Seaflower - Kydd 03

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd thought of Juba, the driver of the King's Negroes on Antigua - if he and his kind were to set their faces against the forces of the Crown he could not be at all certain of the outcome. He remembered the opaqueness of character, the difference in Juba's expression of humanity - was it so hard to understand a resentment, a striving to be as other men?

  From the darkness a group of figures emerged, Laughton easily recognisable at their head. He saw Kydd and waved. 'Thank you, Thomas. There was no need, but I honour you for it. Shall we rejoin the ladies?'

  It seemed the alarm was over. Kydd handed over his blunderbuss and he and Renzi re-entered the brightness of the big dining room to murmured words of approbation. Laughton resumed his chair at the head. 'Gentlemen!' He raised a glass and drank deep. The ladies could now withdraw gracefully, leaving the men to their blue haze, brandy balloons and conversation.

  'Somethin' has to be done!' Marston said forcefully. 'They've broken their sworn treaty, the damned rascals. If they take it into their heads to come down from the hills all together, it's up with us. We'd never control a general mutiny. Military is here, an' I hear they're even sending us a general.' The announcement did not seem to mollify; snorts of derision were heard around the table, despite the presence further down the table of an officer in red regimentals. He didn't comment, but a confident smile played across his face as he enjoyed his cigar.

  'So what's goin' on, eh, James?'

  The officer paused for a moment. 'Yes,' he drawled, 'quite true — General Walpole is expected daily.'

  'An' with how many damn soldiers?'

  The smile widened. 'Not so many, I understand.'

  'What's so funny, damn your whistle?'

  'It's — he'll be bringing much more effective reinforcements than soldiers.'

  'Blast m' eyes, you're speakin' in riddles, man!'

  'This is not for public knowledge, gentlemen, so keep it under your hat. No soldiers. Instead, Cuban hunting dogs!' A baffled quiet descended. Enjoying the effect, the officer elegantly lifted his brandy. ‘Half the size of a man, these brutes are trained up by the Spaniards for man-killing. Can pitilessly run to earth anything on two legs in the worst country, the hardest climate. A runaway slave stands no chance at all, and neither will these maroons.'

  Kydd felt for them. All their advantages of knowing the country, blending with the landscape, melting into the scrub rendered useless at a stroke.

  'We send the dogs in, we can smoke 'em all out from their hidey-holes, finish 'em for good at last.' The roar of merriment that followed was heartfelt, but Kydd could not join in.

  He turned to the lawyer. 'Is it so necessary t' take such hard ways with th' poor beggars?' he asked.

  The man frowned. 'Are you not aware that these sugar islands are the richest lands in the world? That if we lost their yield for any reason, it would of a certainty mean the collapse of the City, a run on gold, our ruination as a nation just when we are locked in battle with the greatest threat to our civilisation ever?'

  There could be no answer to that, but Kydd felt a stubborn need to have his misgivings laid to rest. 'But slavery, where is y'r rights there?'

  The lawyer's eyes turned stony. 'If we had no slaves then, may I ask, where do you think that the free men to take their place — thousands, tens of thousands -will come from? No white man will come of his free will to labour in the sun. The black man is eminently suited. They would have no employment, were it not for this.'

  'But—'

  'Do you propose, sir, to abandon the islands? Sail away, leave them to the French, throw away six generations of development?' The contempt in his voice was ill-concealed.

  Kydd knew in his heart that Renzi would sadly concur — it was a matter of simple logic; besides which, he was a guest and would not embarrass his friend with an argument. 'Of course not, sir, that was never in question,' he said.

  All too rapidly the remaining days of their stay passed, until the time came, on the last evening, to bring it all to a conclusion. Laughton arrived late for the sundown glass, flopping wearily into his rattan chair. There was little talk as the sangaree splashed into the glasses, each man with his own thoughts. Laughton's wife joined them, but left discreetly at the solemn mood.

  Kydd broke the silence, saying civilly, 'Y'r sunsets are capital in this part o' the world.'

  Laughton looked up, a tight smile flashing briefly. 'There are many things here which a distracted mind would find pleasing.' He sat back and looked directly at Kydd. 'It does not take a deal of penetration to see that you are a particular friend to Nicholas — you have shared too much of life together for it to be otherwise. Therefore I conclude that he has confided in you. In short, you know of his — decision, and the noble impulse that generated it.

  'I am his brother, as you are no doubt aware, and tonight I ask you very sincerely if you will intercede with him. Ask him to accept my offer of an honoured place here — indeed, to include your own good self — and see out these tumultuous times here together.'

  Kydd was surprised: he had no idea an offer had been made. He glanced across at Renzi, whose expression was as usual inscrutable. 'I do thank ye f'r the fine offer for m'self, but must say no,' Kydd said firmly. 'But as f'r Nicholas . . .'

  'No,' Renzi said quickly, and stared intensely at his glass. Kydd waited, but there was no further elaboration. Renzi's face was set in stone.

  The chirr of a cricket sounded in the dusk, immediately joined in a chorus by others. A clatter and laughter sounded far-off in the chattel houses, and the breeze played sofdy about them. Laughton put down his glass. 'Then I think I have my answer, Nicholas,' he said softly. 'But one moment.' He rose quickly and went inside. A short time later, he emerged with a dusty botde and crystal glasses, which he placed on the marquetry table, then set to carefully opening the bottle. ‘Let us make this last night as agreeable as we may.' He poured the deep gold liquid into crystal. The dark-skinned buder arrived with a candle, and each man held his glass. 'Armagnac — the elder Pitt was a boy when this was bottled,' Laughton said lightly. 'I give you Fortune - may she treat you as a lady.'

  Chapter 14

  It was good to see Seaflower at her moorings across the harbour at the Palisades, looking yacht-like at that distance. Kydd and Renzi gave a cheerful wave. Soon they would be aboard in their familiar berths and life would carry on as before.

  Kydd caught the strong, clean whiff of linseed oil and freshly tarred rigging as he swung over the side to the deck, the most obvious sign of the work the dockyard had done on his ship. He moved over to the tiller: its arm had been replaced, and in good English ash, he noted with satisfaction. It had a flexibility that absorbed the direct shock of seas coming in on the quarter, which could be a tiring thing for a helmsman.

  'Hey-ho, the travellers!' Doud's cry came from forward where he was leading the fore preventer stay to bring its upper wooden heart to the lower, right in the bows.

  Kydd wandered up, keen to hear the gossip. 'What cheer, cuffin? An' have ye any news, b' chance?'

  Doud gave a knowing smile, passed the lanniard loosely through the two hearts and tied off before straightening. 'We has a new owner,' he announced importantly.

  'Does we indeed?' Kydd said, with interest, looking around for Renzi, but he had gone below. 'An' what happened t' Cap'n Farrell, may I ask?'

  'Been an' got his step. You calls him "Commander" now, cock.' He stepped aside to let his two men finish bowsing in on the lanniard and added, 'In course he's too grand fer this little barky, gets a sloop-o'-war or some such, I wouldn't wonder.' In the matter of prize money alone, Seaflower had become a valuable unit for the Admiral, and her captain had proved he was lucky in this regard. With a larger ship he could do even better.

  'Do we know then who's to have Seaflower?

  'We don't, but we're gonna find out this afternoon,' Doud said. 'Due aboard three bells, I heard. We'se t' priddy the decks an' set all a-taunto.'

  Kydd slapped Doud's arm and hurried below
to shift into his loose, sea-going rig. The master was visibly pleased to see him. 'Ye know our new cap'n, Mr Jarman?' asked Kydd.

  'I do. L'tenant Swaine, Admiral's staff - comes aboard at three bells.'

  Kydd was puzzled by his laconic reticence, but put it down to disappointment at the departure of the patrician Farrell. 'Are we ready f'r sea?' he enquired. As quartermaster he was responsible for stowage of stores. Jarman told him in full detail: in essence, within a day they could be ready for whatever task Seaflower was called upon to perform.

  Renzi seemed a little preoccupied when Kydd passed on the news of the name of their new captain. All Kydd could learn for him was that Renzi had seen Lieutenant Swaine, on the Admiral's staff in Spanish Town.

  At three bells, Seaflower was ready for her new captain, with her boatswain's mate, Stiles, in his hat with the ship's name picked out in gold on a red background, and Luke, the sideboy, complete with white gloves, standing at the ship's side. Jarman, as senior, stood waiting on the tiny quarterdeck in his best uniform, with Merrick close at hand.

  They waited. It was a grey day, the rain catching them unawares at one point, and the muggy heat afterwards was a trial — and still they waited. At five bells Merrick went below and Luke sat on the deck. Kydd was not required but he joined others standing about, curious to see their new commander.

  At seven bells, as the late-afternoon sun put in an appearance, there was a stir on the shore. A dockyard wherry put off, a single occupant in the sternsheets. Jarman growled a warning and the side party reassembled. The boat bumped alongside, and an officer in cocked hat and sword stepped aboard. A piercing single blast from Stiles greeted him. Until he read his commission, this officer was not entitled to be piped aboard. Jarman removed his hat and stood attentively.

  'Lieutenant Swaine, to be captain of this vessel,' said the officer formally.

  'Aye, sir,' said Jarman. 'William Jarman, master, and might I present Mr Merrick, bo'sun.' Swaine lifted his hat briefly to each, then stepped quickly to the centre of the deck, pulling out a parchment. In a monotone he 'read himself in', the sonorous phrases rendered flat and uninspiring by the lack of inflection and speed of their delivery - but it was sufficient; Lieutenant Swaine was now indisputably captain of HMS Seaflower.

  Carefully folding the parchment, he placed it back inside his coat. For a moment his eyes passed over the neat decks of the cutter, then he turned to Jarman. 'Carry on, please.' But he made no move to go to his cabin: instead, he stepped over to the side of the deck. The wherry had not shoved off, but lay alongside, and Swaine stood at the deck edge, with a frown deepening on his face. Merrick hastened over to the side with a mumbled apology - it was the last thing to be expected, that the Captain would be off ashore just as soon as he had come aboard.

  'I desire that the longboat call for me at the careening wharves at nine — no, make that ten. Have you trusties enough to man?'

  Merrick flicked a glance at Jarman before responding stolidly, 'We're all volunteers in Seaflower, sir.'

  'Very well,' said Swaine, after a moment's pause.

  Merrick's piercing call of piping the side sounded as Seaflower's new lieutenant-in-command, now entitled to special attention, went ashore.

  'Means nothin', mate,' said Stirk. 'He must 'ave engagements ashore, like.'

  Stiles was unconvinced. 'An' did yer see 'is coat? Lace was tatty as a whore's petticoat, 'n' brass buckles - must 'ave a light purse .. .'

  Kydd bridled. 'Not everyone's flush in the fob as we,' he said. 'Three prizes wi' our name on 'em, more t' come - what we want is a good square hand who c'n show us the way to a few more.'

  Stirk lifted his drink and sank it with a grimace. 'Somethin' about the cut o' his jib sets me teeth on edge — I just dunno . ..'

  'Yair, somethin' slivey about 'im,' Stiles agreed. 'Wouldn't like ter trust he's on yer side, kinda thing.'

  'You would grant, however, that the man should have a chance to show something of himself before judgement is passed?' Renzi's words only produced a restless grumbling.

  The two double strikes of ten o'clock sounded from on deck. 'Not yet back aboard,' Stiles said. 'Not allowed ter sleep out of 'is ship, is he?' he added needlessly.

  Kydd disliked the way the talk was headed and made his excuses. Jarman had the deck, but responded to Kydd's cordial conversation with monosyllables, staring at the pinpricks of light ashore where Port Royal's taverns continued their raucous trade.

  Kydd made to leave, but Jarman said softly, 'Do you kindly remain with me, I'd be obliged.'

  'Is there anythin' amiss, Mr Jarman?'

  'Nothing you can't help b' being here.'

  Uneasy, Kydd kept the deck with Jarman, seeing the lights douse on other ships, and the shore lights wink out one by one. It was after midnight when the longboat returned. And in it were two passengers.

  Jarman lifted his hat to the Captain, who was followed by a figure that tripped as it came over the bulwark and sprawled headlong. 'Shit!' came a voice, as the figure picked itself up.

  'Midshipman Parkin,' Swaine said, in a surly tone.

  Rounding on the lad he snaded, 'Damn your eyes, an' you're a useless lubber!' before making his unsteady way to the after hatchway. A muffled roar for a steward had Jarman exchanging looks with Kydd.

  Seaflower proceeded to sea the next day after completing stores. Kydd took the helm himself, keeping a wary eye on Swaine. To his relief, Swaine seemed content in the main to leave the direction of the vessel to Jarman, indicating his desires in grunts. The new midshipman was useless. Large and raw-boned, he seemed disinclined to join in with the seamen in their hard work at the running rigging of the huge sails, but on the other hand threw anxious, beseeching looks at the boatswain or others when called upon to take charge.

  'Seen it all before, mates,' murmured Doggo, at the shroud batten lashings. 'Tradesman's son. Reefer's been wished on 'im b' some tailor 'e's got debts with.' He yanked at the cordage viciously. It could go either way, depending on how far the Captain shielded the lad.

  They tacked about when clear of the cays to the south, and shaped course to round the east of Jamaica for the small naval base of Port Antonio on the north coast. They made the customary stop off Morant Bay to pick up packets and bags; this was easier than carrying them by mule over the almost impassable Blue Mountains inland. Shaking out their sails they rounded the turbulent Morant Point before sunset, and headed north-westward past the red cliffs of Sail Rock.

  'This will do, Mr Jarman,' growled Swaine.

  'Sir?' said Jarman, puzzled.

  'Manchioneal Bay. Good enough holding, I'd have thought'

  'We anchor?'

  'For the night — no sense in risking a night passage inshore, when we can arrive early tomorrow.' Swaine looked narrowly at Jarman.

  'Aye-aye, sir,' Jarman said, his face blank. The anchor went down off the muddy river between the reefs, the stream flowing fast from the recent rains. Seaflower swung to her anchor, facing into this, and the cutter stood down sea watches.

  Kydd dropped down the fore hatchway to the hubbub of the mess-deck. On one side Patch was holding court, men clustered around his table. As Kydd approached he looked up, resentment and anger in his face. He spoke to Alvarez but his eyes were on Kydd. 'So where's our piggin' prizes comin' from, we lie with our hook down all th' time? This ain't work worth a spit, all hard-lyin' an' no purse at th' end of it - we're nothin' but a parcel o' scranny-pickers.'

  Farthing muttered, 'Some says as how we's a Judas boat now - sittin' like this, we ain't a chance.' Others joined in.

  Kydd waited patiently for them to make their feelings known. By long-hallowed custom of the sea, seamen in their mess were free to voice their grumbles to each other, short of mutiny or sedition.

  It subsided, as Kydd had known it would, but when he resumed his way forward to the petty officer's mess, the privateersman pushed to his feet, locking his gaze on Kydd's. His hand dropped to his knife. Kydd froze. The knife came out. Then,
in a vicious one-handed movement, the blade flickered from his palm and thudded into a deck beam between the astonished men of the opposite mess-table, pinioning a hapless cockroach.

  The talking died away in an edgy silence. The reality was that they were only a King's cutter, whose duties were mainly despatches and reconnaissance; their prizes before were a lucky chance and not to be relied upon. Patch was not the only privateersman aboard — Kydd realised it could get ugly if their captain . . . 'If y’ askin' to have y'r blade cropped, I can oblige ye,' Kydd said mildly. His hands dropped loosely to his side but he tensed. Any hasty words from Patch now and he'd see him in irons: there was no other way.

  At the sudden quiet, the canvas screen of the petty officer's mess at the end of the mess-deck suddenly pulled back. 'What's th' gripin', mate?' Stirk called.

  'Nothin', Toby. Shipmates talkin' cat-blash is all,' Kydd said loudly, but he continued to stand, watching Patch. Slowly, the privateersman unwound and, turning away his gaze, moved to retrieve his knife. Kydd followed him with his eyes, then continued on.

  'Gettin' worried they can't see us takin' prizes with this owner,' he said briefly, accepting a pot from Renzi inside their mess.

  'An' ain't that the truth!' said Stiles, lifting his tankard in disgust. 'He'll be a-kissin' his dear ones just this minute, if y' believes young Luke.'

  'Kissing ... ?'

  'His dear ones — loves 'is bottles so much he's a kissin' of 'em every day,' Stiles grated.

  Stirk gave a brief smile, then leaned forward. 'Other ways yez c'n get a taste o' gold, these parts ...'

  The others leaned forward to hear. 'Yair, wasn't it in the Caribbee yer Cap'n Kidd buried 'is treasure? Nearly a million in gold 'n' jools! An' guarded b' ten dead men an' never found till this day?'

  Eyes gleamed in the lanthorn light, then he turned to Kydd. 'Now then, cully,' Stirk said, 'yer must know somethin' about it, 'e bein' kin an' all.'

  Kydd smiled. 'Terrible great pirate, I grant ye, but no kin o' mine — he comes fr'm Scodand, 'n' the Kydds are fr'm the south. An' he has an I in 'midships where we have a Y.' Embarrassed, he added, 'An' I'm the only one - the first one, that is — t' follow th' sea in the Kydd family.'