Seaflower - Kydd 03

by Julian Stockwin

  This time there was silence. It was broken by Farthing, who shouted, 'An' it's three cheers fer Cap'n Farrell, mates! One, two, six — an' a tigerrr!’

  Farrell's smile of pleasure was unexpectedly boyish. 'It is the custom in the Royal Navy on hazardous duty to call for volunteers .. .' Kydd found himself coxswain of Stirk's longboat and Renzi was detailed for the lighter to assist with the French language. Nearly the whole of Seaflower's crew would be involved in the venture, but five needed to be held back to keep the cutter at sea.

  'I must request, Mr Merrick,' said Farrell, 'that you remain to take the charge of Seaflower, therefore—'

  'Sir! This is monstrous unjust!' the boatswain protested. 'You do me dishonour—'

  'I'm sure, Mr Merrick, you will always do your duty in the best traditions of the Service.'

  The longboat was lowered from Seaflower when darkness fell. The quarter-moon would last for half the night and then would set, making it easy for the longboat to see its way to creep in to the seaward side of the point. In Seaflower hands were raised in farewell as she made off to the north to find the lighter, disappearing silently from view in the subdued moonlight.

  The boat hissed to a stop on the sandy beach. Fourteen men around the sturdy craft quickly had her up the beach and out of sight in the greenery. Stirk motioned to them to conceal themselves while he and Kydd went forward to reconnoitre.

  It was absolutely quiet, a light susurration of breeze, gentle and soothing, and no sign of human presence on the dry, sandy landscape. Sharply contrasting black shadows on silver light made it hard to pick a way - the task was to get the boat over the point and in position to launch just before dawn. They chose a low saddle, sand with small rocks and little vegetation. It was harder than it looked to drag the heavy boat across the small, gnarled scrub with feet stubbing on rocks and sand.

  Stirk's whispered 'Two, six — heavyyyyy' became monotonous and hypnotic, but they made good progress, and well before time they were on the other side among the fringing shrubbery near the water's edge - and opposite the mole. The moon had set in the early hours and it was difficult to make out the dark mass of the brig across the darkling waters, but there were the two pinpricks of lanthorn light in the rigging to mark her out.

  They rested, waiting for daybreak. It was very quiet; only the odd night noise from the small town around the curve of the bay, the plop and splash of fish, muffled curses at the coolness and restless movement from fourteen men. A blue edge came to the darkness - it would be light soon, arriving with tropical swiftness.

  Stirk called them together. 'Now, mates, we's got a good chance if we goes in fast. An' I means fast — I want ter see yez stretch out on the oars like yer've never seen, an' up 'er side like monkeys wi' their arses on fire.'

  There was an impatient muttering: the men had been picked for the job, and were more than ready. As the light strengthened, features emerged in the clarity of the morning; the mole, the brig — and movement along the length of the mole. Kydd tried to make out what was happening. A trumpet cut into the morning, a thin baying at this distance but its significance was undeniable. There was a force of soldiers of unknown size on the mole.

  Kydd knew that everything had changed. He looked to Stirk. Stirk's tough expression was set and his voice became grave. 'This is a-lookin' hickey. Our shipmates is standin' into hazard, they don' know there's sojers a-waitin' for 'em.' He stared across at the soldiers forming up, and his jaw hardened.

  'We're goin' ter take 'em b' surprise, the Crapauds.' He sighted along the line of beach. A couple of small fishing boats were drawn up nearby but otherwise it was clear along to the town, a mile or so away. 'We pelts along, through th' town and takes 'em from th' inside. Won't know what hits 'em. An' this'll make 'em take their eyes off of the Cap'n while he cuts out th' brig.' He glared around the group of seamen, as if daring comment.

  Kydd could see the peril that Farrell would face, coming out of the dawn to find too late the soldiers ready to fall on his band. It couldn't be allowed to happen: Stirk was right to take action. But a frontal assault on soldiers? It was courageous, but against armed troops in their own positions — no, they would have no chance except to sacrifice themselves in the hope that it would not be in vain. The emotional switch from exhilaration, through apprehension to dogged acceptance was cruel.

  A quiet voice announced, 'There they is".' The low bulk of a sugar lighter crept into distant view from the north. They were committed: Farrell had no idea of the soldiers, and when he saw them closer to he would probably press ahead rather than let down his other party.

  Kydd forced his mind to go cool. There had to be a diversion to take attention from Farrell to themselves. But did it have to be a full assault? Could it be.. . 'Toby,' Kydd said. Stirk swung about to face him. 'Might be, we c'n do it another way.'

  From Stirk's compressed lips and glittering eyes, Kydd knew that he was keyed up for what had to be done. 'Yeah? I can't see one, cuffin.'

  Kydd persevered: an alternative was forming in his mind. 'Look, we don't have t' go at 'em front on. We c'n just—'

  Stirk stepped up to him. 'Kydd, we do it the way I said!' he snarled. 'In case yer've forgotten, I'm in charge.'

  'Aye, Toby,' Kydd replied carefully. 'Youse in command right enough — just sayin' that we don't have e take—'

  Breathing heavily, Stirk grabbed his shirt-front by both hands. Then he spoke slowly and savagely: 'Kydd, I didn't reckon on it, but you're a piggin' shy cock.'

  Kydd was aware of the circle of silent men around him, but felt a rising anger. 'An' you're fuckin' blind! Why don't you want t' hear of somethin' else?'

  Stirk released Kydd's shirt slowly. 'Let's hear it,' he said finally. His eyes held Kydd's unblinkingly.

  Kydd tried to bring a lucidity, a logical sequence to his ideas as Renzi always did. 'We've got to get the Frogs t' pay attention to us, right? Look away fr'm the lighter, get worried about us. We c'n do that. We launches th' longboat an' has a go at the brig.'

  'That's yer idea?' said Stirk incredulously.

  'Not yet. See, the longboat is chasin' one of the little fishin' boats, who o' course are screamin' f'r help. Frogs'll be wantin' t' see if they c'n make it across to them.'

  Stirk's brow creased.

  'Best part is — well, if you were them soldiers, what would ye think?'

  An indistinct murmur came from behind, but Kydd pressed on: 'You'd think that this fishin' boat is just escaped cos the English were invadin' th' town fr'm the other side! An' you'd want t' get there sharpish.'

  Doggo's rough voice came from the left. 'So th' soldiers get flustered 'n' rushes off ter deal with it, leavin' it clear f'r the Seaflowers!'

  'Yeah.'

  Stirk hesitated — but the lighter was in clear view and would begin its final approach shortly. A small smile appeared, and he mock-saluted Kydd. 'What's yer orders, then, mate?'

  Kydd wasted no time. 'We six in th' fishin' boat,' he said, indicating the nearest five men. 'Wait f'r us t' get afloat, an' get after us. We get aboard t' the for'ard you lay off until Cap'n comes up, an' we all go at it together.'

  The light was stronger. Before they broke cover to take the small boat, Kydd thought of something. 'Strip off, or they'll see we ain't Frenchies.' They whipped off their jackets and shirts, naked to the waist. 'Right, mates, we're mortal scared o' the English, we are. Let's away!'

  Shouting hoarsely, the sailors raced to the fishing boat, waving arms, desperate to make the safety of the brig. The little boat was rushed into the water and with Farthing and Doggo at the oars it thrashed in a panic-stricken course across the harbour. Kydd kept looking astern nervously, urging the men on. As an afterthought he tied his striped shirt to the single pulley line and hoisted it as if in distress to the top of the stumpy mast.

  Stirk performed his part perfectly. Raging like a bull at the edge of the water, he threatened and menaced with a cutlass until the longboat could be launched. It took the water with a splash, and a
fierce and bloodthirsty crew tumbled aboard to go in deadly pursuit of the poor Frenchmen'.

  A scattering of pops sounded. Soldiers knelt on the mole, taking aim at the longboat, in little danger at that range. Kydd thought of the naked steel lying concealed in the bottom of his boat. A warrior's rising bloodlust made his heart pound.

  At the end of the mole, the lighter seemed to hesitate. Kydd ground his teeth. If it didn't arrive soon to do its part, his theatrical performance would fail. The few figures on the lighter seemed to dispute together, then the long sweeps began again - and the ungainly craft careered around the end of the mole, bumping and scraping in a shocking parody of seamanship.

  A shouting on the mole drew his attention. With a burst of triumph Kydd saw that the soldiers were turning into file and trotting back along the mole, presumably to defend the town. Events moved quickly. The longboat sheered off under the threat of a swivel gun hastily manned in the brig, leaving the fishing boat to reach 'safety*. They reached the forechains, laughing Frenchmen urging them up. Kydd watched the lighter out of the corner of his eyes, seeing Renzi berating Quashee's hapless bulk at the tiller, while Farrell jumped on his hat in exasperation.

  The French leaned over the bulwarks, offering hands to help, but Kydd played for time. Yelling incomprehensibly, he pointed at the 'exhausted' oarsmen and gestured for a rope-ladder. By this time the lighter was nearly upon them. Shouting angrily, men from the brig jumped to the stonework of the mole with bearing-off poles and fenders as it threatened to drift across the brig's bows.

  Kydd knew that the time had come. The lighter thumped violently to lock across the brig's forepart. 'Seaflowers! Huzzah for the King!' shouted Farrell, and swung himself up into the bowsprit of the enemy. A storm of cheering rose from all around the Frenchmen - an unstoppable stream of seamen boiling up from concealment in the lighter, Kydd's wildly excited men swarming up the forechains, and Stirk's longboat, racing to board by the stern.

  They had minutes only before the soldiers found they had been fooled. The French sailors recovered quickly from their surprise, grabbed pikes and weapons from their ready-use positions around the mast and rushed to the sides of the vessel.

  Kydd landed on the deck of the brig, and was immediately met by a sailor in a red cap, who jabbed a long boarding pike at his face. Kydd's cutlass blade went up and deflected the lunge, keeping pressure on the haft until he was close enough to grab it with his left hand and yank the man off-balance. The grey steel of Kydd's blade then thrust forward and took the man in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, grabbing at the pitiless steel. Kydd's foot slammed into his face as he wrenched the cutlass free.

  A pistol banged somewhere and Kydd felt the violent passage of the bullet past his ear. Seconds later the pistol itself crashed into the side of his face, hurled by its owner. Kydd crouched instinctively at the pain, the swish of a blade sounded above and his head cleared. He thrust up with his cutlass at the man's extended armpit. With a howl of pain he dropped his weapon and fell to a foetal position. A foot kicked into Kydd. Across him an English sailor was being hard pressed by a bull of a Frenchman. Kydd stabbed upwards into the unsuspecting man's bowels, bringing an inhuman screech and the man's blade clumsily and brutally down on his back. A burning line of pain opened, but a second later the man was skewered by his original opponent. Heaving himself to his feet, Kydd snatched a look at the man he had saved: his eyes were wild and unseeing as he turned back to the fight.

  From aft a wave of men advanced. Kydd braced himself and turned to face them, his head thumping and his back a cruel red-hot bar of pain — but these were Stirk's men, and in a startlingly short time the deck was cleared.

  Farrell’s voice sounded loud, commanding. Men dropped to the mole, axes rose and fell on the mooring ropes. A warning shout came — soldiers were racing back along the mole, many soldiers. The ropes fell free, and the axe-men scrambled aboard. The lighter swung away and drifted into the harbour. More shouts from Farrell and men were in the shrouds, racing for the yards. Kydd staggered, pain and nausea swamping his senses. He sank to his knees, retching into the slime of blood.

  The brig's foresail dropped, and flapped impatiently before taking the wind. The vessel's bow began to open clear water next to the mole. The soldiers, seeing this, came to a stop and knelt to fire at the brig, but their hard running was not conducive to good shooting and their balls whistled past harmlessly. Others made a charge against the brig, but were decimated by the quarterdeck swivel gun cracking out above, plied by English seamen.

  The brig parted from the mole, more sail was set and, while Kydd held his head on his knees, they victoriously put to sea to rejoin Seaflower.

  'Ye had us a mort worried, m' friend, coming in so strange-like,' Kydd told Renzi, remembering the stop—start dispute he had seen on the lighter. He was lying stomach down on the main grating of Seaflower Renzi gently applying goose grease to the angry weal down his back.

  Renzi paused. 'It was not the best of times to be seeing a pack of soldiers waiting for us — were we betrayed?'

  He resumed his soothing strokes. "Then the Captain sees our longboat chasing fishermen! His comments on undisciplined rabble disobeying their orders were a curiosity to hear, please believe, but then I recognised your shirt hoisted up the mast and we understood.'

  'As I should have,' Kydd said crossly. The treatment hurt, and his head throbbed, broken skin and a dark bruise extending out from his hair-line were where the pistol had struck. The surgeon's mate had been dismissive of the head wound and, in Kydd's opinion, ham-fisted in his ministrations to his back.

  He brooded, but by raising his head just a little he could see the fine sight astern of the French brig-o'-war lifting and bobbing — his prize money must now be growing significant and the prize agent would soon have golden guineas to hand out. This was a happier thought: what would he and Renzi enjoy ashore on the proceeds? Seaflower was only hours from Port Morant. She would soon make her number to the small naval station there, and all the world would then know that saucy Seaflower had been lucky again.

  'Mr Kydd!' Luke's eager voice broke in on his thoughts. 'Cap'n desires yer should attend on him, if ye should be at leisure t' do so,' he recited. The odd phraseology set warning bells ringing. Warily Kydd got to his feet. For a moment he wondered whether he should put on a shirt: he had received dispensation while his wound was still sore and decided that this still held.

  He went down the after hatchway to the Captain's minuscule cabin. Farrell was seated at the tiny desk. He turned, and held a sheet of paper. 'This is my despatch to the Commander-in-Chief, to be landed at Port Morant.

  Farrell found the right place and read:

  ... but as we approached, a body of soldiers hitherto concealed from us became evident. I was minded to abandon the venture, were it not for the clever ruse of Thomas Kydd, coxswain of the longboat and quartermaster in Seaflower. He caused his party to be split, one part of which went ahead in a fishing boat in the character of a craft under pursuit by English seamen, the other part in the longboat that followed.

  The action was most successful, surprise being complete. The soldiers were lured away from their place by the supposition that a landing in force was under way in the town. The brig was carried at slight loss ...

  Farrell could easily have claimed that Kydd was acting under orders. Kydd glowed at the tribute - being mentioned in despatches was an unusual honour.

  Renzi looked at him oddly at the news, but said nothing. On the matter of where they would celebrate, he smiled secretly and assured Kydd that he would not be disappointed were he to trust him to find somewhere.

  For such an insignificant man-o'-war as Seaflower there was no manning of yards in honour from the ships of the Fleet when she entered port, but the enemy brig demurely astern, so much bigger than Seaflower, was proof enough of their prowess. There was no real need for the elaborate sail-handling when curving so prettily around to anchor under the envious eyes of the Fleet, but it was an
other chance to show the world what kind of man-o'-war the Seaflower really was.

  Within the hour, Farrell had returned from his call on the Admiral bearing deeply satisfying news. Seaflower was due for refit, and her people could rely on two weeks at least of liberty ashore. The Vice Admiralty Court sitting at Kingston had duly condemned their barque as prize, and they had tickets on the prize agent for a gratifying amount.

  Kydd considered his ticket. There was the choice of parting with it now, suitably discounted to a moneylender in town, or cash it for the full amount later when the prize agent could be cajoled into drawing on account. He would see what mysterious entertainment Renzi had in mind first: he hoped it would not be a curious pile of stones or the residence of some worthy poet.

  'Tom, mate, yez has a letter.' Stirk handed over a folded and sealed packet. 'An' that's fivepence y' owes me fer the post, cully.' Kydd took it gingerly: the writing was small and well formed — a feminine hand. He frowned, then his expression cleared. This was from Cecilia, his sister. The date was only five weeks earlier, and with pleased anticipation he took it forward to open and read in privacy.

  He broke the wafer; it was a single sheet, closely written. As usual she wasted no time and went straight to the point. Kydd's eyes widened — he read quickly and stared outwards. It seemed impossible.

  He found Renzi searching in their sea-chest for a suitable kerchief: in his blue jacket with the white whalebone buttons he looked ready for the delights of Port Royal. The mess-deck was rapidly emptying for there was every incentive to get ashore to make this a time to remember: the Seaflowers were going on the ran-tan. Kydd waited until they were alone, and held up his paper. 'Ye'd never have guessed it, Nicholas, but here's a letter fr'm Cecilia!'

  'I pray she is in good health,' Renzi said, perfectly in control.

  Kydd grinned. 'Aye, she is that, m' friend. An', can you believe it? She is here in Kingston!' Renzi stood quite still. 'Ain't it prime?' Kydd laughed. 'Here, listen to this, "My dear brother, I found how I might write a letter to you, and I have news that will make you stare! You may offer your felicitations, Thomas, for you see, I am to be wed."'