Kydd looked discouraging. 'No petty officers, just a few idlers — an' some foremast jacks is all.'
Grins broke out all around. 'I'll have a piece o' that, then!' the sharp-faced man said, eyes gleaming. 'How
'I'll have a word wi' the Cap'n, can't promise ye a berth — but, mark you, not a word to him that y' knows anything, on y'r life.'
The riot that followed was only brought under some sort of order by Stirk setting up in the corner and taking names, for all the world like a farmers' fair. Merchant seamen in hiding from the Press, even privateersmen crowded in, all anxious to take their share of the expected bounty. Well within time Seaflower's longboat brought out a full and excited ship's company, and a sorely puzzled young captain was making plans for sea.
Storing ship for Seaflower was not on the vast scale of a ship-of-the-line with its tens of thousands of pounds' weight of victuals, water and naval stores to last for six months or more at sea. A cutter was not expected to be at sea for more than days at a time.
There was a matter that Kydd felt would make perfect his change of situation. 'Cap'n, sir,' he asked of Farrell, at an appropriate time, 'we now has a prime body o' petty officers, you'll agree?'
Farrell gave a guarded assent.
'An' y'r steward has to make shift f'r the warrant officers too?'
'He does, but what—'
'Then c'd I suggest, sir, we gets a ship's boy t' bear a hand? I have just such a one in mind an', besides, he knows well how t' serve a gun ...'
Farrell considered. 'We sail before dark,' he said.
Kydd knew that, released from temporary service as his servant, Luke was ashore glumly awaiting an unknown assignment. 'He'll be aboard, sir,' Kydd said crisply.
Readied for sea, Seaflower had still one to join her company. When in the late afternoon the windlass was cast loose and hatches secured Doud made his move.
The boatswain touched his hat to Farrell and reported, 'Sir, all aboard save that mumpin' toad of a cook,' he said.
'Still ashore?' Farrell snapped. The cook had been told to return with last-minute cabin stores for him.
'If yer please, sir,' Doud asked humbly, 'I got a mate as is a spankin' good cook, lookin' f'r a berth . . .'
'Get him,' Farrell said. Doud's friend had entertained the old cook for hours until he was dead drunk, and was now waiting with his sea-bag for the signal.
Just as the topmen laid out on the yard to loose sail, the windlass taking up the slack of the cable and Kydd was standing at the tiller, a black face wearing an infectious smile climbed over the bulwarks and the familiar figure of Quashee stepped aboard. He of the Artemis, the legendary star-gazy pie and his 'conweniences' — herbs and spices. With him aboard they would not starve.
With a fine Caribbean day promising, a fair wind for the south and as happy a ship's company as any, Seaflower made for the open sea.
They sailed south, threading through the islets and shoals lying off the harbour, through unruly seas kicked up by a forceful land breeze, and into the wider Caribbean. It was there that they spread full sail, letting the craft show her true breeding. Farrell had made it clear that he would not be reporting Seaflower ready for sea until they had shaken down into an effective company, worthy of trust in any mission.
At the helm Kydd found himself working hard. A tiller had the advantage over a wheel in that it was in direct contact with the sea with all that this meant in instant response, but was without the damping and mechanical advantage of a wheel and tackle. Seaflower, under her big driving mainsail and eager foresail and jib, swooping and foaming at speed, was as skittish as a thoroughbred horse. Kydd felt the hammering rush of the sea in the tiller and leaned against the pressure of the marked weather helm - the trim of the cutter might need looking to. Going about was a dream. Unlike the minutes that even a frigate took, Seaflower shot around in a moment, sheaves squealing, seamen bringing in tacks and sheets hand over hand as if their lives depended on it — an exhilarating ballet of sea skills.
The square sails were then set; by this a topsail cutter had sailing options not open to her bigger brethren, and Kydd felt a stirring of excitement. Seaflower leaned happily to her topsail and topgallant, hissing along at a speed that sent a wake streaming like a mill-race past the low deck edge.
Right forward Renzi was having a busy time taking charge of the headsails, the distinctive huge sails spearing out ahead of the vessel. It was a very different situation from the stately pyramids of canvas of a square-rigger, and his cheerful wave.to Kydd was just a little harassed.
Farrell stood just forward of Kydd on the weather side of the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, feet braced against the lively movement. His voice as he set the craft about her paces was crisp and authoritative. Jarman stood to leeward; Kydd sensed some reserve between the two men. Farrell gave his orders directly. This left the master with nothing to do but observe, but perhaps this was the Captain trying the mettle of his company.
Merrick, the burly boatswain, stomped.about Sea/lower, his eyes flicking aggressively this way and that. His style was hard and uncompromising. Kydd had been lucky in his previous ships, he knew; no boatswain had really used his position to the sadistic limits possible that he had heard of in other ships.
'Stand down, if you please,' said Farrell, formally, to Merrick.
'Aye-aye, sir,' said Merrick, turned to Stiles, his mate, who was fingering his silver call in anticipation, and snapped, 'Hands turn to, part-o'-ship f'r cleaning—'
'Belay that,' Farrell interrupted. 'Secure the watch below and set a sea watch, was my meaning.' Significant looks went about: Farrell was going to stand by his men before the boatswain.
The last vestiges of sunset were fading over the Hellshire hills as they picked their way back to Port Royal, weary but satisfied. This time they anchored close by the Fleet — Farrell was clearly going to report his ship ready for sea.
'An' take a turn 'n' clinch at that,' Kydd ordered Farthing. He and Stirk were going to make themselves as comfortable as possible below; the senior petty officers berthed right aft within the large space below decks. Farthing finished the knittle line with a seizing, and there they had a taut canvas 'wall' screening off their space. In leisure time they would paint the partition with some suitable scene - mermaids, perhaps, or a lurid battle. Kydd surveyed the little space. 'Not as who would say over-sized,' he murmured, head bent under the low deckhead.
Stirk grinned at him. 'Seaflower, she's two hunnerd tons, makes 'er a big 'un up agin them Revenooers — near three times their size,' he said appreciatively. 'I say she's snug, is all.' At sea a full half of her company would be watch on deck, and at anchor in the balmy weather of the Caribbean many would probably sleep there.
Kydd swarmed up the narrow ladderway to the upper deck, where a sizeable gathering was celebrating Seaflower's prospects. Doggo was leaning on a swivel gun forward of the mast, waving his tankard, with an audience and in full flow. A slightly built man with a leathery face and bright eyes listened. Kydd guessed that this would be Snead, the carpenter's mate, and on the other side was the lean figure of Stiles without his silver call badge of office.
A friendly hail, and Renzi stepped on deck. 'Tip us some words, mate,' Petit called. Surprised muttering met this suggestion: few present knew Renzi and his odd predilections.
Renzi stood still and thoughtful, then declaimed into the velvet night:
'Majestically slow before the breeze
The tall ship marches on the a^ure seas;
In silent pomp she cleaves the watery plain
The pride and wonder of the billowy main.'
A respectful silence and scattering of polite appreciation followed, at which Renzi coughed apologetically. 'If it were in me to sing a hearty chorus, I would rather - but we have the prince of ballads himself aboard. Ned, dear fellow, entertain us!'
Doud flashed his broad white smile, and rose, handing his tankard to Farthing. He struck a noble pose and in a perfect tenor sang,<
br />
'Come, come, m' jolly lads!
The winds abaft
Brisk gales our sails shall crowd;
The ship's unmoor'd, all hands aboard
The barky's well mann'd and stor'd!'
The Drury Lane ballad, though confected by a landman, was a great favourite, and all joined in the chorus
'Then sling the flowing bowl — fond hopes arise
The can, boys, bring; we'll drink and sing
While foaming billows roll'
Kydd sang lustily, enjoying the fellowship and good feeling. Luke brought another pot. The lad was growing, and now affected a red bandanna tied round his head like a pirate, with a smile that wouldn't go away. At the edge of the crowd Kydd noticed the wide-eyed young midshipman, Cole, and further away, the shadowy figure of the Captain, both drawn to the singing.
In the warm darkness something told Kydd that he would be lucky to experience an evening quite so pleasurable again.
Chapter 10
Captain Farrell returned from the flagship before ten the next morning, and immediately called the sailing master to his cabin. Overheard, the word swiftly went out.
"The Barbadoes wi' despatches?' snarled Patch, a privateersman. His shipmate, Alvarez, appeared next to him, his olive-dark face hostile.
Doggo glared at him. 'Stow yer gab, cully! Yer doesn't think the Ol’ Man is a-goin' ter let th' world know, now, do ye?' But Kydd caught his quick look: their tavern story might be recoiling on them, and gulled privateersmen would be hard to handle. 'Cap'n knows what he's doing,' he said harshly. 'Jus' be sure you does.'
'Haaaands to unmoor ship!' The boatswain's bellow reached every part of the cutter. Kydd cast off the beckets securing the tiller in harbour and tested the helm through a full sweep. It was his duty to take the vessel to sea, then when sea watches were set, he would take the conn and oversee the duty helmsman for his trick at the helm.
Strong running backstays were needed to take the massive driving force of the enormous gaff mainsail — two linked tackles were rove for this and, unique to Kydd's experience, the forestay had its own deadeye and lanniard secured to the stempost, both together in taut balance.
One by one, Stirk had Doggo and his party moving about the guns — six-pounders, a respectable armament for a mere cutter, eight a side and with swivels forward as chase guns. A cry from forward showed the anchor cable 'thick and dry for weighing' and Farrell, in full blues, consulted his watch. The anchor was a-trip. The Captain's arm went up, the saluting swivel forward went off with a spiteful crack and in the smoke both the foresail and mainsail rose swiftly, the steady north-east trades forcing the men at the main-sheets to sweat as they trimmed the sail to the wind at the same time as the waisters brought in the fore-sheets.
Seaflower responded immediately with a graceful heel, falling off to leeward momentarily before surging ahead. Kydd felt the rudder firm and, under Jarman's muttered direction, shaped course westerly to round the end of the Palisades. They slipped past the fortifications and the dockyard, then Port Royal itself, not a soul ashore apparently interested in their departure, and made a competent gybe to place themselves comfortably on track for the open sea. The jib was hoisted and conformable to the fair wind from the larboard quarter, her topsail was set. Seaflower quickly left the harbour astern. When they had cleared the hazardous cluster of cays to the south, they went about and headed along the coast for Port Morant.
Sea watches were set, and Kydd yielded the tiller to the helmsman. He took up the slate hanging on the side of the tiny binnacle and checked the course and details that the sailing master had scrawled. In this small ship he would have to maintain the conn himself — nobody to peg the traverse board, no marine to turn the sand-glass at the end of a watch.
He stepped back, and saw Patch finish coiling the fall of the topsail sheet. With a careless thump the privateers-man cast the coil on the deck against the bulwark and made to leave. Incensed, Kydd shouted and pointed at the untidy twists. Patch saw him, but deliberately turned away. Kydd moved fast, knocking aside another sailor as he confronted Patch. 'Take that lubberly shittle and belay it right,' he said, in a hard voice. Tangling coils were a hazard on any deck but, besides that, Kydd's seaman's pride was offended at the slovenly sight.
Patch stared at him, contempt in his dark eyes. 'King's ship ways on a fuckin' cutter? Ye must be—' 'Now!'
Patch paused. Kydd was not getting angry: his voice was iron, his control icy. Drawn by the raised voices, the boatswain approached from behind Patch, who failed to notice him. Merrick watched and waited with a slight smile.
Kydd did not lower his gaze before the case-hardened bigger man. 'Do ye take a bight and belay that fall,' he repeated.
Patch looked again in Kydd's face. Something passed between them - and Patch moved. He bent and picked up the rope, his eyes never leaving Kydd's as he obeyed grudgingly. Kydd paused, then walked back to his watch position.
In just a few hours they hove to off Port Morant and collected a satchel of despatches, then resumed course. They would reach the eastward tip of Jamaica in only an hour or so, then would keep clear of the offshore banks before shaping course for the Leeward Islands.
With no sign of an eager combing of the sea for an expected prey, there was a definite edge to the mess-deck chatter at dinner. Kydd and Renzi kept the deck to avoid questions. Stirk and Doggo found something to do with the six-pounders, but it was clear there would be an accounting soon.
Gun practice was piped immediately after the noon meal, the hard-bitten seamen making child's play of their weapons. Farrell kept them at it, and just as Morant Point drew abeam he ordered that live firing would take place. Seaflower's decks were cleared, and the pieces manned. Kydd took his place at the helm and silence fell as all eyes turned to Farrell.
At that precise moment the quiet was split by an urgent hail from the lookout on the crosstree. 'Sail hooooo!’ Above the low-lying point could be seen first the topgallants and then the topsails of a square-rigged vessel, and shortly after, the barque slid into view. At least twice their size and a sinister black, she quickly spotted Seaflower and her length foreshortened as she turned to intercept.
'Ready about!' Farrell snapped, his telescope up searching her masts for a flag. They slewed round and closed the distance, Farrell seeming to have no hesitation about closing the larger vessel.
There was an apprehensive quiet about Seaflower's decks. 'She's a twenty-eight at least, lads,' Doud murmured. 'Saw her ports.' Several faces popped out of the fore-hatch and gazed over the blue seas to the black-hulled vessel. The barque altered her heading to a broader angle. It served to show her gunports opening all along her hull, cannon rumbling into place at each. Still there were no colours aloft. A cold trepidation came over Kydd — the worst situation, with the banks to seaward and the unknown craft closing in to weather.
'Give her a gun, Stirk,' Farrell said quietly. A six-pounder crashed out forward, sounding toy-like after a frigate's 24s. There was a minute or two's delay, as if the stranger was amused at the small ship's presumption, before a flutter of colour at her mizzen peak appeared, shaking out into the stripes and stars of the United States.
'Thank Gawd!' laughed Farthing. 'I thought we wuz in fer a hazin'.' The barque's sheets eased, and she braced around slowly to diverge, clearly not deigning to dally with an Englisher. Relieved chatter broke out along Seaflower's deck.
'Sir, if y' please ...' Jarman had not joined in the general relief, and took Farrell's Dollond glass. 'Ah! As I thought. There's no Yankee I know of wears a red cap 'n' petticoat breeches. Sir, she's a Frenchie!'
Farrell snatched back the telescope and swept the barque's decks — only Jarman's suspicions and a careless French sailor had given the game away. 'Brail topsails!' he snapped. Under fore-and-aft sail only, Seaflower sped towards the enemy. She fell off the wind a little and her intention became clear — to pass close astern of the other vessel to send her puny balls smashing through the unprotected stern and
down the length of her enemy.
Stirk raced from gun to gun. Fortunate to be at quarters, they were at the ready, but Farrell roared, 'Larboard — firing to larboard!'
This was away from the enemy. Kydd was baffled by the order. Then the barque responded. The United States flag whipped down arid the French flag rose to replace it in jerky movement. At the same time the vessel came around sharply into the wind, to stay about. Well before Seaflower could come up to deliver her blow, the bluff sides of her antagonist were swinging around on the other tack to parallel the little cutter and present her full broadside.
Kydd's throat constricted — a crushing weight of metal would be slamming into them in seconds. He glanced at Farrell who, to his astonishment, wore an expression of ferocious glee.
'We have you now, Mr Frenchman!' he roared triumphantly. The barque's swing had been a mistake. Farrell snapped, 'Ready about! Lee, oh!' and Seaflower pirouetted prettily to leave her with her larboard guns laid faithfully on the barque's stern. They passed close enough to see pale faces over the taffrail and sails slatting in confusion as, no doubt, orders were being angrily countermanded.
There was nothing to miss. The line of windows at the stern gallery dissolved as gun after gun on Seaflower's deck crashed out, the balls' brutal impact causing ruin along the length of the enemy. Kydd felt a furious exaltation — it was the first smoke of battle he had smelt since the great frigate struggle between Artemis and Citoyenne.
The last gun banged out and Seaflower was past. With her crew cheering madly, the guns were served, but there was a new peril — a square-rigged vessel would back topsails and stay where she was, battering the helpless victim into submission, but with her fore-and-aft rig there was no way Seaflower could do the same. She continued on her course, her only hope to get out of range before the enemy could recover, but the black hull was already turning. Seaflower lay over under her press of sail, but there was no escape. Kydd's hands sweated at the helm — but he was tied to his place of duty and must stand and take whatever fate had in store for him.
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