Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘We put about an’ return, sir?’ Jarman asked immediately. There was no dishonour to fly before a vessel probably carrying half as many guns again as they.

  Farrell turned on him angrily. ‘What do you conceive is our duty, sir? To run at the sight of every strange sail?’

  Jarman grunted. ‘Well, we––’

  ‘Clear for action, Mr Merrick,’ Farrell ordered. Seaflower kept on her course westward towards the brig and girded for war. All eyes were on their opponent. The brig seemed nonplussed at Seaflower’s aggression and fell off the wind somewhat.

  Kydd took the tiller, feeling the willing restlessness of the craft, and even through his own anxieties he felt for the lovely cutter and what she must suffer soon. The enemy brig was longer than they and therefore could array a greater broadside; being square-rigged with the ability to back sails she was more manoeuvrable in a clinch. Seaflower’s chance lay in her speed and nimble handling – much would depend on Kydd’s steadiness at the helm.

  A gun thudded on the brig and a large battle flag unfurled at her mizzen peak. There would be no preliminaries, they would grapple and fight and the contest could well be over within the hour. The brig yawed to starboard. This brought her broadside to bear. It thundered out, but at more than a mile it was a ragged display, balls skipping wide on each side.

  Merrick grinned. ‘Too eager b’ half – a green-hide cap’n, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘They’s sixes and fours, ’n’ we has all sixes!’ Stirk said, with satisfaction. Kydd did not share his confidence: they had six-pounders, but only eight to a side. The brig resumed an easy close haul, knowing that Seaflower must close and endure their wrath before she could swing about and bring her guns on target.

  ‘Stirk, be so good as to set your pretty ones to work,’ Farrell said, with a grim smile.

  Clambering over gear to the eyes of the ship, Stirk hunkered down and sighted along the black iron of his four-pounder chase guns. They were an older pattern and were not fitted with gunlocks; over the priming he held clear a glowing piece of match and, when satisfied with his quoin and at the right point in the pitching motion, his hand went down and they spoke with a ringing crack.

  Kydd stared intently at the brig, but Stirk scrambled over the heel of the bowsprit to the other chase gun to repeat the exercise while the first was reloaded. Again the sharp report: gunsmoke temporarily obscured her, but when it cleared the brig showed in some confusion.

  ‘Don’ know what they wants ter do,’ Farthing observed. He was behind Kydd standing ready if Kydd fell in battle. The brig’s square yards were at odds with each other – it looked like someone had shied away from the balls slamming across her decks, and had tried to bear away, but then a more experienced hand had intervened to send her back. It was hard for Seaflower to have to wait to come up before they could reply with their own guns.

  ‘Told yer, it’s a right green hand there,’ Merrick said, and looked at Farrell.

  ‘Ease sheets, no need to rush at things,’ the Captain said smoothly. Seaflower slowed, and Stirk kept up his gunplay. The brig yawed and let go another broadside, but the little cutter’s head on profile was much too narrow a target, and all it achieved was to give Stirk a broader aiming point.

  Seaflower tacked about to open the range once more. Her own broadside crashed out as she spun about, a French one not eventuating, as they were in the process of reloading. Stirk resumed his punishment, taking time to lay his weapon. ‘If’n she had chase guns th’ same as we . . .’ Merrick reflected.

  Abruptly, the brig loosed a broadside, then turned away before the wind and retired. Derisive yells erupted in Seaflower – the brig’s plain stern presented itself as she turned in retreat, the shouts became an urging to close and finish the vessel with close raking fire.

  Kydd glanced at Farrell, who was studying the brig through his Dollond glass. He seemed not to hear the crew’s jubilation, but then spoke to Jarman. ‘She wishes us to close. She is much the bigger – we keep our distance.’ As if to add point to his words, the brig flew up into the wind and her guns fired, some of the balls coming uncomfortably close. Seaflower took immediate opportunity to slew round and return the compliment in kind.

  ‘If y’ please, sir,’ Jarman had the chart, ‘I believe she means t’ round Cabo Falso an’ head f’r French waters.’

  ‘The nearest port he can find there?’

  ‘Ah – that ’d be, er, Port des Galions. Small, but has a mole f’r the sugar trade.’

  ‘Any fortifications, do you think?’

  ‘Always some kind o’ unpleasantness at th’ end o’ the mole,’ Jarman ventured, looking at Merrick.

  ‘Aye, sir, if she gets inshore o’ the mole, we ’ave ter give it away, I fear,’ Merrick said.

  Farrell remained pensive. The brig was too big to take on directly, they were being drawn away from their proper route to Jamaica and there was a possibility that a French man-o’-war was lying in Port des Galions that really did know his business. Straightening, he made up his mind. ‘We let Stirk have his amusement for a little longer – if he brings down a spar we reconsider, but if the brig makes port we let her go.’

  The rest of the afternoon was spent with periodic banging from the bow in a wash of powder smoke. Kydd and others spelled the grey-grimed and red-eyed Stirk in his task. The considerable swell angled across and Seaflower’s motion became a complex combination of pitch and roll. Behind the breech the sighting picture was jerky and swooping, and having to use a port-fire, instead of the instant response of a gunlock and lanyard, made the job nearly impossible. ‘Makin’ it a mort uncomfortable for ’em,’ Stirk said hoarsely. He gulped thirstily at a pannikin of vinegar and water.

  Beyond Cabo Falso the land trended north-west and within less than thirty miles they entered the French waters of San Domingo. The brig’s course then shaped unmistakably for Port des Galions, a far-off thin scatter of buildings amid palm trees and verdure.

  There was no result yet from the chase guns, which were now uncomfortably hot and radiated a sullen heat, but Stirk’s crews worked on. The mole could be made out, a low arm extending out to enclose a tiny bay with a sandy spit on the opposite side, and no sign of any other vessel within. ‘Give ’er best, mate,’ said Farthing, as the brig prepared to enter the little harbour and safety and Farrell prepared reluctantly to tack about and retire.

  ‘We’ll give ’em a salute as we go,’ Farrell grunted.

  Seaflower stood on for a space, then put her helm up, turning for a farewell broadside. But it was what the vengeful brig had been waiting for – she yawed quickly and at last had the whole length of the cutter in her sights. Her guns crashed out: a storm of shot whistled about Seaflower, splintering, crashing, slapping through sails – and ending the life of Seaflower’s only midshipman. Cole had cheered with the best of them when the brig had turned tail, and his fist had been upraised when a ball took his arm off at the shoulder, flinging him across the deck. Stupefied, he tried to raise himself on all fours, but failed, rolling to one side in his own blood.

  Farrell, himself winded by the passage of the ball, lunged across to the mortally wounded lad and held him gently as the life left him. He remained still as Seaflower’s own guns answered. His head fell, and when he looked up there was a murderous expression as his eyes followed the brig past the end of the mole to the inner harbour and safety.

  Obedient to his last command, Seaflower headed for the open sea, but Farrell slowly got to his feet and breathed heavily. ‘Do you mark my words, we’ll make them pay for this day.’

  For half a day Seaflower sped out to sea, Farrell pacing thoughtfully, at times disappearing below with the sailing master. Towards evening a plan had been hatched that Farrell laid before Seaflower’s company that afternoon around the main-hatch. ‘The port consists of a narrow point of land, with a mole on the other side like an arm enclosing a harbour. The brig will undoubtedly be alongside the inner face of the mole. Now, it were vain to think of ca
rrying her in a direct assault in the open – the longboat can bear but fourteen men, this is not sufficient.’

  He paused, then smiled. ‘But we have a chance. I mean to “borrow” a sugar lighter from further up the coast. This is how the joggaree – the raw lump sugar – is carried to the port to be shipped out. These are mean and unworthy craft, having but one masterly quality: they may carry concealed as many stout men as we choose. This lighter will approach the entrance, but it will be a sad parcel of lubberly rogues who try to bring her in. I have no doubt she will run a-foul of whatever unfortunate vessel is lying alongside . . .’

  A restless murmuring and then grins broke out, followed by hearty chuckles. Farrell held up his hands for silence. ‘We still have a use for the longboat. With her fourteen men, it is landed before dawn on the far side of the point. The boat is dragged over the sandy point and therefore launched inside the harbour, where it may fall upon the enemy from a quite unexpected direction.’

  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 tigerrrr!’

  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 t’ 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 – b
ut 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.