Julian Stockwin - Tyger

Kydd went cold.

“We recommends you comes in f’r a better look, like,” the shipwright surveyor said impassively.

L’Aurore went to the trots in the Hamoaze opposite the dockyard, joining the long line of pensioned-off vessels and others for repair to await her fate.

A frigate, however, was worth every effort to retain for service and no time was lost in bringing out the master shipwright and his team. L’Aurore was heeled and investigated and the contents of her hold discharged into lighters alongside. Then her footwaling, the inside planking, was taken up to expose her innards.

There was no doubt. An area on the starboard side, extending from midships right to her forefoot, was condemned.

“Middling repair, great repair-either way it’s a dry docking as will take a lot o’ months,” the master shipwright pronounced.

Kydd slumped back in despair. It was almost too much to bear-he knew the navy would not allow them to spend the period in idleness. The expense of maintaining a ship and officers all this time was out of the question-and, besides, the country needed every man jack it could find in its desperate grappling with Bonaparte. L’Aurore would be taken out of commission and her ship’s company scattered throughout the fleet.

He had to face it, however much it hurt. The beautifully forged weapon that was his crack frigate was now no more. The trust and interdependence that had grown between captain, officers, men and ship, the precious bond stemming from shared danger, adventure and achievements, was broken for ever.

All in a day.

Lieutenant Bowden’s features were troubled as he entered the great cabin. “Sir, you’ve had word?”

“Yes. L’Aurore is for repair. Docking. Months. I rather fear this will mean the end of the commission.”

Bowden stepped back as though he had been slapped. “I-I … Shall you tell … ?”

Kydd nodded gravely. There were formalities: the Admiralty to be informed, and by return, orders for L’Aurore ’s decommissioning and paying off would arrive. The master attendant would have to consult his docking schedule but soon it would be all over. “Yes, the people have a right to know.”

The young lieutenant turned to go.

“Mr Bowden-Charles! Please stay.”

It came out before he could stop it. Years ago, as a lieutenant, Kydd had taken him under his wing as a raw midshipman and had seen the lad develop into a man. Bowden had witnessed Kydd’s reading in of his commission to his first command and their destinies in the service had interwoven ever since.

“Sir?”

“I’d take it kindly should you tarry to raise a glass to L’Aurore .”

“That I’ll do right gladly, sir, should we drink as well to the Billy Roarers.”

A pall hung in the air as the news spread. L’Aurore had been a happy ship and lucky with prizes under the legendary captain they called “Tom Cutlass.” She was a barky to boast of in sailors’ haunts and wherever seamen gathered to spin yarns about daring and enterprise on the seven seas. From the shores of Africa to South America to the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. The monster guns of the Turks. Trafalgar to empire. Glory and prize-money.

Kydd was determined he would see them right: they would be paid off and no guardo tricks with the pay tickets. It was the least he could do. The men would have one glorious spree and, after it was all spent, return to sea, necessarily to give their allegiance to another ship.

Nevertheless, there were duties that had to be performed before they could be discharged ashore. The first was de-storing: the landing of all the provisions and war impedimenta a frigate needed to sustain herself at sea. All to be noted up in due form-a painstaking task to enable Kydd to clear his accounts with the Admiralty.

Even with the assistance of the ship’s clerk and the purser it was going to be a long and arduous job, and the day wore on while all the time unaccustomed jarring and strange thuds told of the dismantling of the life-essence of his lovely frigate.

There were tasks of special poignancy: his duty at the end of a commission was to render to the Admiralty his “Observations of the Qualities of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore ,” which detailed her sailing capability. Form questions had to be answered: how many knots does she run under a topsail gale? What is her behaviour in lying to or a-try? In a stiff gale and a head sea?

How much more revealing it would have been to tell of her heroic clawing from the path of a Caribbean hurricane, her exquisite delicacy in light airs so close to the breeze that none could stay with her-that endearing twist and heave in a following wind …

A subdued Dillon, his confidential secretary, brought the completed copy of the captain’s journal for forwarding to the Navy Office.

This was not the ship’s log, maintained by the sailing master and replete with plain and practical observations of course and speed, weather and incidents, it was an account of what her captain had done with L’Aurore . In it were such details as the various gun salutes fired and with what justification; reasons for condemning three barrels of salt pork, and why he had authorised the purser to purchase petty victuals, viz, five quintals of green bananas, from a port on the African coast.

The most explicit of all were accounts of the actions L’Aurore had fought. In carefully measured tones the whole course of each engagement was laid down-the signals passed, the exact time of opening fire, the dispositions of the enemy. Its dry recounting would never stir the reader’s blood but Kydd would remember every detail to the day he died.

It was all so sudden, and before the shock of the situation had ebbed he found himself sitting down in the gun-room with his officers for the last time. Tried in the fires of tempest and combat, now, through no fault of their own, they were unemployed and on half-pay.

There were more officers in the navy than appointments available and their fate would assuredly be a dreary waiting on the Admiralty for notice and a ship. Even if they were successful, the chances of a frigate berth were scant; more to be expected was to be one of eight lieutenants walking the quarterdeck of a battleship on endless blockade duty.

“Well, at least I’ll be able to see through a whole season in Town.” Curzon’s attempt at breeziness was met with stony looks. With his blue-blooded family he would not want for an easy life, but money could not buy preferment in the sea service.

“And you, Mr Brice?” Kydd prompted his taciturn third lieutenant.

The man flashed him a dark look. “Should I not get a berth quickly I’ll sign on with the Baltic trade as a merchant jack out of Hull.” He’d joined L’Aurore in somewhat mysterious circumstances and was close-mouthed, but with his experience in the North Sea his seamanship was excellent and he was a calm and fearless warrior.

Bowden was next. “And I shall hold myself blessed that I saw service in the sauciest frigate there ever was,” he said, adding, with a forced gaiety, “and so will be content with anything after that swims.”

The master and gunner were standing officers and would remain with L’Aurore during the repair.

Kydd was unsure of his own future. His whole being demanded he stay by the ship he loved but his fate was in the hands of their lordships of the Admiralty.

The meal passed off miserably. There was no singing or yarns and the toasts were proposed into a funereal silence. Then they left with awkward goodnights.

The next day HMS L’Aurore paid off. The clerk of the cheque arrived on board with an iron-bound chest and the ship’s company was mustered by open list in divisions. It was the last time her people would be assembled together and for Kydd, standing to one side, it was an almost unbearably poignant moment.