRALTY OF BETRAYAL

  It continued:

  Sir Thomas Kydd, recently ennobled by our good King George for his gallantry before Curaçao, was heard to reveal publicly that a dastardly plot by the Admiralty saw Commodore Popham, lately victim of a vengeful court-martial, made sacrifice to the political prejudice of a small circle of evil-minded superiors. He went on to say …

  For God’s sake, where had all this come from?

  … and this newspaper, as ever unflinching in its support of the intrepid Commodore Popham, warmly applauds Sir Thomas’s courage in speaking out upon the base iniquity of their impregnable lordships in failing to send due reinforcement to Sir Home, then fighting for his life and the honour of his country …

  His mind reeled.

  … therefore we demand, on behalf of the people of this great country, that a stern investigation be made at the highest level …

  He let the newspaper drop to the floor. All over London, these words were now being read by the great and good, li
eutenant to admiral … and Earl St Vincent. Now everyone would think he’d taken side with Popham against the Admiralty—and he’d never be forgiven.

  It was calamitous.

  He shot to his feet and started pacing. The other night—in the Quill and Wig when talking to Bazely—the True Briton’s reporter, Knowles, must have been hiding behind their chairs, damn his blood!

  The urgent question now was what to do—how to find some way to undo the damage.

  The only acceptable course was to get the newspaper to apologise, print some sort of article that they’d got it wrong and put it all right.

  But how? Go storming in and demand it of the editor? No, it had to be tight and legal—and binding.

  He left hurriedly.

  “Sir Thomas, a great honour!” The elderly solicitor, Felkins, was mild-mannered but with flint-like eyes. “How may we assist you?”

  It took only minutes to outline the situation.

  “Ah. To bring an action against a national newspaper. This is within the competence of these chambers but we will require additional legal counsel. It will not come cheap, sir, and the case will not be heard for some months, a year or more possibly. Are you certain you wish to proceed?”

  “Yes, Mr Felkins, I do!” If it was heard that he’d immediately entered legal proceedings against the newspaper, it should go far in assuring interested parties that he’d been misquoted, calumnied.

  “Then we shall open the formalities. You are aware that it is the usual practice to post bond, a surety against the expenses of the case?”

  “I see. In what amount?”

  “Let us first explore for a moment the scope of the action. I understand you wish to prove libel, a traducing in respect of this article, such that upon a judgement in your favour a suitable retraction is published. Am I right?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “To the essentials, then. Did you in fact utter words in substantial agreement with what is alleged to have been said by you in the article?”

  “Well, I …”

  “I must press you to answer, Sir Thomas.”

  “I may have done, but this was in private, in strict confidence among my naval friends.”

  “So the article does in fact reflect your views. Hmm. And you spoke before more than one of your friends. This is hardly a private talk. Where in fact did this take place?”

  Face burning, Kydd admitted that it was in the Quill and Wig.

  “I see. Well, sir, a jury would find it difficult to accept that a common tavern is not a public place. Sir Thomas, I’m grieved to say that I find I’m unable to proceed in the matter. The case has no merit and it would be wrong of me to persevere in its prosecution. I’m sorry.”

  “But … but what can you advise? Perhaps buy a large advertisement in another newspaper and strongly deny the—”

  “I cannot counsel you to do this. It is in effect admitting you are unable to refute the offending article by an action in law against the newspaper in question and would be worse than useless, drawing more attention to the situation. And possibly creating a public furore resulting in factions for and against you, which I’m sanguine you would not desire.”

  “There must be something I can do—anything!”

  Felkins gave a sad but kindly smile.

  “There’s no way out, then.”

  “Sir, my advice is to take patience. These newspaper squibs have a habit of slipping from the public view and all will be forgotten after the next scandalous revelation appears.”

  Kydd clamped a hold on his growing despair. “I’m grateful for your time, Mr Felkins, and won’t bother you further.”

  “Thank you,” the solicitor said politely, “I’m always happy to assist the heroes who defend us so valiantly against the Tyrant.”

  Kydd rose to leave.

  “Oh, and my clerk will have my fee invoice in hand by now. On your way out, perhaps?”

  “Have you seen this’n?” Bazely said, waving the paper. There was no trace of his usual light-hearted manner.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You’re aware what it means? You’re a marked man, cully. People’s hero or no, at the Admiralty they’ll never let it go.”

  “I know,” Kydd said wretchedly.

  “They’ll not forget what you’ve said about ’em—they’ve a long memory.”

  “Yes, damn it!”

  “And don’t think you’ll get away with it. They’ll find some way to get back at you.”

  “I’ve got my ship, they can’t take that away.”

  “Tom,” Bazely said soberly, “something’ll happen, and soon—you’ll see.”

  Kydd felt sick. “This evening, old trout. I don’t think I can—”

  Bazely stopped him. “Let me be straight with you, m’ friend. You’re now one o’ the damned, you’ve the mark of doom about you, and all the fleet’ll know it. I’d take it kindly if you’d understand that I’m not to be seen with ye any more. I’m truly sorry, but I’ve m’ own career to think on.”

  CHAPTER 7

  KYDD RETURNED, MUCH CHASTENED, to a concerned Tysoe.

  Time was ticking by: if he failed to come up with some public gesture of repudiation of the article he’d be damned for a Popham admirer. But by evening he’d reached the conclusion that there was no chance of a resolution.

  He retired to bed with the forlorn hope that it would blow over in time and that he’d be well advised to keep away from everybody until it did.

  In the morning four letters arrived. The first he opened was from a complete stranger.

  … why should we not believe that yourself and the notorious Captain Popham made assault on the Spanish colonies for reasons of personal plunder? At the sacrifice of lives and honour … by turning on the Admiralty who employ you, in the basest way, in that they cannot reply, you have betrayed your comrades and your country … the name of Kydd will for ever be associated with …

  The others would no doubt be in the same vein. He hadn’t the stomach to read them. It was now becoming clear that, far from dying down, the affair was heating up.

  In the days that followed there was a riposte in the government-leaning Review, attacking him personally and asking why the Admiralty did not take certain measures against him. Worse was the True Briton, which ran a feature that listed all the merchants, liberals and others who were loudly supporting Kydd in his comments.

  By the fourth day he’d accumulated more than fifty letters. He took harsh delight in not giving the writers satisfaction by reading them, but he knew there would be an accounting. The blow would fall, as Bazely had warned.

  Then a letter bearing the Admiralty cipher came. He tore it open.

  You are hereby required and directed forthwith to repair on board Tyger frigate and take upon you the charge and command of Captain in her accordingly …

  This was nothing less than a formal letter making him captain of a ship!

  … strictly charging the Officers and Company of the said ship with all due respect and obedience … for His Majesty’s Service. Hereof nor you, nor any of you may fail, as you will answer the contrary at your peril, and for so doing this shall be your warrant.

  An enclosed slip of paper briefly informed him that the said ship was lying in Yarmouth Roads, of the North Sea squadron under the flag of Admiral Russell, and was ready for sea. No reason was given for the sudden change of captain—or why his prestigious new heavy frigate appointment was being overruled.

  Was this the blow he’d been dreading? That he’d been given an inferior command?

  But the correspondence carried no implication of retribution. It would have been easy to find some excuse to withdraw the offer of the new frigate and simply let him rot, unemployed.

  Why another ship? Was it simply that they wanted him out of the country, back at sea where he’d be out of the way? Or was there a more sinister motive? The only course to find answers and clear up the mystery was to brave the den of lions that was the Admiralty.

/>   As he took his seat in the captains’ room it fell silent. Then a whispering began that Kydd pointedly ignored but his face burned.

  The clerk hurried away with his card, but there was some delay before he was called.

  When he entered the first lord’s room Mulgrave greeted him with awkward geniality. Two grim-faced admirals, whom Kydd did not recognise, stood behind him.

  “Ah, Captain Kydd. So glad to see you again. Are you well, sir?” He did not introduce the senior officers.

  “Thank you, sir. Yes. My lord, I’ve come this morning to beg explanation of my letter of appointment. It appears to contradict the understanding I’d been given concerning command of the new heavy frigate now building and—”

  “Quite. The reason is simple, Sir Thomas. Under advice by my sea lords you’re to be given an immediate important appointment, your good self being highly commended by them for the post.”

  “May I know the reasons, my lord?”

  “Why, your record of service to His Majesty, Sir Thomas. It has been distinguished and meritorious but has certain … characteristics that single you out for the post.”

  Unease began to spread in Kydd’s vitals. “For this particular ship, my lord?”

  “Yes. HMS Tyger, frigate.” He went on, avoiding Kydd’s eye, “You see, er, she was lately taken in mutiny and we rather thought a firm hand is what is required to bring her back to fitness for war.”

  “And my new heavy frigate? After this may I look forward to—”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Sir Thomas,” he said awkwardly. “It’s been promised to the Lord Faulknor.” Mulgrave’s manner softened a little. “Believe that I’m truly sorry to have had to rob the victor of Curaçao of his reward.”

  One of the admirals coughed meaningfully, but was ignored.

  “If there’s anything I might do …?” Mulgrave added.

  Kydd tried to gather his thoughts. He knew the unwritten rules: if he refused the appointment without good reason nothing would be said, but he would never be offered another command.

  There was one thing he could ask. Captains were entitled to “followers” if they went on to another ship. These were usually midshipmen, coxswain, others, all of whom in L’Aurore had long gone on to who knew where. But …