Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

Chapter 25

Aboard HMS

Tyger

From her deck Cape Trafalgar, abeam to larboard, was unimpressive, simply a low bluff on a sandy tongue of land with a stumpy lighthouse atop. It had not only witnessed the greatest sea battle in history but was one of the major seamarks between Cádiz and Tarifa, the privateers’ nest sixty miles on at the entrance to the Mediterranean.

Even the lowliest midshipman knew it well, sighting it for exercise in running fixes, and aware of the numberless offshore sandbanks and rip-currents that made it notorious to every sailor. Most often it was given a generous offing and course laid direct for Tarifa across the bay.

This day, however, the wind being fair, Kydd ordered the helm put over to follow the bay around. There was nothing of significance within before it came out again at the seamark of Cape Caramiñal, past the little fishing village of Barbate on its river, but it varied the scenery.

In a mile or two they raised the nondescript scrubby heights that led along the coast, and after another few miles, set back from the monotonous flat sand dunes, reached Barbate. It was time to ease south-east.

A sudden piercing hail from the masthead brought the deck to an alert. ‘ Saaail! Sail two points t’ larboard agin the land. A frigate!’

Kydd was rudely jolted out of his reverie. A frigate – this was no English vessel, Tyger was southernmost of the blockade cruisers, and in any case, what was it doing so close in?

He crossed to the leeward side and raised his glass. It was full-rigged, certainly no merchantman with that single gun-deck and low, war-like lines. It could only be enemy.

‘Quarters, Mr Bray,’ he ordered crisply. A chance encounter, an opponent of equal size, guns ablaze in the forenoon. Precisely what Tyger was built for.

In the commotion of readying he studied the situation. It was almost as if the frigate had recently put to sea from Barbate, the near parallel river mouth delivering the ship in a wide curve to seaward. But why in Hades was a ship of consequence visiting the humble village?

The frigate seemed untroubled by what it must have seen and, under all plain sail, continued out to sea towards Tyger .

Uneasily, Kydd kept his glass on it. Something about the confident standing on, the gun-ports still closed, so many men about her decks …

Almost lazily it went about and headed out to sea, royals appearing above its topgallants as if spreading its wings for an ocean passage.

Astonished, Kydd followed its track. It would intersect with theirs about a mile ahead. ‘Close with the beggar,’ he ordered. ‘And keep our gun-ports shut as well.’ It meant hauling in each gun and dropping the lids but if the other was determined on a peaceful aspect so was he, until he learned otherwise.

The frigate picked up speed but Tyger was in place to intercept in time – and all became clear.

‘He’s a Yankee,’ he said, the colours now no longer end on. But this brought with it a new mystery: what was an American doing this side of the Atlantic, given that Congress, with its Embargo Act, had recently made it near impossible for their merchantmen to trade and therefore need protection?

‘I’ll speak with him, I believe. Lay me a pistol shot to wind’d, if you please.’

There was no sign of fear or trepidation as Tyger eased up on the American. Neither was there any show of respect, but that was to be expected. Kydd had served with their young navy some years before and knew them to be a proud race, not inclined to bow and scrape to any.

The two frigates surged along side by side in the pleasant breeze, giving Kydd time to inspect the American.

He knew that the US Navy had six frigates at least, big ones and well able of handling all in their class, but this was more like a Royal Navy vessel, a mid-range eighteen-pounder and to all appearances as capable.

Scores of curious faces looked back at them from the deck-line as Kydd stepped up to hail. ‘The American frigate, ahoy! What ship?’

A plainly dressed officer on its quarterdeck raised a speaking trumpet. ‘United States Ship Concord , Sam Brightman commanding,’ he replied, in a broad nasal twang. ‘Out o’ Boston. You?’

‘His Majesty’s Ship Tyger , Sir Thomas Kydd commanding, of the Cádiz blockade.’ He hid a smile to hear the colonial accent he’d been introduced to those years ago.

‘What do ye want then, Mr Kydd?’

The curt reply did not invite a conversation but, then, since his time in the USS Constellation things had changed. In an ill-advised show of superior might off the New England coast, HMS Leopard had fired into USS Chesapeake when she’d refused a boarding to search for deserters. It had nearly brought about a war, and relations between the two navies were now delicate.

But did this explain why the crew opposite to a man were silent, tense, watchful – it would be much more in character for them to jeer and hurl insults, good-natured or otherwise.

The two ships seethed along together, the swash and hiss making it hard to discern the words.

‘Just wondering what brings a Connecticut Yankee this side of the ocean, is all.’

A pause before the answer showed that his recognition of the accent had been a surprise, but it brought no warmth in the reply. ‘That’s my own darned business, sir, not yours!’

Kydd’s intuition pricked. Something was not square with his memory of the new navy but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘And I’ll thank ye to get out o’ my wind,’ Brightman added venomously.

‘Take us to loo’ard,’ Kydd ordered, racking his brain for an answer.

Tyger spilled wind and eased back, then manoeuvred around the other’s stern, coming up on its leeward side. If he was not careful, this could lead to an incident of international proportions. Should he simply let it go, see it on its way, or …?

If this was a merchant ship it would be easy. Stop and board, let its papers tell the story. But this was a warship and there was no question of a boarding and therefore no way of establishing its legitimacy. He would have to let it go.

Then a glimmer of something began to firm.

It was midday, time for the noon meal, and so close, downwind, snatches of the fragrance of their cooking came on the light breeze. ‘Get Petty Officer Pinto here,’ he rapped. ‘Quickly!’

The thick-set seaman padded up, clearly mystified as to why, with the ship closed up at quarters, Kydd had summoned him.

‘Pinto,’ Kydd said, ‘the barky over there is going to dinner shortly. I want you to take a breath and smell, then tell me what they’re having.’

Around him officers and men recoiled in amazement but they did not dare to make comment.

Taken aback the Iberian-born sailor nevertheless did as he was bade. ‘Why, an’ it’s a right good serve o’ bacalhau to be sure,’ he said mildly, scratching his head. ‘Wi’ garlic and—’

Kydd couldn’t help flashing a grin of triumph at the others. ‘Thank you. Carry on, please.’

It was no American, that frigate. He knew it because his unconscious had told him its smell had not been right. But should he go into action only because of its reek? If he did and the frigate was from the US Navy, it could be a prelude to war and his disgrace. He had to find more.

A sarcastic bawl came from Concord ’s quarterdeck. ‘You planning on gabbin’ some more, or do we get about our business?’

He had seconds only to … There! He had it! The frigate’s proud colours aloft – thirteen stars for the thirteen colonies that had rebelled.