Tyger (28 page)

“Yes, Mr Bray, thank you, thank you. You can leave us now. Good night.”

Deep-set eyes flicked over the gathering. Then their owner left abruptly.

“Not as you’d say a paragon of politesse and I do apologise for him.” Hozier sighed. “Shall we broach the cognac at all? I can vouch for it, as having come from a Frenchman who thought he was delivering it to Napoleon himself.”

Kydd dutifully tasted the delicate fire and joined in the appreciative murmurs—and was transfixed by a sudden thought. It grew and took hold and he delayed his departure until he was last to leave.

“A splendid time, David,” he said warmly. “As gave me pause …”

“Oh? I do endeavour to please, old fellow.”

“Just a thought—you’ve heard
Tyger
’s seen a mort of pother, not to say a mutiny. My first was in the thick of it, poor fellow. A sensitive chap, comes from a good family, politeness itself and a first-class education. How he must have suffered for want of society, my other officers being of the more … ordinary sort.”

It brought a small frown, so he hurried on: “What’s more to be desired in a ship so recently in a moil is a plain-speaking, no quarter, hard horse as will brook no insolence. Rather like, shall we say, your Mr Bray?”

After a pause, Hozier smiled. “Ah, I think I can see what you mean.”

“And I was thinking that—”

“They must both agree.”

“Of course!”

“Mr Hollis,” Kydd said, as early in the day as he decently could.

The officer braced himself.

“I’ve had an approach from the senior officer escorts—that is, Captain the Honourable David Hozier, father a species of viscount, you know. For some odd reason he’s heard you’re with me in
Tyger
and has a desire to exchange you into
Lively
. Of course I had to say that I have the highest regard for your service to this ship and can’t possibly …”

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.

T
HE SOUTHERN
B
ALTIC 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.

Flügelleutnant Klaus Gürsten 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.

Gürsten 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 Gürsten 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 Gürsten 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.

“From Feldmarschall Count von Bennigsen, Generalleutnant. Orders in respect of a possible flank attack.” He handed over a package and stepped back smartly.

Von Hohenlau grimaced as he sliced it open. Bennigsen was overall commander of the coalition forces—but he was a Russian and at the head of an army far superior in numbers to what remained of the Prussians.

“Is he still at Heilsberg?” he asked.

“He fears Davout and Soult will prove troublesome but he’s brought Labanoff across his rear. Yes, sir, he’s still there.”

“Humph.” Von Hohenlau extracted the papers and scanned them quickly. A dark frown appeared and he read again, more slowly.

“Do you know what this contains?”

As staff intermediary between the two allied commanders, there were few secrets Gürsten didn’t know. “The Feldmarschall has many concerns, sir, and—”

“He demands I extend my right until it reaches the sea.”

“To prevent the French turning your flank, sir.”

Scharnhorst leaned forward and murmured something to von Hohenlau, who said, “He’s aware that Bonaparte lurks beyond. Who would not be happier were I to lengthen my lines? The devil has an unemployed regiment of cavalry to play with, and if I were to be stretched thin in the manoeuvre it could all be up with us.”

“I’m sure he knows, sir, but is persuaded that Bonaparte must be checked in his advance until Oberst Tolstoi’s reinforcements arrive.”

“Very well. It shall be done.”

Slapping down the orders, he looked up. “Herr Gürsten, you’ve done your part—you should get your belly filled and rest while you can.”

He grunted peevishly and nodded to his chief of staff. “So, Gerhard, shall we get up the plans? We’ve no time to lose.”

Gürsten was effectively dismissed. He threw off a smart salute, wheeled about and marched away.

In the fields a massed line of fusiliers was drilling, the red-faced
feldwebel
screaming orders at raw recruits, stumbling
landwehr
from the nearby war-torn and devastated countryside. Gürsten tried not to show his despair at the level to which the proud but heavily mauled army had sunk and made his way to the mess-tent.

The field-kitchens were at work and the odour of boiled mutton triggered sharp pangs of hunger. He had left Bennigsen’s lines early that morning and eaten only biscuits and raisins on the way.

“Hey, now, the prodigal returns!” It was Engelhardt, his friend since those far-off days of peace.

“And sharp set—but naught that can’t be remedied with a libation of the right sort, Willy.”

“Ho, the
kellner!
” Engelhardt called imperiously to the mess-man. “A pair of schnapps—from the red bottle, mind.”

After the man had brought glasses of the golden liquid, they toasted each other, then Engelhardt leaned forward. “Now, Klaus, you can tell me. How goes it in the centre? Will the Russkies stand?”

Gürsten hesitated, considering his response.

Prussia had a proud history and, since Frederick the Great’s profound modernising of state and military, it had looked to itself as pre-eminent on the continent—until the ferocity of, first, the French Revolution, then the genius of Napoleon Bonaparte had transformed the scene.

Staying cautiously neutral, the Prussian King Friedrich Wilhelm III had secured peace for his realm, but when the battle of Trafalgar had confined Bonaparte to a European cage the emperor had been compelled to look east for new conquests. The Austrians and the Holy Roman Empire stood in his way and Bonaparte did not hesitate, striking into its heart. Yet instead of joining with their fellow Germans against the erupting force, the king had decided on a retreat into neutrality.

Gürsten knew Friedrich had blundered but with the absolute autocracy of the Hohenzollern court it would be madness for him to say so, especially to his friend, a loyal and unquestioning officer of the traditional kind.

The result of the king’s action was decisive. After the spectacular defeat at Austerlitz, despite the entry of Russia to aid the Austrians, a collapse of the coalition against Bonaparte became inevitable.

During an uneasy peace a general rearrangement of borders and alignments followed, but it was clear that with the Confederation of the Rhine, Bonaparte was intent on destabilising the centuries-old patchwork of kingdoms and principalities. Friedrich had reconsidered his neutrality and blundered again into disaster.