Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  CONTENTS

  Seaflower

  The Books of Julian Stockwin

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  SEAFLOWER

  Julian Stockwin

  www.hodder.co.uk

  The books of Julian Stockwin

  Kydd

  Artemis

  Seaflower

  Mutiny

  Quarterdeck

  Copyright © 2003 by Julian Stockwin

  First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  The right of Julian Stockwin to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94739 9

  Book ISBN 978 0 340 83783 2

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  ‘To the wind that blows

  a ship that goes

  and the lass that loves a sailor’

  Sea Toast

  Chapter 1

  The low thud of a court-martial gun echoed over Portsmouth in the calm early-summer morning, the grim sound telling the world of the naval drama about to take place. Its ominous portent also stilled the conversation on the fore lower-deck of the old receiving ship lying further into the harbour. There, Thomas Kydd’s pigtail was being reclubbed by his closest friend and shipmate, Nicholas Renzi.

  ‘I wish in m’ bowels it were you,’ Kydd said, in a low voice. He was dressed in odd-fitting but clean seaman’s gear. Like Renzi, he was a shipwrecked mariner and his clothes were borrowed. A court-martial would try the sole surviving officer, and Kydd, who had been on watch at the helm at the time, was a principal witness.

  There was a muffled hail at the fore hatchway. Kydd made a hasty farewell, and clattered up the broad ladder to muster at the ship’s side. The larboard cutter bobbed alongside to embark the apprehensive witnesses. In the curious way of the Navy, Kydd joined diffidently with the petty officers, even though with the death of his ship his acting rate had been removed and therefore he was borne on the books of the receiving ship as an able seaman. His testimony, however, would be given as a petty officer, his rate at the time.

  The pleasant boat trip to the dockyard was not appreciated by Kydd, who gulped at the thought of crusty, gold-laced admirals and captains glaring at him as he gave his evidence, which might well be challenged by other hostile officers.

  In fact recently it had not in any way been a pleasant time for Kydd and Renzi. Their return as shipwrecked sailors to the land of their birth had been met with virtual imprisonment in a receiving ship; at a time of increasingly solemn news from the war it was a grave problem for the authorities how to announce the loss of the famous frigate Artemis. Their response had been to keep the survivors from the public until a course of action had been decided after the court-martial, with the result that both Kydd and Renzi had not been able to return home after their long voyage. As far as could be known, their loved ones had had no news of them since the previous year, and that from Macao, their last touching at civilisation.

  The cutter headed for the smart new stone buildings of the dockyard. The last half of the century had seen a massive expansion of capability in the foremost royal dockyard of the country, and it was a spectacle in its own right, the greatest industrial endeavour in the land. As they neared the shore, Kydd nervously took in the single Union Flag hanging from the signal tower. This was the evidence for all eyes of the reality of a court-martial to be held here, ashore, by the Port Admiral. The court would normally meet in the Great Cabin of the flagship, but the anchorage at Spithead was virtually empty, Admiral Howe’s fleet somewhere in the Atlantic looking for the French.

  The marine sentries at the landing place stood at ease – there were no officers in the boat needing a salute, only an odd-looking lot of seamen in ill-fitting sailor rig. There were few words among the men, who obediently followed a lieutenant into an anteroom to await their call. Pointedly, a pair of marines took up position at the entrance.

  It seemed an interminable time to Kydd, as he sat on the wooden chair, his hat awkwardly in his hand. The voyage across the vast expanse of the Pacific and the early responsibility of promotion thrust on him had considerably matured him, and anyone who glanced at his tanned, open face, thick dark hair and powerful build could never have mistaken him for anything other than what he was, a prime seaman. His past as a perruquier in Guildford town was now unimaginably distant.

  ‘Abraham Smith,’ called a black-coated clerk at the door. The carpenter’s mate stood and limped off, his face set. Kydd remembered his work on the foredeck of Artemis in the stormy darkness. Men here owed their lives to the raft he had fashioned from wreckage and launched in the cold dawn light.

  The clerk returned. ‘Tobias Stirk.’ The big gunner got to his feet, then paused deliberately and looked back at Kydd. His grave expression did not vary, but his slow wink caused Kydd to smile. Then he thought of the trial, and his heart thudded.

  ‘Thomas Kydd.’

  Kydd followed the clerk, emerging into a busy room where he was handed over to another. Expecting at any moment to appear before the great court, Kydd was confused to be led upstairs to a much smaller room, bare but for a large table. At a chair on the opposite side was a senior official wearing a grave expression, who motioned him to sit down. A junior clerk entered and took up position at a smaller table.

  ‘Thomas Paine Kydd?’

  Kydd nodded, too nervous to speak.

  ‘My name is Gardiner. We are here to determine the facts pertaining to the loss of His Majesty’s Frigate Artemis,’ the lawyer announced, with practised ease. ‘Your deposition of evidence will be taken here, and examined to see if it has relevance to the case soon before the court.’

  Perhaps he would not have to appear in court at all. He might be released and allowed home – but then reason told him that his contribution was a vital piece of evidence. He and Renzi had discussed their respective positions. Renzi was a self-exile with a well-born past, serving ‘sentence’ for a family crime, and had a more worldly view. Kydd had a stubborn belief in the rightness of truth, and would not shift his position by an inch. The result of his stand would be inevitable.

  ‘Were you, Kydd, on watch on the night of the thirteenth of April, 1794?’ Gardiner began mildly, shuffling papers, as the junior scratched away with his quill off to the side.

  ‘Aye, sir, quartermaster o’ the starb’d watch, at the helm.’ The man would probably think it impertinent of him were he to voluntee
r that, as quartermaster, he would never have deigned to touch the wheel – that was the job of the helmsman. He had been in overall charge of the helm as a watch-station under the officer-of-the-watch, and as such was probably the single most valuable witness to what had really happened that night.

  A pause and a significant look between Gardiner and the clerk showed that the point had in fact been caught.

  ‘As quartermaster?’ The voice was now sharply alert.

  ‘Acting quartermaster, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ Gardiner stared at him for a while, the grey eyes somewhat cruel. His musty wig reeked of law, judgement and penalty. ‘Would it be true or untrue to state that you were in a position to understand the totality of events on the quarterdeck that night?’

  Kydd paused as he unravelled the words. The junior clerk’s quill hung motionless in the dusty air. Kydd knew that any common seaman who found himself afoul of the system would be lost in its coils, hopelessly enmeshed in unfathomable complication. Renzi, with his logic, would have known how to answer, but he had been asleep below at the time and had not been called as a witness.

  Looking up, Kydd said carefully, ‘Sir, the duty of a quartermaster is th’ helm, an’ he is bound to obey th’ officer-o’-the-watch in this, an’ stand by him f’r orders. That was L’tenant Rowley, sir.’

  Lines deepened between Gardiner’s eyes. ‘My meaning seems to have escaped you, Kydd. I will make it plainer. I asked whether or not you would claim to be in a position to know all that happened.’

  It was an unfair question, and Kydd suspected he was being offered the option to withdraw gracefully from the hazard of being a key witness open to hostile questioning from all quarters. He had no idea why.

  ‘I was never absent fr’m my place o’ duty, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Then you are saying that you can of a surety be relied upon to state just why your ship was lost?’ The disbelief bordered on sarcasm.

  ‘Sir, there was a blow on that night, but I could hear L’tenant Rowley’s words – every one!’ he said, with rising anger.

  Gardiner frowned and threw a quick glance at the clerk, who had not resumed scratching. ‘I wonder if you appreciate the full implications of what you are saying,’ he said, with a steely edge to his voice.

  Kydd remained mute, and stared back doggedly. He would speak the truth – nothing more or less.

  ‘Are you saying that simply because you could hear Lieutenant Rowley you can tell why your ship was lost?’ The tone was acid, but hardening.

  ‘Sir.’ Kydd finally spoke, his voice strengthening. ‘We sighted breakers fine to wind’d,’ he said, and recalled the wild stab of fear that the sudden frantic hail there in the open Atlantic had prompted. ‘L’tenant Rowley ordered helm hard a’weather, and––’

  Gardiner interjected. ‘By that I assume he immediately and correctly acted to turn the ship away from the hazard?’

  Kydd did not take the bait. ‘The ship bore away quickly off th’ wind, but L’tenant Parry came on deck and gave orders f’r the helm to go hard down––’

  Gardiner struck like a snake. ‘But Parry was not officer-of-the-watch, he did not have the ship!’ His head thrust forward aggressively.

  ‘Sir, L’tenant Parry was senior t’ L’tenant Rowley, an’ he could––’

  ‘But he was not officer-of-the-watch!’ Gardiner drew in his breath.

  Kydd felt threatened by his strange hostility. The lawyer was there to find the facts, not make it hard for witnesses, especially one who could explain it all.

  ‘But he was right, sir!’

  Gardiner tensed, but did not speak.

  The truth would set matters right, Kydd thought, and he had had an odd regard for the plebeian Parry, whom he had seen suffer so much from the dandy Rowley. He was dead now, but Kydd would make sure his memory was not betrayed. ‘Ye should put the helm down when y’ sees a hazard, that way th’ ship is taken aback.’ He saw a guarded incomprehension on Gardiner’s face, and explained further so there would be no mistake on this vital point. ‘That way, the ship stops in th’ water, stops fr’m getting into more trouble till you’ve worked out what t’ do.’

  ‘And you allege that Lieutenant Rowley’s act – to go away from the hazard – was the wrong one?’ Gardiner snapped.

  ‘Aye, sir!’ Kydd’s certainty seemed to unsettle Gardiner, who muttered something indistinct, but waited.

  ‘We sighted breakers next to loo’ard, an’ because L’tenant Rowley had come off the wind, they were fast coming in under our lee an’ no time to stay about.’

  There was a breathy silence. Gardiner’s face hardened. ‘You are alleging that the loss of Artemis was directly attributable to this officer’s actions?’

  There was now no avoiding the issue. He must stand by his words, which he must repeat at length in court, or abjectly deny them. ‘Yes, sir!’ he said firmly.

  Gardiner leaned back slowly, fixing Kydd with his hard eyes. Unexpectedly, he sighed. ‘Very well, we will take your deposition.’

  There was a meaningful cough from the clerk. Gardiner turned slightly and something passed between them that Kydd was unable to catch. Resuming his gaze Gardiner added, ‘And in your own words, if you please.’

  Concentrating with all his might Kydd told the simple story of the destruction of the crack frigate, from the first chilling sight of breakers in mid-Atlantic to her inevitable wrecking on an outer ledge of rock on one of the islands of the Azores.

  But he said nothing of the personal heartbreak he felt at the death of the first ship he had really loved, the ship that had borne him round the world to so many adventures, that had turned him from tentative sailor to first-class seaman and petty officer. He also omitted the story of the nightmare of the break-up of the wreck during the night and his desperate swim for his life among the relentless breakers, the joy at finally finding himself alive. Those details would not interest these legal gentlemen.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gardiner, and glanced at the clerk, whose hand flew across the paper as he transcribed Kydd’s words. ‘It seems complete enough.’ His detachment was a mystery after the savage inquisition of before.

  The clerk finished, sanded the sheet and shuffled it in together with the rest. ‘Ye’ll need to put y’r mark on each page,’ he said offhandedly.

  Kydd bristled. He had debated Diderot and Rousseau in the Great South Sea with Renzi, and never felt himself an unlettered foremast hand. He dashed off a distinguished signature on each page.

  ‘You may return to your ship,’ said Gardiner neutrally, standing. Kydd rose also, satisfied with the catharsis of at last telling his tale. ‘We will call upon your testimony as the court decides,’ Gardiner added. Kydd nodded politely and left.

  Renzi sat on the sea-chest he shared with Kydd. They had lost everything in the shipwreck, nothing to show for their great voyage around the world. His friend was fashioning a trinket box from shipwright’s offcuts and bone inlay to present to his adoring sister when he finally made his way up the London road to the rural peace of Guildford.

  ‘Nicholas, you’ll be right welcome at home, m’ friend, y’ know, but have ye given thought t’ your folks?’

  Renzi looked up from his book, his eyes opaque. ‘I rather fancy my presence will not be as altogether a blessed joy as yours will be to your own family, dear fellow.’ He did not elaborate and Kydd did not pursue it. The sensibilities that had led to Renzi’s act of self-exile from his family were not to be discussed, but Kydd was aware that in becoming a common sailor Renzi could only be regarded as a wanton disgrace by his well-placed family.

  Renzi added casually, ‘If it does not disoblige, it would give me particular joy to bide awhile chez Kydd.’ He didn’t find it necessary to say that this would renew his acquaintance of Cecilia, Kydd’s handsome sister.

  Kydd sighed happily. ‘I told ’em everythin’, Nicholas – I say my piece afore the court, an’ we’re on our way home!’ His keen knife shaved a thin sliver from
the lid, rounding the edge.

  Renzi looked at his friend. Kydd’s account of his questioning was disturbing. In his bones he felt unease.

  ‘Yes, indeed, and we shall––’ He broke off. Above the comfortable patter of shipboard noises a faint thud had sounded, as of a light-calibre cannon in the distance. Activity ceased on the lower deck as men strained to hear. Another thud. Eyes met – random gunfire in a naval anchorage was unusual to the point of incredible. Some got to their feet, faces hardening. A move to the hatchway turned into a rush as a third shot was heard.

  On deck all attention was on the harbour entrance. Officers on the quarterdeck had telescopes trained and tense chatter spread. Some men leaped for the foreshrouds to get a better view.

  It was a naval cutter under a full press of sail, flying through the narrow entrance of the harbour, an enormous ensign streaming and some sort of signal on both shrouds. A white puff appeared on her fo’c’sle, the thump arriving seconds later.

  ‘Despatches – she’s a packet boat,’ Stirk growled. ‘An’ goin’ rapful – she’s got some noos fer us, mates!’ he said, with unnecessary emphasis.

  The cutter raced along, and made a neat tack about opposite the signal tower. Backing her single topsail she subsided to a stop and hove to, her boat launched almost immediately. It passed close to the receiving ship, the single officer ignoring the shouted pleas for news echoing over the water. It made the landing place, and the officer hurried up the stone stairs. He disappeared among the buildings while the boat shoved off again, to lie off.

  It was galling to know that something of deep importance was taking place within a stone’s throw, and speculation flew about, opinions ranging wildly from the French at sea on their way to invade to the death of the sovereign.

  They had not long to wait. A deeper-throated great gun, probably from the fort more inland, sullenly boomed out and a line of soldiers emerged, trotting in a single line along the waterfront. On deck the excited chatter died away. Another gun boomed, but then Renzi cocked his head. ‘The church bells are ringing. It seems we must celebrate a victory!’