Seaflower k-3

by Julian Stockwin

  The rain slackened its furious assault, but did not stop altogether, the steamy smell of vegetation heavy on the air. They would wait a little longer in the boat-house before going out to the new-captured French cutter. 'You might remark this heavy wood - it is from the mastwood tree, the one with the yellow flowers that the honey-bee favours so. And there, the large pieces in the corner, the Anteegans term it "Black Gregory" and we use it much for its endurance; the guns at the fort have their carriages wrought from its strength.'

  Kydd nodded, his thoughts far from indigenous trees. His recent experience had thrown his perceptions of life and his place in it into a spin, and he longed hopelessly for Renzi to apply his logic to it all.

  'Beatrice tells me you are progressing admirably with your servant's learning,' Caird said.

  'Aye, the younker does try, that I'll grant,' said Kydd.

  'I'd be obliged if you'd consider another matter,' Caird said, looking at him candidly.

  'Sir?'

  'In the matter of my stores. Peculation in a dockyard is an insidious evil, consuming its vitals, rendering the thief insensible to sin.' He paused, eyeing Kydd speculatively. 'I would be most grateful if you could do me a service that strikes at the heart of this abomination.' He went on, 'Take this key. It is to the stores office in the boat-house. Be so good as to enter it discreetly after work ceases and make a true copy of the day's proceedings. This will be compared to the one rendered to me directly.'

  Kydd understood: this way it would be easy to detect where and how defalcations occurred in the dockyard. 'Yes, Mr Caird,' he replied, pocketing the heavy key.

  It was a simple matter, just a couple of pages of short-form notes and figures. Kydd laid down the quill. Stretching, he gathered up the papers and stepped into the early evening. Crickets started up, and from somewhere on a nearby tree came the complacent wheek-wheek of a tree-frog.

  As he turned on to the road to his lodging, he glanced up. A fine sunset was building, but as usual it was obscured by the close-in scrubby ridge overlooking the dockyard. Then something seized him. This time, he swore, he would take his fill of the sight. Scrabbling at the crumbling rocks he clambered through the bushes to the top of the ridge. There, the full beauty of the sunset was in view, only distant islands to include in the broad, breathtaking panorama of sea and sky.

  A scattering of low clouds hung far away about the setting sun, tinged by the yellow gilding that radiated out. Kydd found a flat rock and sat to watch. The sun sank lower, the clouds progressed slowly from yellow to orange, and began to stretch in delicate tendrils half across the sky, the dying day converging on the central spectacle.

  It held Kydd in a trance, the stark beauty entering his soul. An upwelling of emotion took hold, Ufting his spirit to soar free above the world. He had made a journey from death to life: he would not waste his existence on vain striving or useless repine. The surge of feeling brought a lump to his throat, but no focus or resolution. It left him ardent but confused. When the smoky violet dusk had settled and the horizon had assumed a hard blue-black line, he got up and stumbled back down the ridge.

  The usual evening sights and sounds of Antigua dockyard met him, happy bedlam around the capstan house. It was Terrier sloop this time, after a successful cruise to San Domingo. Rather more genteel sounds of revelry came from the brightly lit officers' quarters ahead, from some sort of assembly in honour of the new major of Fort Berkeley. But to Kydd's intensified senses it was the loveliness of the scene that impacted the most. Lantern-light was not merely a dim flame, it was a wash of tawny gold; the darkness was not evening, it was a warm electric sensuousness. The dark shapes of vessels at anchor had tiny golden stars of light about them. This faraway land's dark-blue presence hinted at mystery — life and vitality tugged at him mercilessly.

  A swell of hilarity came from the capstan house. Its open warmth held a strong appeal to Kydd, the warm-heartedness of company, of human interaction, and he felt a sudden, urgent need. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and hurried toward the boisterous gathering. Curious glances came his way at first, but the sailors quickly resumed their companionable roistering.

  Kydd stood irresolute, doubts nagging at him, but they were swamped by one overriding thought: if he could not freely taste the delights of life, then what was life for? 'What cheer, mateys!' he said loudly. 'Do ye have a glass as will allow me t' hob-a-nob with th' Terriers?'

  It was punch from a cauldron, a swirling mix of rum, pineapple and coconut. It slipped down easily, and as he had been unable to take strong drink for some time, it went speedily to his head. He looked round, savouring the energy, the vitality around him: this was what it was to seize life! Yet as the rum took hold he felt somehow unfulfilled, aimless, restless.

  'How do, Massa Keed!' There was no mistaking the low purr. The woman fingered the polished dark bean she wore around her neck. It lay against the twin swell of her dark breasts, and a predatory gleam showed briefly in her eyes.

  'Sukey,' Kydd said, feeling the impact of the lazy swing of her hips as she moved towards him. She came very close and her musky feminine odour invaded his senses as she slowly reached out, letting her hand slide down his arm to the tankard, which she silently detached from his grip with a teasing smile.

  The colour, light and noise around him fell away as the centre of his vision was filled with one thing: a focus at last for the burning thoughts that took his reason.

  She half turned. 'Doan like th' loft.' She pouted. 'Too many noise — yo have a lodgin' house or somewheres?'

  Kydd's blood roared. 'Yes!' he said thickly. His drab rooms would now know something other than solitude. But then he remembered: Luke would be there, manfully at work with his quill and ink, loyally transcribing his improving words. Frustration built into a sweet but driving pain. There was no place in Antigua that offered the privacy he knew he needed to cover his deed. Sukey let her eyes drop and teased at his shirt.

  Suddenly a thought exploded. 'Come on!' Kydd mouthed, pulling her away. She feigned reluctance, but her smile widened and they ran along the coral quay, past the deserted seamen's galley, the silent, two-storeyed canvas and cordage store, the low joiner's loft. The boat-house was still and somnolent. Kydd found the door to the office and fumbled for his key. Sukey snuggled up behind him, her hands sliding over his body, confident and direct in their purpose. The door creaked open into black stillness, and he jerked her inside. Just remembering to lock it he smiled savagely; they could be sure of their privacy now.

  In the dusky light Sukey came to him, but when his responses grew fevered, impassioned, she pushed him away, avoiding his hands. He growled and she pouted, then began undoing his shirt, somehow contriving at the same time to lose her own red shift. Suddenly they were both naked. Their bodies slammed together. Giggling, Sukey pulled him to the floor, taunting him, guiding him. His smile turned to a snarl, his hands dug into her shoulders. Suddenly she froze, her eyes wide open staring at the door. Panting, Kydd stopped, baffled.

  The lock turned, and into the office stepped an indistinct figure with a lantern. The room was filled with pitiless light that fell on their locked bodies. There was a sharp intake of breath, and the light trembled. 'Kydd!' came an outraged shout. It was Caird.

  Sukey pushed Kydd off her, frightened and quaking, and scrabbled for her clothes, which she held against her nakedness. Kydd didn't know where to turn in the sickening wash of shame and horror.

  With a terrible intensity, Caird bit off his words: 'May the Good Lord have mercy on your soul, sir — for I shall not!'

  Kydd returned to his lodging, dreading the dawn. Luke retreated, shocked at his expression.

  The next day was every bit as bad as he had feared. Caird was controlled, but it was with a cold ferocity that tore at Kydd's pride, his manhood, leaving him shaking and in no doubt of his worthlessness. He was told that his employment as a master was over in Antigua and, as of that moment, he was no longer required in the dockyard.

  'And for your
damnable depravity,' Caird concluded, 'your indulgence in lust to the hazard of your immortal soul, sir, I will see to it you go from this island. You shall depart on the first King's ship that chances by!' Pausing only to draw breath he stood and said, 'By some wicked means you have ensnared my daughter's affections. She is at this time undone in her sensibilities. You are a desperately wicked rascal, and will very soon come to the sordid end you deserve! Go, sir! Get you out of my sight! Go!’

  Chapter 8

  The day Kydd and Renzi were parted had been a bleak one for Renzi. The brig gathered way, making for the open sea in the bright morning. Renzi looked back from the tiny foretop. He could just make out the red coats of the marines in the panic ashore, and knew that Kydd must be there too, watching the vessel sail away, leaving him to his fate.

  On the crowded deck, moans and shrieks arose from the French passengers at the realisation that they were on their way to safety but that their friends and relations ashore would probably soon suffer a cruel death. Only Louise Vernou stood quietly, staring at the shore, frozen in pity. She held an object to her lips: Renzi saw that it was the anchor-embossed button Kydd had given her, around her neck on a thin cord.

  If Kydd could escape from the clutches of the mindless rabble and keep the marines with him, he had a chance, but the situation was critical. Despite his cool self-possession, Renzi felt his throat tighten. They had seen so much together. It was characteristic of war, the arbitrary nature of its demands of blood and grief, but he realised that he was not as detached from the world as he had thought.

  Jowett, the master's mate in command, stumped over and told him brusquely, 'Tell th' Frenchie bastards to go below, t' the hold!'

  Renzi cajoled and threatened them, and eventually had them crammed into it. The main hatch was left open to give them sight of the sky.

  Square sail was set and the brig settled to a workmanlike beat to round the southern end of Guadeloupe. 'We c'n make Antigua in a day - wi' this lot we cannot fetch Barbados without we find water 'n' vittles,' Jowett said. 'We sets course f'r St John's.'

  There was a dockyard in Antigua, Renzi recollected, and it was well fortified. St John's was round the coast to the north, but had the main naval presence, the Admiral commanding the Leeward Islands station and all the facilities for taking their cargo of newly homeless. Later, no doubt, they would go on to the dockyard. All they had to do was cross the short distance to the island without encountering any of the French invasion fleet.

  Some hours later they had rounded the southern tip of Basse Terre and, well snugged in on the starboard tack, they began to slip their way north, past the now-hostile anonymous green-splotched coast. The distracted babble died away as the brig met the busy waves of the open sea, responding with a lively roll that had the passengers in the hold huddling down. A canvas awning was spread over the hatch against the frequent spray but there was no protest from below.

  By the afternoon they had reached the northern coast of Guadeloupe and began to stretch out over the sea to the bulk of Antigua ahead. Jowett's face -set to the north-east, towards the build-up of cloud massing there. He sniffed the wind distrustfully. 'I mislike bolderin' weather this time o' the year, this bein' the season f'r hurricanoes an' all.' They would have no chance if it came to anything like a gale: merchantmen were always looking to shave corners with the cost of gear.

  'Sail hoooo!’ The lookout in this small vessel was only forty feet up, and his sudden bellow made Renzi start. He followed the outstretched arm and saw a fore-and-aft rigged craft emerging from a kink in the northern coastline, not large but dismayingly warlike. A second vessel appeared and the pair set course to intercept.

  'Armed schooners!' muttered Jowett.

  'Privateers, an' we ain't got a chance!' a seaman added. In the absence of the bulk of the Fleet at San Domingo the French privateers were basing themselves back in Guadeloupe, issuing out to fall on any passing prey. Like corsairs, they were savage and murderous.

  'Don' vex 'em more'n we need, Mr Jowett,' an older seaman advised, staring at the two schooners leaning to their hard drawing sails. 'We ain't got powder fer our guns, nor a full suit o' sails, so we'll never outrun 'em. Why don't we strike our colours now?'

  Jowett's jaw set. 'No — we got a chance. If they see us in Antego, we get help. Hold course!' The island was drawing nearer and hardening in definition. Renzi scanned the south coast for any indication that they had been seen and a ship was putting to sea in their aid.

  Half-way across, it became obvious that the Frenchmen would come up with them well before they could make Antigua. The white swash at their bows sparkled in the sun, their sails hard and boardlike. They were now close enough to show the sight of their crew, clustered around their fore-part.

  The flat crack of a gun followed the sudden appearance of a puff of gunsmoke; the leading schooner was making its intentions known. Renzi swept his gaze over the approaching coast Even if they were sighted now, help could not arrive before the privateers had done their worst A half-smile appeared on his face. Logic ruled that he would be either dead or captured within two hours. He folded his arms and awaited events.

  Then Renzi saw the leading schooner suddenly surge round, head to wind. Her sails shook until the vessel paid off on the other tack — going before the wind away from them! Shaking his head in disbelief, he looked about, searching for a reason for the sudden retreat: perhaps the headsails of a ship-of-the-line appearing around a headland, a vengeful frigate from the south. Nothing. The other schooner followed suit and, under the incredulous gaze of the brig's crew, the privateers were seen making for Guadeloupe and their lair.

  Excited, the sailors jabbered away, looking for an explanation for their deliverance.

  Jowett seemed not to share their jubilation. "Cos they seen that,' he said. His arm pointed towards the north-east. The cloud banks had extended across the sky and darkened. 'It's a reg'lar goin' hurricanoe, that's what, yer sees.'

  'We bears up fer English Harbour,' said the helmsman.

  'Nah, we bin holdin' course fer St John's an' we c'n never beat back to the east'd in time.'

  'If we makes it ter Antego west about, we'll be in the lee o' the storm.'

  Jowett growled. 'Shut yer jabber - we goes t' St John's.'

  The brig was battened down tight; it was hard on the unfortunates in the airless hold and if they foundered or struck on the rocks their-end would not be pleasant. Renzi cringed as he gave Louise his assurances and asked her to calm her compatriots. She did this without question, quietly accepting imprisonment in the claustrophobic darkness.

  They kept well clear of the breakers to the south-west of Antigua but by the time the rock-studded danger of Five Isles was abeam, the brig was bucketing and rolling in ugly seas. 'Only a league or so,' yelled Jowett, to the men on the yard. They had come up with the little islet of Sandy Island off St John's and were now within a few miles of safety — but that now seemed impossible, for it lay in the teeth of the fresh gale, hourly increasing in strength.

  Seamen gathered on deck. The distant sight of the town, no more than five miles ahead, taunted and beckoned. The little brig strained to her uttermost close-hauled, but could not lie close enough to the wind to fetch harbour.

  A fizz, then a sudden gout of choking smoke, and a rocket soared up into the grey evening sky to explode high above. Jowett was trying to get a larger vessel to come to their aid, but it was unlikely that any would risk putting to sea under the threat of a hurricane. It was stalemate: on this point of sailing they could only reach the rocky coast to the south where, without charts or local knowledge, they were sure to be wrecked. Or they could run with the gale, but that was no alternative for the hurricane would grow and overwhelm them. It was only a matter of time.

  'Wind's backin'!' screamed a seaman, as the wind shifted into the north - and with it came a chance. It would need acute judgement, but at the right moment it would be possible to go about then beat down to St John's. It was a desperate matte
r, for they would be close up against the coast on one side and the battering storm on the other.

  Renzi watched Jowett: the thirty lives aboard were in his hands. Jowett stood facing directly into the streaming wind, his nose unconsciously lifting in little sniffs as he judged its mood. 'Ready about,' he snapped. The brig seemed to stumble as her bow came up into the wind. Renzi willed the plain little vessel to go through stays without complaint, which she did, and they lay over on the larboard tack, every minute gathering speed in the blasting gale.

  Explosions of white heaved skyward from the seas pounding the rocks under their lee. The clouds massing took on an ugly cast, but St John's grew ever nearer. Soon they encountered the breaking seas over the bar at the harbour entrance and, once inside the headland of Hamilton's fort, the waves lost their viciousness.

  Weary and weatherbeaten they headed directly for St John's town.

  Renzi survived the storm in the company of Louise and the French in a stone warehouse. Worn out and emotionally drained, he snatched what sleep he could with the insane howling of the storm outside. In the morning he looked outside, in the gusting winds and rain of the dying hurricane, and saw their brig miraculously still alongside the wharf, snubbing and rearing like a spirited horse, but safe.

  The time of trial had left Renzi strangely depressed: the lunacy of war was au fond the outworking of the crass irrationality that lay in the heart of Unenlightened Man, but he knew that what lay on him was more personal. At least Kydd would not meet the hurricane at sea: he was safe ashore, but in what circumstances? His helplessness in the face of the situation was probably the true reason for his dejection, Renzi realised. Moody and hungry, he awaited events.

  Rather later a busy little man arrived from the civil administration to relieve him of his charges. He left Louise with no false hopes for Kydd, and when the goodbyes were said, French fashion, he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes.