Tyger (38 page)

For long hours
Tyger
heaved and fell in the increasing swell, the hard battering and dismal moan of the gale always with her as she fought on. On deck the watch stared into the night, slitting their salt-sore eyes into the storm.

Then came driving rain, in a hissing, stinging and miserable cold, invading oilskins and foul-weather gear.

Just after midnight the worst struck.

Kydd was with the group at the wheel as the middle watch coped with a split sail when, clear above the storm rack, a vicious crack sounded, followed immediately by a heavy slither as a hawser fell in a sprawling pile. Another quickly followed. Instantly Kydd bellowed,
“Forrard—go for your lives!”
They fled just in time. With a sickening splintering, like a falling tree, the fished mizzen topmast tumbled, driven awkwardly across to fall on the starboard side.

In the blackness of night and hammering rain, the tangle of ropes and canvas had to be brought under control. From nowhere the boatswain appeared, a nightshirt under his oilskins, roaring for men to douse all sail before setting about the fearful snarl.

Tyger
, without steerage way, began a helpless wallow broadside to the sea. A party got out a sea-anchor over the bows that brought her round, head to sea, but at the cost of halting their progress to safe harbour.

There was nothing for it but to await the dawn to see what they could do.

The report came up that the water was gaining in the hold. There was only one course left.

“Watch and watch,” Kydd ordered, condemning tired men to man the cranks continuously.

There was a chance that if the weather moderated he could get men from
Lively
who would spell them but until then they would know their labour and pain were saving the vessel.

In the cold grey of early light the full extent of the damage could be seen: the long spar lying on deck seeming so massive close to, had taken the driver gaff with it and in so doing had torn the big aft sail down to ruin.

The frigate could no longer cope with basic navigational matters, like a change in wind direction, for without leverage aft she could not tack about and most probably neither wear around.

“We’ve got to get sail on her aft, Mr Herne,” Kydd said, to the dull-eyed, exhausted man. “Whatever it takes.”

He waited impatiently for the first sighting of
Lively
. They were so desperately in need of fresh men.

The report never came. Instead it was the age-old hail from the lookout at first light that normally would stand men down from the guns:
“Clear! On deck there—I have a clear horizon!”

When they’d lost the topmast and come about to lie to a sea-anchor it had been in heavy rain and it was clear their plight had not been seen by their consort, who had sailed on.

It was no use to expect to be found eventually: the hard truth had to be accepted. They were on their own. If
Tyger
was to be saved it would be only themselves to do it, and if she wasn’t, her name would join those recorded to history as having vanished at sea.

The boatswain, sailing master and carpenter huddled with Kydd in his cabin to try to find a way out of their situation. It was vitally necessary to get under way again, which meant some kind of rig on the stump mizzen with the same functioning as the driver.

It was Joyce, looking grey and old, who came up with the most promising plan.

A staysail secured at its peak to the topmast cap and reversed. At its lower end it was the clew that was affixed to the lower mast and the tack spread by a lower stunsail boom pressed for the service. A species of traveller could be contrived with two tackles at its end.

The new “driver” could be goosewinged and, with other tricks, it would see them tolerably well placed to resume headway west.

After all, Herne remarked, they were before the wind the whole way … should the weather hold.

By mid-morning the strange-looking rig was spread abroad and the sea-anchor hove in. They wallowed around and took up on their old course under small canvas.

There was no sighting of the sun, and with their erratic movements dead reckoning was chancy, but a voyage to the Thames estuary was straightforward enough, no more than lying along the line of latitude of fifty and a half once they’d won their southing.

That wasn’t Kydd’s main worry. It had to be how long he could expect men to keep up the grinding toil at the pumps. There was a day or so to safe haven but to men on the edge it was an eternity—and there was not a thing he could do about it.

At the extremity of fatigue, men walked about the decks in a trance, staring at bulkheads, dropping where they stood. Yet not a word of complaint.

The following morning it was difficult to make out anything in the racing murk to leeward but the low coast of Kent could not be far off.

Then at last the carpenter formally reported that the water flooding in had overtaken their ability to pump it out.

Tyger
was done for: at some point the rate would suddenly increase as the lower ports submerged and the gallant ship would sink beneath the waves for ever. And in this filthy weather, with no ships in sight, still less land, each and every one would go to his death unseen by the world of men.

The pitiless sea had won.

It was unbearable! To have come so far …

Kydd flogged his tired brain mercilessly but in the end it always came back to the same thing. Even with men giving their all, the pumping was not enough: the callous equation was final.

Then from somewhere his mind presented a desperate idea. If the capacity of the pumps was not enough, what if the speed of their operation increased? The net flow must, of course, increase—but this was crazy thinking!

Doggedly he pursued the thought: what if he sent every man jack aboard to do a trick but this for only ten minutes at a time before spelling him, but at the same time expect a more furious rate?

His imagination visualised a long line of men waiting their turn. There were four places at the cranks along the main shaft. If each man was spelled in a staggered sequence the momentum would be kept up.

Yes—there was a chance!

In a short time he had explained it to Bray and the boatswain and left it to them to organise a means to work the ship from those coming off the pump before resuming their place in the line.

Meals? What could be held in the hand? Sleep? Snatched there and then on the deck. Respite? None!

“Form the line!” Kydd roared.

The first man stepped up ready.

It was the captain, who threw off his jacket and stood flexing his hands.

There was shuffling nearby—Bray, pushing aside Bowden. Behind him was Brice—the first four on the cranks would be the ship’s officers.

“Take hold!”

Each grabbed a pitted iron handle and braced.

“Start!”

It was astonishingly difficult, winding up the long chain with the drag of their leather seals and Kydd’s muscles burned with the effort. Panting, he drove around the cruel bar, now heaving it up, next pushing it down, in a dizzy cycle that left no room for thought.

“Faster!” he gasped, throwing himself into it.

Reluctantly the muffled rumble of the drive chain rose in tone a little, and then more. Sparing nothing, he worked like a madman until the note rose higher still. It was furious labour and a mesmerising rhythm took hold.

Standing by with a watch in his hands, the quartermaster called, “Spell one!”

It didn’t register in the flailing grind and Kydd felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Sir.” It was the boatswain demanding he yield his place.

Kydd fell back exhausted, tripping over and ending on his knees.

Half a dozen hands helped him up but his eyes were only for the pump.

Herne had caught the rhythm quickly and was bulling the crank around, now whirling at an astonishing speed.

Staying to catch the next handover, he prayed it was working. If anything was going to deliver them, this was it.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him in a dizzying flood. Just as he had so long ago, as a common foremast jack, he sought the ship’s side and sat down, leaning against it. Folding his arms he put his head on his knees and let go of consciousness.

The morning brought two desperately desired things. The water had not only been halted but was down a full eight inches—and land was sighted, the low mudflats of Essex. They were just to the north of the Thames, with small miles to go. It was impossible, incredible, but release was only hours away.

But they were not home yet. Ahead were the notorious sandbars of the estuary, said to be the worst a seaman could face. Low in the water,
Tyger
would touch at the slightest mis-navigation and she could leave her bones within sight of her rest.

In the hard easterly there was little shipping and the pilot cutter came streaming out promptly, the grizzled old pilot mounting the side in astonishment.

“As you’re
Tyger
an’ all?” he said breathlessly.

“It is,” Kydd said wearily. “You’ll get your fee, never fear. Now I’ll have you know we’re well down on our marks, four feet or more, take mind of this, sir.”

“
Tyger
, begob!” He snatched off his sou’wester and looked at Kydd in open admiration. “An’ the country’s in a rare moil t’ hear of your great fight. And to think I’m here to—”

“Sir. We have to make Sheerness with the greatest urgency. Do you—”

“So you shall, sir! You’re grievous mauled an’ will make port or I’m to swing for it!”

“One thing.”

“Anything you wants, sir!”

“Your cutter. Do send it into Sheerness dockyard directly and I want a hundred fresh men ready for me the soonest. Compree?”

Tyger
crept ahead in the white slashed seas, the familiar bleak outlines of Sheppey firming with the dark silhouettes of the ships of the Nore in a long cluster to larboard.

What did he mean, the whole country alive with news of their engagement? It would have to be Admiral Russell sending an immediate dispatch by fast packet, which, with their slow progress, had given time for the news to spread.

A desolate curtain of rain enveloped them and drove down on the distant cliffs and marshes, obscuring the shoreline. When it lifted it revealed an astonishing sight. From Garrison Point, the fort, all along the foreshore there were people, hundreds, a thousand. Scorning the rain and winds and, without question, there to welcome them home!

The pilot cutter must have brought the exciting news and the whole town had turned out.

A firework soared up, then several. From the fort came the crump of guns—no naval salutes would greet a mere frigate. Boats could be seen putting off and by the time they’d rounded the point to reach shelter they were surrounded by yelling well-wishers, soaked to the skin.

Tyger
came to and picked up moorings even as dockyard boats were putting out, filled with men.

“Get those men to work this instant!” Kydd bawled. It would be a sorry end after all that had passed to sink at their moorings.

He turned to the master shipwright, who stood respectfully but held up his hand. “I’ve orders that give you the highest priority for a docking, sir. The master attendant is turning out
Hibernia
as we speak.”

“Thank you. I desire you will allow me to make use of your boats.”

“By all means.”

From below came a procession. Stretchers with wounded, pale and bloody. Some moaning, some very still. They were handed down into the boat with the utmost care and it put off.

Another piteous procession followed them. Five canvas shrouds. These were sent down with equal tenderness as
Tyger
’s company lined the side, taking off their hats. The milling boats quietened as they made way for men taking their last journey back to the land that had given them birth.

“Sir. The men are now all relieved at the pumps. We’ve … we’ve made it, sir.” Bray’s voice had turned husky and Kydd was nearly overcome, it coming from such a lion-hearted soul.

“Ah, yes. You’ve just an hour to write liberty-tickets for the whole ship’s company. They’ll go ashore at once, do you hear?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It was all so unreal, so dreamed of but never expected.

“Sir?” Bowden seemed to sense his mood and spoke quietly.

“Yes?”

“It’s the admiral. Came aboard without we knew he was here. Will you see him?”

Kydd blinked. Admirals only came out to ships with much fuss, fanfare and good warning. Was this a matter of some urgency? Kydd hurried to greet him.

“Ah, Sir Thomas! My, are we glad to see you. Word from the North Sea squadron was that you were sore injured, and when
Lively
lost you, we thought you’d gone down.”

“I’ve the entire ship’s company to thank that we didn’t, sir.”

“I’m sure. Now, I know you’re much overborne with matters but I can’t allow that you will refuse me if I desire you to come to dinner very soon and tell me all about your great action.”

“I’d be glad to, sir, should I be at liberty to do so.”

“Splendid! Perhaps at—”

But Kydd’s first lieutenant had come up and was standing by impatiently.

“Yes, Mr Bray?”

“Could I have a word, sir?”

They went to one side and Bray coughed in embarrassment, saying, “I’ve never heard of it in all my years in the service.”

“What’s that, then, Mr Bray?”

“It’s like this, sir. When I told the clerk to prepare the liberty-tickets he said as how he’d been approached by the men who said they’d be damned if they’re to take their rest before the barky does. They’ll not set foot ashore afore they sees
Tyger
’s safely at her ease in dock.”

“Thank you for telling me this, Mr Bray. They shall in course be allowed to stay aboard.”

The admiral looked on in concern and, when Kydd returned, asked, “Not a case of worriment, I trust?”

“No, sir, just … nothing as can’t be arranged.”

“Well, sir. If there’s anything I can do, please tell. You’re to be indulged, I believe, sir!”

In a surge of feeling, Kydd replied, “Yes, sir, there is one service that would gratify me in full measure.”