Seaflower - Kydd 03

by Julian Stockwin

  One of the dockyard men approached with a strange expression. 'Ye'd better give this t' yer officer, lads,' he said, holding out a document.

  Kydd took it. It was written orders for the disposition of soldiers to the dockyard, and it was signed, 'Powell, Lieutenant, Royal Navy, Senior Officer of ships in English Harbour for the time being'.

  'Sergeant!' shouted Farrell, from inside. 'Has Lieutenant Powell been confined in accordance with my orders?'

  Kydd entered, and touched his hat to Farrell. 'No, sir, an' I think you should see this.'

  Farrell read it, and stood, his face white. 'Sir,' he said to the army captain, 'you will oblige me by taking a file of six soldiers and placing Lieutenant Powell under arrest.' The captain, barely managing a salute, collected his shako and made to leave. 'And, Kydd,' added Farrell, 'please to accompany him, in the event he goes aboard a ship.'

  Outside in the gathering dusk, Kydd watched while the army officer formed the men into line, then had them crashing to an 'order arms', then 'shoulder arms'. The word was getting out, and figures were beginning to emerge from buildings to line the roadway.

  'Into file — right tuuurrn’ By the right — quick maaarrrch?

  Kydd fell in behind the officer, but felt a fool, tagging along behind the quick-stepping soldiers. The little party wound along the roadway, Kydd feeling every eye on him. Chattering died away as they approached. They turned the final corner to the flat coral-stone area between the capstan house and the ship alongside. Spectators crowded around the capstan house, but the space was left clear as though it were an arena for some future duel. Along the deckline of Patelle her ship's company crowded and there was an ugly buzz of talk shot through with angry shouts.

  'Partyyyy — halt!' The redcoats clashed to a standstill.

  There were two gangways from Patelle to the stone landing, one forward for the men, one aft for the officers. Kydd indicated the after brow to the army captain. But before he could proceed, a man who looked very like a boatswain stormed down in hot confrontation. 'Damn y'r blood, but I know why ye're here,' he said, 'and ye can't have him!' Behind him hostile eyes glared in the sombre gloom. Lanthorns were brought and hooked into the rigging, their light casting a theatrical glow over events.

  'In the name of His Majesty, I order you to yield the person—'

  Furious, but indistinct shouting sounded from inboard. It brought an immediate answering roar from the seamen on deck, and a sudden burst of activity.

  'Fall back on the redcoats,' the army officer said breathlessly to Kydd, and hurried to stand next to the stolid file of soldiers. From the forward brow the ship's company of Patelle poured forth armed with boarding weapons — naked cutlasses, boarding pikes and tomahawks.

  Kydd stood firm, but a feral terror of the pack dug into his mind as the angry seamen surged about them. Bystanders scattered, then formed a cautious semicircle around the fray. By a trick of the light, Kydd caught sight of Juba in the crowd of onlookers, motionless, arms folded. He wondered for a moment if he should appeal for help — then thought of what it might mean if he were denied.

  The seamen surrounded the party, and began jostling, thumping with the heel of their cutlasses, hoarse cries urging the soldiers to run away. One toppled forward under a blow. The army officer swung round and ordered shrilly, 'Load with ball!' At the cry, the crowd began to scatter in disorder. The sailors spread out and hefted their weapons. If the soldiers opened fire they would be instantly set upon. But Kydd knew that the soldiers would do their duty without question. The end was therefore inevitable, and the shouts and cries died away into a breathless silence as all waited for the final spark.

  Distantly, the sound of the measured tramp of men-at-arms sounded. It swelled, and a column of marines appeared. At its head was Farrell, in full uniform. The men came to a halt and Farrell strode purposefully to the centre. 'Where is Lieutenant Powell?' he demanded.

  The sailors fell back, unsure.

  'If by that you mean your superior officer, I am here,' came a strong, resonant voice at the head of the brow. A short but well-built man in loose shirt and breeches came down. His face was robust but lined, the marks of hard drinking on him.

  As the two men met, the others fell back.

  'You have your orders, sir, why do you not comply?' Farrell snapped.

  'Because — because you know well enough, damn you, Charles!'

  Farrell's tone hardened. 'You are under arrest—'

  'Poppycock! You know as well as the whole world that you are junior on the lieutenants' list to me, and therefore I am your superior officer.' Powell squared away. 'And now you do take my orders or ...'

  Kydd was appalled. By the immutable rule of the navy, the lieutenant whose date of commission was even a day earlier was automatically the senior officer. It even applied to admirals, and Powell's claim appeared to be legitimate.

  Farrell's eyes flicked to the mass of silent seamen: Powell caught the look and snarled, 'I have only to say the word, and these good men will sweep away your—'

  'You'd shed good blood in such a cause?' Farrell exclaimed in astonishment, then stiffened. 'I am your superior officer because I hold the King's commission as commander of a King's ship. You are acting commander only. Now, are you prepared to obey orders?'

  Powell folded his arms. 'No. You are in contempt of naval law, sir.'

  Kydd tensed. All it needed was for Powell to shout an order and the stones would be drenched in blood. Farrell did not pause. 'Your pistol, sir,' he asked of the army officer, never taking his eyes from Powell. The captain fumbled at his slung leather pouch and handed over the heavy weapon. Farrell took the pistol and cocked it, aiming at the ground.

  'Do you now comply with my orders, sir?' he asked, in an icy monotone.

  'If you seek to affright me, sir, you have failed.'

  The pistol came up, the dark cavity of the muzzle directly on Powell's chest. 'For the final time, sir. Lieutenant Powell, do you accept my authority and obey my orders — in peril of your life?'

  Both men stood rigid.

  'You wouldn't fire, Charles! That would be—' 'Sir?' demanded Farrell in a steely hiss. 'Since you ask. No!'

  The pistol blasted out, the ball taking Powell squarely in the chest, a sudden crash of sound in the awful stillness. It filled the air with a hanging cloud of gunsmoke, and flung Powell back in a limp huddle. Nobody moved, all held motionless by the horror of the moment.

  Farrell lowered the pistol. He turned to the army captain. 'Sir, I surrender myself to you as senior officer and consider myself under open arrest.'

  The soldier's hands were shaking as he tried to make deprecating gestures.

  Farrell's face was set, controlled. 'I do demand a court-martial on my conduct at the earliest moment.'

  Seaflower did not rate a coxswain, and Captain Farrell chose Kydd as his personal attendant in his subsequent trial in St John's. Kydd was thus witness to the solemn spectacle of a court-martial, and was present as his captain returned to the room — to see his sword on the table, hilt towards. The court had unanimously ruled that Farrell's conduct was justifiable in the face of Lieutenant Powell's actions, which amounted to mutiny, and Lieutenant Farrell was most honourably acquitted.

  'An' when the president o' the court says the words, his face didn't change one whit,' said Kydd, to the throng in the crew space. 'Jus' bows 'n' thanks 'em all, cool as you please.' He had been impressed by Farrell's bearing, his calm replies to barely disguised needling about his earlier relationship with Powell as lieutenants in the same ship — and, equally, his return to Seaflower. In his place Kydd thought that he would perhaps have celebrated a trifle, but that was not Farrell's way.

  Without delay, they put to sea, newly repaired and bound for Port Royal. As Kydd pulled out the charts to exercise plotting a route, Jarman smiled and said, 'Well, how's y'r Danish, then?' Taken aback Kydd didn't know what to say. Jarman tapped at the chart. 'First island you comes to after weatherin' St Kitts,' he said, 'S
t Croy, Danish these forty years, very peaceable, but Cap'n wants t' call on 'em f'r some reason.'

  There was a growing friendliness between them, and Kydd benefited in the learning of his sea craft. Jarman's plain-thinking explanations were the rock on which he was able later to elaborate the whys from the hows and give body to his knowledge. It touched Kydd's imagination, this reduction to human understanding of the inscrutable vast restlessness that was the sea; to be able to bring a world into compass on a single chart, the legendary sights he had seen on foreign shores all rendered tactile and biddable to the will of man.

  'When I learned m' figurin' it was always the three Ls, "lead, latitude 'n' lookout", an' no more,' Jarman told him. 'An' that is not t' say they should be cast, aside these modern times. But now we just adds a fourth — longitude.'

  Longitude ... The deep respect Jarman accorded the two chronometers gave Kydd a feeling for what a fearsome thing sea life must once have been. No sure knowledge of their place in the trackless wastes of ocean, a starless night, a rocky coast - and it might be sudden death in the darkness. The gleaming brass and enamel devices were a true miracle of man's achieving. Now when it became local noon and the sun's altitude was taken, he knew for a certainty that in Guildford, if he could transport there instantly, the big old clock overhanging the high street would be solemnly showing four o'clock in the afternoon.

  They raised the island of St Croix late in the afternoon, a low grassy seaside so much like parts of Cornwall as to be astonishing. This transformed into the usual lush rainforests further along, but the helm was put up, and they came to anchor to seaward of an island to the north-east. 'We approach Christiansted in the full light o' day,' Farrell said. It was prudent: the Danes were a proud nation and touchy of their honour. They were neutral, but could throw in their lot with the Jacobins at any time.

  They lay offshore to seaward, out of sight of the main island and snugged down for the night. The sunset's golden tendrils faded to a deep blue and then soft darkness, and without a moon the stars glittered fat and tremulous. After supper, Kydd and his shipmates repaired to the upper deck with their grog, making the most of their unaccustomed inactivity. Kydd settled next to Renzi, who was enjoying a pipe of tobacco, and Stirk sat on the main-hatch.

  'Amazin' that,' Stirk mused. The black, calm sea stretched into impenetrable darkness on each side, but the slap and chuckle of water around Seaflower's cable was soothing to a sailor. 'Puts me in mind o' Mount's Bay,' Stirk went on. 'Not as I'd want ter be reminded.'

  'Why so?' someone asked.

  Stirk sat back against the mainmast and ruminated. "Cos o' what happened while I wuz there,' he said finally.

  'What was that, cuffin?' the voice persisted.

  'Well, mates, if yer wants to know the full story, I warns yer, it's a tough yarn, but I tell yer, it's as true as y'r mainstay is moused!' Stirk teased.

  'Cast loose yer tongue, matey,' an invisible voice urged.

  'Spread more sail!' another said. Luke scuttled up and squatted under Stirk's feet, agog to hear the yarn.

  ‘Right, I'll fill and stand on,' Stirk agreed. 'When I was a younker, I was in another trade,' he began.

  Kydd hid a smile.

  'Reg'lar run fr'm St Marlow ter Penzance in brandy.

  Had a shipmate aboard name o' Cornish Jack, liv'd nearby. Now, he was a right frolicsome cove, always in wi' the ladies. An' he snares a real spruce filly — Kitty Tresnack she wuz called. Trouble is, she's married, see, to old man Tresnack 'oo owns a sizeable tin mine. Didn't stop 'em - he'd step off soon as he knew 'ow, back aboard last minute, 'n' all the time off in the hills wi' this Kitty.'

  Stirk gave a snort that some might have interpreted as disapproval.

  'He comes back aboard jus' as we're about t' sail, but there's noos. Seems old man Tresnack goes down wi' a fever 'n' dies real quick. So Cornish Jack can't wait t' get back 'n' marry Kitty — but when we does make port agen, he finds 'is intended in clink, arrested fer murder of 'er 'usband!

  'They 'as the trial, an' she's found guilty, sentenced ter 'ang. Cornish Jack can't believe it — 'e sleeps outside the prison walls till the day she's due ter be choked off. He asks permission to go with 'er to the scaffold. They agrees, an' on th' day he goes up ter the gallows 'oldin' 'er 'and and when it's time 'e clutches 'er tight. The rope goes around 'er neck, an' she asks 'im, solemn-like, "You will?" Jack gets uneasy, but says, "I will." She then goes calm and it's all over fer 'er.'

  Stirk paused for effect, and continued. 'After that, Kitty's ghost wuz seen twice, three times or more on the road b'tween Penzance an' Hayle, an' Cornish Jack's a changed man. Goes pale 'n' thin, never laughs — terrible change if y' knew 'im. At th' tavern 'e was 'eard ter say, "She gives me no peace, follers me everywhere." We all knows 'oo "she" is.

  'Just a year after this, Cornish Jack was back at sea wi' us, an' in the fo'c'sle. He then finally tells what it was they said on th' gallows. "She made me swear that on this day, one year more at midnight, I'd marry 'er." See, not bein' able to get wed in th' flesh, she would in th' spirit.

  'An' that's where it gets right scareful, we bein' in our 'ammocks 'n' jawin' together, it all goes quiet, like. That's when we 'ear these sharp small steps on the deckhead, comin' fr'm forrard. He goes white as chalk an' gets th' trembles. They stops right above where Jack 'as his 'ammock. His face goes mad wi' terror, but he drops ter th' deck and makes 'is way topsides. We rushes t' follow - but jus' in time ter see 'im leg it over th' bulwark ter throw 'imself in th' sea.'

  Stirk took a deep breath and said, in a low voice, 'We catches only a couple o' white faces in them black waves, so 'elp me, an' then 'e's gone!'

  The long silence following was Stirk's satisfying reward.

  From seaward, Christiansted turned out to be a cosy, settled piece of Denmark in the Caribbean, all cream-coloured buildings with red roofs, before lofty hills inland. At the sight of Seaflower's ensign a warning gun thumped from Fort Christiansvaern, marked on the chart as 'in want of repair'. Obediently, Seaflower rounded to, let go her anchor outside the reef and awaited the boat putting off from the town.

  The Danish officer boarded quickly, his glance taking in the clean lines, neatness and loving detail that only a sailor's pride in his ship could evoke. 'Lojtnant Holbaek,' the man said, in crisp military tones. His-red tasselled blue uniform looked odd on the deck of a Royal Navy cutter.

  Farrell advanced with outstretched hand. 'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Cutter Seaflower, er, Loytnant,' he said. Holbaek shook hands. Turning meaningfully to Jarman, Farrell said loudly, 'Loytnant Holbaek takes back to Christiansted the best wishes of His Britannic Majesty for prosperity and peace, and our hopes that the Jacobin upstarts will soon be swept from the seas.'

  'Mange tak, Kommandor— thenk yo,' Holbaek said, with a clicking of heels. He seemed to brisde a little under the curious stares of Sea/lower's sailors. 'An' my packet?'

  'Of course.' Farrell handed over the sealed package, which Holbaek quickly slipped inside his uniform. The dour officer did not seem inclined to linger, so Farrell handed him over the side with profuse expressions of regard, and the boat pushed off. 'Now we shall proceed. Course for Port Royal, Mr Jarman.'

  'Crusty bugger,' was Stiles' judgement. He had been invited in with the petty officers, notwithstanding that as boatswain's mate his was probably the least popular job aboard. So far there had been no call on his services with the cat-o'-nine-tails, a tribute to the sense of harmony that Farrell was achieving.

  The noon meal was well under way, rum sweet in the glass. The morning exercise at the after six-pounders had been particularly impressive and the light breeze was sending Seaflower along at a relaxed pace, the seas with barely a swell or more than a stipple of waves. Doggo poked his head inside the canvas screen, which by now had its full quota of mermaids and Davy Jones painted on it, and announced, 'Might like ter come topsides — could be a bit of a to-do brewin'.'

  On the horizon to windward a tall pillar of smoke, haz
y and pale with distance, rose straight up. 'Ship afire,' said Doggo blundy, then nodded significantly aft at the Captain and Merrick in urgent conversation.

  Detaching himself, Farrell called to Kydd, 'Bear up for that fire.'

  Kydd ordered the helm over, Seaflower obediently turning towards. It was dead to windward, in the teeth of the light breeze, and even with Seaflower's fore-and-aft rig she could lie no closer than four points off the wind before the luff of her sails began shivering and she lost way. The deck fell quiet. It didn't take much imagination to think of what must be happening in the unknown ship: the visceral terror at the flames rampaging, the bravery of those on board — then mortal despair taking hold.

  Jarman reached the deck and quickly took in the scene. Kydd opened his mouth to comment, but Jarman held up his hand, keenly sensing the wind direction. Kydd noticed Farrell watching him closely as well. The vessel would know by now that they had been seen and their hearts would be leaping — but all would depend on how speedily they could reach the scene. 'A bridle for bowlines on the topsails may answer, sir,' Jarman said at last, 'an' Kydd will bring her more by th' head by re-stowing.'

  Jarman's order meant sending a line to the forward part of the square sails to haul them even more flat to the wind, and shifting provisions and water barrels towards the bow to deepen the stem to give more bite. Kydd hastened below, grabbing hands for the task, which was soon completed. On deck he was joined by Renzi. 'A nice problem,' Renzi murmured, shielding his eyes to make out the approaching details.

  'Aye,' said Kydd. The ship afire was dead into the wind — how to get to her? To tack towards, of course, but the problem lay in whether to do short but direct boards and much tacking about, or long fast boards with few delays in tacking, but considerable distance to each side of the goal.

  Given the constant of time necessary to go about, Jarman compromised on seven-minute legs. The breeze was frustratingly light, but even so the disastrous tableau came gradually closer. Every glass available was on the harrowing scene.