Seaflower - Kydd 03

by Julian Stockwin

  'Huzzah!' cried Cecilia, and Doud stood tall on a thwart and sang of England and sweethearts to the uncaring sea and sky. They had adequate water; the food was now a monotonous hard tack soaked in water tinged with wine, cheese of an heroic hardness and a precious hoard of treats — dried meat strips cut into infinitely small pieces to suck for minutes a time, dainty cubes of seed-cake and, for really special occasions, one preserved fig between two, with a whole one for the helmsman of the watch.

  The boat lapsed into a silence; rapt expressions betrayed minds leaping ahead to another, more congenial plane of existence. The clean fragrance of fresh linen in a real bed. Surcease for body and spirit. What would be the first thing to do after stepping ashore?

  And then the wind fell. From a breeze to a zephyr, from that to a playful soft wafting around the compass, and then nothing. The longboat ceased any kind of motion. The sails hung lifeless with only an occasional dying twitch, and the heat closed in, blasting up from the limitless watery plain, a hard, blinding force that could be felt behind closed eyes. The awning seemed to trap a suffocating humidity beneath it, but the alternative was to suffer both the unremitting glare reflected from the pond-like sea, and the ferocious heat from a near-vertical sun.

  Time slowed to an insupportable tedium. Rooted to their places on hard wood for an infinity of time, the slap and trickle of water the only sound, the choking heat their only reality, it was a trial of sanity. Doud lay in the V of the bow, staring fixedly ahead. Stanhope sat under the awning against the mast, with Renzi opposite. Cecilia lay in the curve of the lower part of the boat, and Kydd still sat at the motionless tiller, his mind replaying a quite different nightmare — the shrieking darkness of Cape Horn.

  The baler was passed from hand to hand, a scoop of seawater poured over the head gave momentary relief, but the sticky salt remaining only added to the misery. Water, precious water, it was no longer a given thing. Life — or death - was in the two hot wooden casks in the bottom of the boat, and when they were broached, eyes followed every move of the person drinking their tiny ration of tepid, rank fluid.

  'I fear we have a contrary current,' Kydd croaked, after the painful duty of the noon sight. 'Only a half-knot or one, but...' Nobody spoke, the idea of being carried back into the Caribbean a thought too cruel to face.

  As the afternoon wore on, water in its every guise crept into the brain, tricked itself into every thought, tantalised and tempted in a way that could only call for wonder at the creativity of a tortured mind. Still the implacable sun glared down on them, sending thoughts fluttering at the prison bars of reality, desperate for any escape from the torment. Time ground on, then astonishingly the sun was on the wane — a languorous sunset began, full of pink-tinted golds and ultramarine sea. And still no wind.

  Renzi crawled over to a thwart and drew out of his package a small book. 'My friends,' he began, but his voice was hoarse and unnatural, and he had to clear his throat. 'We are at some hazard, I'll grant, but... these words may put you in mind of another place, another time, what we may yet...

  '"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

  The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

  And all the air a solemn stillness holds . .."'

  'Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas!' Cecilia wept. She moved to Renzi, and hugged his arm while the measured, burnished phrases went on until Renzi could no longer see the text.

  Night fell. They lolled back and gazed at the vast starry heavens as they drifted in perfect calm beneath. But bodies were now a mass of suffering from the aches of unyielding hardness everywhere and the sight for them held no beauty.

  The night progressed, the moon travelled half the sky and still no wind. Then in the early hours an inconsequential puff from nowhere had the sails slatting busily. Kydd heaved himself up from the bottom of the boat where he had been lying and looked across the ebony black sea, glittering with moonlight. A roughening of texture in the glassy sea away in the distance had his heart hammering. It approached, flaws and ripples in a darting flurry that came nearer and nearer. Kydd held the tiller in a death grip, fearful with anticipation, and suddenly they were enveloped in a brisk breeze that sent the longboat heeling, then in a joyful chuckling of water they were under way again.

  Croaking cheers broke out - but the breeze dropped, their speed fell away .. . and then the wind picked up even stronger than before in a glorious thrusting urge. The winds held into the morning; with a steady breeze from the north-east, the heat was under control. Eagerly, the midday ceremony with octant and watch was anticipated with little patience, for Kydd took the utmost pains to ensure his workings were unassailable.

  Finally he looked up from the frayed chart. 'I’m grieved t' say it, but I was wrong,' he said, but the staring eyes that looked back at him made him regret his black humour. 'That is, th' current, it wasn't as bad as I thought. In fact...' he paused dramatically and pointed '... there — there you will find St Lucia distant but twenty leagues, and there, that is St Vincent. We pass between them and to Barbados beyond.'

  It was incredibly elating to be making plans for landfall within the next day. 'Can we stop at an island for water on the way?' Stanhope said. His voice was croaking with dehydration.

  'No,' said Kydd decisively. 'We don't know if the French are still in control — after what we've suffered, I don' want us t' end in a Frog prison.'

  Cecilia lifted a barricoe and shook it. 'We don't have much left,' she said. Her voice was husky and low, her skin dry and cracked.

  'We don't stop,' Kydd said, concentrating ahead. His own voice had a harsh cast.

  For a long time there was nothing said, then Lord Stanhope murmured, 'I could insist . . .'

  Kydd gripped the tiller. 'No. Y'r not th' Captain. If y’ needs water then you c'n have my share.'

  "That won't be necessary,' Lord Stanhope croaked, 'but thank you, Mr Kydd, that was nobly said.'

  'We don't stop.'

  'No.'

  The passage between the two islands was more than twenty-five miles; at their height-of-eye they would probably not even see them. Kydd concentrated on the boat compass, the card swimming lazily under the lubber's line. He had to be certain of his course for if he steered true Barbados lay just eighty-odd miles beyond in the Atlantic, less than a day away.

  'When we gets t' Barbados, th' thing I'd like best—'

  Before Doud's thought could be finished there was a sickening crunch and a crazy rearing. The longboat came to a sudden halt, sending all hands sprawling and the mast splintering in two. Then the boat slid backwards crazily and into deep water again. The sea was as innocent as it was possible to be, but inches under water, and therefore invisible, a projection of reef not on the chart had been lying in wait. The boat lay in disorder, and Kydd saw clear water in the bottom. 'Clear away th' raffle, Nicholas - we're takin' in water,' he said thickly.

  Without being told Cecilia added her weight to the heaving and bundling, her face set and worried, her dress riding up unnoticed. Doud was in the foresheets, bending over again and again and, in silent agony, nursing an injured arm.

  It was as bad as Kydd had feared. The very bottom of the boat had taken the full force of the impact and was stove in. By a miracle the worst affected plank was still hanging by a thread, but the crystal clear water of the Caribbean was gouting in. Their survival would now be measured in minutes unless something could be done. Kydd's mind raced. If they stuffed the holes with clothing it would reduce the flow — but at the almost certain risk of the plank giving way and bringing on a final unstoppable rush of water.

  'Nicholas, unbend the mains'l, we have t' fother.' They would try to check the inrush by passing the sail around the outside of the boat 'Rest o' ye, bale f'r your lives!'

  His fingers scrabbling at the ropes and flaccid canvas Kydd tried to th
ink. Judging by the merest suggestion of misty grey to the north-west they were no closer than a dozen miles from St Lucia. The wreckage of the boat might sink under the weight of its fittings or remain a waterlogged hulk; either way there was no salvation for them.

  The mainsail was won from its rigging by sheer brute insistence and sailors' knives, and Kydd staggered with it to the bow. Somehow the unwieldy mass had to be passed under with a rope each side — that required two men - but as well it had to be hauled away aft.

  'Which rope?' Lord Stanhope said tersely, stumbling towards them.

  'M' lord — if Y’ please,' Kydd said, and handed him one. Cecilia insisted on the opposite one, freeing Kydd and Renzi to ease the sail foot by foot down the outside length of the boat The water was half-way to the knees, unnerving and making the boat wallow frighteningly.

  'Bale!' bawled Kydd, and with anything they could find they furiously threw the water overside. There was no telling whether they had a chance and Kydd fell to his work in a frenzy of desperation.

  He was unprepared for the inhuman screech that pierced the air. It was Cecilia. She stood in the centre of the boat and pointed shakily - to a hulking white shape below the water that glided past lazily, a lethal flash of cruel eyes and a semicircle of teeth around a gaping maw. Kydd went icy. He remembered the frenzy of killing around the burning ship, the living flesh ripped and devoured before their horror-struck gaze. 'Bale!' he howled.

  Cecilia remained frozen near the stump of the mast, her face sagging with fear, staring at the shark. 'I — I hate them — I h-a-a-a-te them!' she said, in rising hysteria. Kydd had never seen his sister like this before and saw that her terror was unhinging her.

  His voice caught in a sob, for he knew there was nothing he could do for her. It was probable that before evening every one of them would have been eaten alive - there were now four of the terrible creatures circling the boat. An impossibly huge shark came close, closer. There was a sudden bump and dismaying displacement. Something of its evil ferocity was transmitted in the shock of the blow, a personal message of hatred that was the more terrifying for being felt rather than seen.

  Cecilia sat suddenly, her face contorted with terror. Renzi put down his baler and, with an expression of supreme compassion, held her rigid body close, stroking, soothing.

  'Nicholas!' Kydd choked. His duty was baling; they must fight - they would play it to the last.

  Renzi went back to his work, his eyes on Cecilia. She gulped crazily and scrabbled over the thwarts towards Kydd, looking to him with eyes at the very edge of madness. "Thomas! Thomas! Ple-e-a-se!’ Kydd could not look at her. 'P-p-promise me, p-please promise me — before it h-happens — you'll k-kill me, with y-your knife, ple-e-a-se ...' Kydd's hand strayed to the seaman's knife at his belt and felt his mind unravel.

  The shark came in again, its bulk under the bright sunlit water sinister and purposeful. Kydd knew that the shark was closing in for a kill. He took an oar and, like a harpoon, rammed it into its loathsome mouth as hard as he was able. The shark twisted in agony, and thrashed away in a fury of spray — but the others took it to be a crippling injury. They fell on the creature and it disappeared in a snapping frenzy of red mist.

  'Bale!' Kydd croaked.

  But something had changed — the far horizon ahead was no longer a clean line of sea and sky: it was populated with pyramids of sails, and not one but nearly a dozen. Unseen by them in their peril they had stolen up over the horizon.

  'Th' Loo'ard Islands squadron!' Kydd gasped. The stately line of men-o'-war stretched several miles over the sea, clearly on its lawful occasions, possibly exercising on the passage to Barbados: an incredibly moving and beautiful sight — but they were many miles distant.

  'Ned!' screamed Kydd. Doud leaped to his feet, tore off his shirt and, with his good arm, waved it furiously, for their lives depended on it.

  The grand procession sailed on.

  'Holy Christ, see us, see us, why don' ye?'

  'Bale!' Kydd shrieked.

  Cecilia sat with her head at a strange angle, a haunted smile playing on her lips.

  The ships, Vice Admiral of the Blue, Sir Benjamin Caldwell's Leeward Islands squadron of the Royal Navy, proceeded ahead in line — sailing inexorably past.

  'Y' bastards, y' fuckin' scrovy . ..' Doud raved. But Kydd knew that past the closest point of approach they had little chance. The lookouts were primed to expect things ahead, and with their mast a mere stump their visibility to the Fleet would be nothing. A lump came to his throat, emotion flooded him, overwhelmed him.

  Then, one after another the great ships-of-the-line majestically put down their helm, the heavy spars braced around, the sails backed then drawing at exactly the right moment to have the Fleet pivoting about the one point in succession - and in a faultless exercise, the ships of the Fleet tacked and headed directly towards them.

  There was weeping, racking, joyous, heartfelt — and this time Kydd let Renzi go to Cecilia.

  In a haze of unreality, they saw the leading ship fall out of line, lowering a boat that sped across to them. The sight of the strong, open faces of the seamen misted Kydd's eyes. They heaved the feeble, sun-ravaged humanity into their boat, and left the wreck to settle forlornly. Their pitiful collection of possessions was tenderly removed and the lieutenant in charge spoke kind words. And discovered whom he had delivered. Sailors tugging strongly at the oars, they went back down the line, passing ship after ship in a delirious progression, to the flagship in the centre.

  For Kydd there followed only disconnected images: the vast bulk of the flagship alongside, figures looking curiously from the deck-line high above. A chair swaying down from a yard-arm whip, Cecilia first, the others and finally Kydd. The blessed tar-smelling clean decks, the crisp banging of backed sails above, himself crumpling helpless, concerned seamen crowding around, a vision of Cecilia staring at him, the gold and blue of high officers gathering around Lord Stanhope — and then his body sought peace in insensibility.

  'Good God!' exclaimed the Admiral, visibly shocked. 'Frederick, to see you like this. Great heavens, you must be—'

  'That is not of consequence. May we talk — in private?' His voice was weak but resolute.

  The Admiral's Great Cabin, with its dark panelling, ornate silver and polished furniture, did not deter Lord Stanhope from speaking directly. 'I have a matter of compelling urgency that requires my attendance at the Foreign Office.'

  Strategic naval dispositions were straightforward enough; Ceres frigate would be sailing for England in any event, she would simply leave immediately. Of course it would be in order for the young lady to be accommodated until Lady Charlotte arrived to join her.

  But in other naval matters it was necessary for Lord Stanhope to step carefully, for the customs of the Service could not be ordered from above in quite the same way. 'It is my most firm resolve, Benjamin, to recognise the quite extraordinary deeds of these men who carried me through so valiantly.'

  The Admiral stroked his jaw. 'A purse of guineas from you is the usual thing, and possibly an address by myself before the ship's company ...'

  'I rather feel that, in this case, something more in the way of a professional distinction perhaps, a form of honour ...'

  'I understand, Frederick. You will tell me more of them and I will make a suggestion.'

  'The one is the quartermaster of Seaflower y a perfectly noble specimen of the sea race and in my untutored eyes destined for some eminence in the sea profession. And we have another who is of a most interesting character and who is the most nearly learned of any I have had the fortune to meet The last is a bold seaman of courage and humour who would be an ornament to any vessel that has the honour to bear him.'

  'Quite so. Hmmm, it is within my gift to raise them to the felicity of warrant officer, but I rather fancy the last named may prefer more to carry my personal recommendation to his next captain for a fitting advancement to petty officer.'

  The Commander-in-Chief of the Leewa
rd Islands Squadron looked directly at Stanhope: 'Very well. These two are master's mates from this hour, but the warrant will require that the Admiralty do confirm my motions.'

  'My dear Benjamin, I think that is a matter that can safely be left to me . . .'

  Author's Note

  I am a visile — I have to 'see' things in my mind's eye before I can write about them. I try to go to the very places that were so important to history, to caress the old stones, to sight along a great gun that men once served in bloody battle, and most precious and transcendent, to step aboard men-o'-war of Kydd's day — particularly the glorious ship-of-the-line Victory and the valiant frigate Constitution.

  Away from the gaudy tourist haunts in the Caribbean there are many tactile relics of rousing times past, unwittingly bequeathed to us by men whose concerns of the hour did not include a care for posterity. Henry Morgan's Port Royal slid into the sea a century before Kydd arrived, but the bones of the dockyard still exist, albeit in a parlous state. More rewarding is English Harbour in Antigua, where Kydd suffered and loved, and which remains much as he would remember — a uniquely preserved jewel of naval history.

  There are many who care deeply about the Caribbean's past, and I think especially of Reg Murphy of Antigua dockyard, who told me the story of the deadly confrontation on the quayside, which I faithfully retell in this book, and Desmond Nicholson whose encyclopaedic knowledge so enriched my visit. In Barbados, the staff of the museum were especially kind, enabling me to find Karl Watson at an archaeological dig of the eighteenth century; he then provided me with an embarrassment of material. In Jamaica, John Aarons at the National Library proved a fascinating source of his country's deeply interesting past. In fact, my apologies are due to all of them that, within the scope of one book, I have not been able to do justice to their generosity.