Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘You have it.’

  Renzi gathered his wits. The only course was to tell the truth: any less would be detected instantly. ‘Sir, my philosophies compel me to satisfy their moral demands in a way that others might consider – eccentric. I find them sufficiently logical and consistent. Therefore, when faced with a matter bearing on my personal moral worth I must answer for myself.

  ‘My father procured an Act of Enclosure – there was grief and suicide occasioned by it. For the sake of my conscience, sir, I am undertaking an act of expiation. I sentenced myself to five years’ exile, not to a foreign shore, but to the lower deck of a man-o’-war.’

  At first it seemed there would be no response. Then the Admiral’s quarterdeck expression eased, and a glimmer of a smile appeared. ‘A glass of Madeira,’ he growled, and reached for the decanter. Renzi accepted thankfully.

  The Admiral looked at him speculatively. He felt for a key and unlocked a drawer, extracting a closely-written piece of paper. ‘Cast y’ eyes over this,’ he said.

  Renzi took it and scanned quickly. ‘This is a letter, from a Monsieur Neuf. It is to his son, I think.’

  The Admiral nodded. ‘Just so. We took it fr’m a brig that thought it was going to France.’ He smiled thinly. ‘And now it is not. What I am exercised with is just how to spread half a dozen ships o’ force over a thousand miles of sea.’

  Renzi met his ferocious stare equably – but his heart sank. He could see now where it was all leading, and wanted no part of it. ‘Sir, I am a perfect stranger to dissimulation, deceit and the other necessary qualities to make a spy, and must decline in advance any such service.’

  The Admiral’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What do you mean, sir? I wish you merely to exercise your intellects in the reading of any chance material bearing on intelligence the fates throw our way – see if you can sight any clue, any unguarded slip o’ the pen, you know what I mean. That is, if y’ morals will allow of it.’

  Renzi found himself quickly removed from the vast hall filled with labouring quill-drivers and sharing an upper-floor room with two others. To his satisfaction, they were uncommunicative and self-absorbed, and he found he could work on without interruption.

  Each morning, a locked box would be opened in their presence and each would receive a pack of papers of varying size. On most days Renzi received nothing and then he would assist one of the others. Occasionally the Admiral would call for him, and he would find himself reading a letter, pamphlet or set of orders – there was a pleasing sense of discretion in the proceedings that considerably eased his mind at the odious act of violating the privacy of another.

  It was a strange, floating and impermanent existence; and above it all hung the knowledge that at any time he could be brought into confrontation with his past, to mutual embarrassment. When it happened, there was not a thing he could do.

  ‘Renzi, blue office, if y’ please.’ This was where petitions from the populace were initially heard. He was generally included where matters touching the navy were involved, taking notes in the background and making himself available if explication were needed. He sat at his little table to one side, readying his paper and ink, leaving the bigger desk to Jacobs.

  ‘Mr Laughton,’ called the usher from the door.

  Renzi froze.

  The man came striding in, looking past the lowly Renzi to Jacobs, who assumed an oily smile.

  ‘Another loss!’ Laughton snapped. ‘This is insupportable, sir!’

  ‘Sir, you will recollect that the navy is much committed in the Leeward Islands––’

  ‘Damn your cant! Without trade this island is worthless, and with these losses you will soon have none.’

  Renzi kept his head well down, and scratched away busily, taking his ‘notes’. The talk ebbed and flowed inconclusively, Jacobs stonewalling skilfully. Laughton snorted in frustration and rose suddenly. ‘So, that is all you have to say, sir?’ He turned and stormed out without a glance at Renzi, who sat back in relief.

  A few seconds later the door flew open again, and Laughton’s voice sounded behind him. ‘Be so good as to direct me to the Revenue office,’ he said, in a hard tone.

  ‘Mr Renzi,’ Jacobs asked mildly.

  There was now no further chance of evasion. For the space of a heartbeat or two Renzi stared down at his paper, savouring the last moments of an uncomplicated life. ‘This way, sir,’ he said softly, holding his head down to the last moment.

  Laughton gave way at the door, and then, as Renzi quickly closed it behind him, his eyes widened. ‘Nicholas!’ he gasped.

  Renzi looked up. His younger brother had not changed overmuch in the years since he had last seen him, a broadening of the shoulders, an unfashionable sun-darkened complexion, the confidence.

  ‘We – we thought you had . . .’ Laughton spluttered.

  ‘Richard, be so good as to walk with me a space,’ Renzi said, hastening along the wide veranda to the steps that led to the gardens at the back of the building.

  ‘Nicholas, are you in distress of money?’ Laughton asked, when they were out of possible earshot on the grass.

  ‘Dear brother, no, I am not.’ It were better the whole story be told rather than allow wild surmise. ‘If we could talk at length, without interruption – but you perceive, at the moment . . .’

  Laughton glanced quickly at Renzi and gripped his arm. ‘In Spanish Town I have a certain . . . weight. You shall have your talk. Come!’

  They returned to Jacobs. Laughton strode forward. ‘Sir, I find this, er, Renzi has a certain felicity in explaining the naval situation to me. I beg leave to claim his services for a few days to assist me to formulate a position. Is this possible, sir?’

  Jacobs seemed taken aback: a new clerk of such accomplishment that both the Admiral and the influential Richard Laughton were laying claim to his services clearly indicated that it might be in his best interests . . . ‘By all means, sir,’ he stuttered.

  Laughton gave a polite inclination of his head and gestured to Renzi. ‘This way, sir, if you please.’

  The gig ground on over the bright sandy road with Laughton himself at the reins, past endless bright-green cane-fields and black people on foot. Windmills and tropical dun-coloured buildings were the only disruptions to the monochrome green.

  ‘For the nonce, dear brother, I would ask that you do not claim me as kin – I will explain in due course,’ Renzi said, a little too lightly.

  Richard glanced at him and nodded. ‘If that is your wish, Nicholas,’ he said neutrally, bringing the gig dextrously to the side of the road. They sat patiently as an ox train heavily laden with barrels of crude sugar for the coast approached in a dusty cloud, the yells and shrill whistles of the wagoners piercing the thunder of many wheels as they ground past. The overseer raised his whip respectfully in salute to Laughton; the handle was like a fishing rod and the rawhide tail all of seventy feet long.

  They resumed their journey, turning up a neat road lined with what looked like gigantic pineapples, blue, red and white convolvulus blooms entwined among them. ‘Penguin hedge,’ Laughton said, and when the road straightened to a line leading to a sprawling stately homestead, he added, ‘and this is the Great House.’

  They approached between immaculate lawns, and Renzi saw the scale of the place, grand and dignified. A bare-legged ostler took the reins as they descended from the gig. Stone steps and an iron balustrade led to a broad veranda and the front doors.

  ‘Do ye wait for me a short time, Nicholas, and I shall show you the estate,’ Laughton said, taking the steps two at a time. He pointed to a cane easy-chair as he strode inside, which Renzi politely accepted. Shortly afterwards Laughton emerged, now in a blue, square-cut coatee and hessian boots, and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat. They mounted the gig again and ground off.

  ‘Over nine hundred acres, an’ four hundred to work it, quite sizeable – all sugar,’ Laughton opened, with just a hint of pride. They passed a gang of field-workers trudging out to the cane-pi
eces: men, women, children. At Renzi’s look he added, ‘Each has his task, even the piccaninny – follows on behind and weeds the fields. Teaches ’em responsibility.’

  Reaching a cluster of out-houses, Renzi heard a loud rumble and creaking. Around the corner he saw the open, straw-covered busyness of a sugar mill. The rotating rollers were fed with cane stalks in a crashing, splintering chorus; the mill workers did not raise their eyes from feeding the cane into the maw of the rollers. A large axe with a glinting blade was hung on the mill frame. Laughton observed drily, ‘Better a limb severed than being dragged into . . .’

  It was a complex operation, a sugar estate, and Renzi’s concentration wilted under a barrage of details: slaves gained skills ranging from fieldworker to muleteer, sawyer, driver, and varied in origin from ‘salt-water slave’ from Africa to infant born on the estate.

  The heat of the afternoon suggested they should return to the Great House, and they sank thankfully into the cane chairs on the veranda. Laughton heaved up his boots to rest them on the rail, and clapped his hands. ‘Sangaree,’ he ordered of the white-coated houseman.

  The breeze of the trade-winds was deliciously cool and Renzi relaxed. ‘You have done well for yourself, dear Richard,’ he said, looking at the rolling lands reaching to the horizon.

  ‘Thank you, Nicholas. It was Father gave me my step, as you know,’ Laughton replied. He accepted his glass of sangaree, and glanced carefully at Renzi before he sipped the rosy liquid in wary silence. ‘The letter from home was scarce in details, brother,’ he began softly. ‘Said you had – disappeared after an argument with Papa.’

  That was paraphrasing truth indeed: the bull-headed obstinacy of Renzi’s father to acknowledge any culpability in the ruination of ten families and the anguished suicide of the young hope of one was a direct contribution to his decision to take upon himself the moral obloquy of his family’s act. ‘Indeed so – but in truth, this is only the outworking of a decision I made . . .’ He found it easier than he had feared: Richard was from the same mould as himself, strong-minded, obedient to logic, and sympathetic to firm resolve based on moral principles.

  Renzi finally ended: it had been said.

  His brother did not respond at first. Then he stood up, looking away, out over the estate. He turned, fixed Renzi with an intense look, and smiled. ‘You were always one to show the rest of the world its duty,’ he held out both hands, ‘and I honour you for it.’

  Another glass of sangaree was necessary before conversation could resume.

  Laughton’s warm smile returned. ‘Your name, if you will forgive the impertinence?’

  ‘Renzi? Why, nothing but an impenetrably obscure Italian of another age. He was unfashionable enough to value riches of the mind above that of the world, and I . . . have grown used to it.’ He reached for the jug of sangaree and splashed more into his glass.

  ‘My dear fellow! But you have been a sailor on the bounding main all this time! You must have a tale to tell – or should that be a yarn?’

  ‘It has been a life of some, er, variety,’ agreed Renzi.

  ‘But the conditions! You were a common sailor and––’

  ‘And still am, brother.’

  A slight frown settled on Laughton’s brow. ‘Just so. Then how could you bear the incarceration and daily hazard? Pray tell – I’m interested.’

  Renzi smiled at Laughton’s attempt to relate to his endurance. ‘I bring to your recollection, brother, that this is the serving of a period of exile, and tolerability is not at question.’ He paused, then stretched in his chair. ‘However, I may tell you I have had adventures ashore and afloat around the world that will keep me warm in memories for ever. But, you will ask, what of the company, the common seaman, the brute beast of the field?’

  Renzi faced his brother. ‘And I will answer truthfully that those who have not experienced the especial fellowship of the sea, the profound and never articulated feeling of man for his fellow, out there on the yardarm, at the cannon’s mouth, deep in the ocean’s realm, they cannot know mankind in all its imperfection yet heroism.’ He gazed into the distance. ‘There is time at sea to ease the mind, to contemplate infinite truths and consider in their intimate detail philosophies and axioms to complete satisfaction.’

  ‘You do not weary of the quality of your company?’

  ‘At times I – but I keep myself impervious, there are ways to remain apart,’ Renzi said slowly, ‘and I have a particular friend . . .’ He tailed off, for with a rush came a vision of Kydd’s face – strong and uncomplicated – which held both intelligence and humour. He continued huskily, ‘. . . but I regret he has met with – he is probably dead,’ he finished suddenly.

  ‘I do sincerely mourn with you,’ said Laughton softly. He busied himself with his glass and said, ‘It would be an honour, brother, if you could sit at table with us tonight. We generally meet on this night, not in the formal way you understand, but to talk together, perhaps a cigar or pipe while we settle the business of the world.’ His eyes flicked over Renzi’s odd clerkly garb. ‘And there is probably a stitch somewhere I could give you, should you feel the need to appear, er, inconspicuous,’ he said lightly.

  The cool night airs, which breezed freely through the double doors and on through the large airy rooms of the house, were agreeable to the guests as they sat down in the richly polished dining room.

  ‘Gilbert, might I present Mr Renzi, an acquaintance of mine from England? Nicholas, this is Gilbert Marston. He is owner of the estate that borders mine to the west.’

  Renzi inclined his head civilly at the stout gentleman to his left, noting the shrewd intelligence in his eyes.

  ‘Y’r duty,’ the man said gruffly. ‘In coffee, are ye?’

  ‘No, sir, alas, I am here to visit only,’ Renzi said, leaning back to allow a vast dish to be placed on the table. ‘I have my interests, er, in the country – England, that is.’

  ‘Ah.’ Marston sniffed at the dish, strips of dried dark meat. ‘Jerked hog. Y’ got to hand it to the blackies, they c’n conjure a riot o’ tastes.’ Another vast tureen arrived. When the silver cover was removed it proved to be a mound of small, delicate fish. Yet another came: this was uncovered to loud acclamation. ‘See here, Renzi,’ said Marston, eyes agleam, ‘this is y’r Jamaica dish royal – black crab pepperpot.’

  The conversation swelled happily. Renzi noticed his brother gazing at him down the table, thoughtful and concerned. His expression brightened when their eyes met and he called, ‘You will require a quantity of wine with that pepperpot, m’ friend. Allow me to prove we are not without the graces here in the Caribbean.’

  He nodded to a houseman, who in turn beckoned in a servant who pushed before him a neat cart. To his surprise Renzi saw that it seemed to be some sort of windmill, which the servant rotated carefully to catch the night zephyrs. ‘A breeze-mill,’ Marston confided. ‘Damn useful.’ Renzi saw that the mill drove a pump that kept up a continual circulation of water over bottles of wine in cotton bags, ranged together in a perforated tin trough. ‘Saltpetre an’ water – uncommon effective.’ It was indeed: to taste chilled white wine in the tropical heat was nothing short of miraculous.

  Renzi caught a speculative look on the face of an officer in red regimentals. ‘Have I seen you, sir?’ the man said slowly. ‘In Spanish Town, was it not?’

  Laughton put down his glass. ‘That would be unlikely, sir. Renzi is heir to a particularly large estate in England. I rather fancy he would hardly have occasion to call upon the army.’

  The officer bowed, but continued to look at Renzi, sipping his wine thoughtfully.

  ‘I see Cuthbert has been broke,’ Marston said to the table at large. ‘All he had was ridin’ in the Catherine brig, an’ she was taken off Ocho Rios – less’n a day out.’

  A murmur of indignation went up. ‘For shame! What is the navy about that it cannot keep our trade safe, not even a piddling little brig?’

  Marston bunched his fists. ‘There’ll be
many more ruined afore they stirs ’emselves,’ he growled. ‘Too interested in the Frenchie islands in the Antilles, all their force drawn off b’ that.’

  Laughton frowned. ‘Went to see the Admiral’s office in Spanish Town the other day for some sort of satisfaction in the matter – but was fobbed off with some damn lickspittle clerk.’

  The conversations subsided as the table digested his words. An olive-complexioned man with curiously neat manners spoke into the quiet: ‘In chambers they are saying that within the month insurance premiums will be out of reach of all but the grand estates . . .’

  A heavy silence descended. To send a cargo of sugar to sea uninsured would mean instant ruination if it were taken. The turtle arrived, and Renzi nibbled at the tongue and crab patties, checking his impulse to comment on naval matters. Further down the table a grumbling voice picked up another thread. ‘Trelawney maroons are getting fractious again.’

  Renzi gave a polite interrogatory look towards Marston, who took up the cue. ‘Maroons, that’s y’r runaway slaves up in the cockpit country, where we can’t get at ’em. Damn-fool governor – about fifty odd years ago, gave in t’ them, signed a treaty. They lives free in their own towns up there, doin’ what they do, but that’s not enough – they wants more.’

  ‘An infernal impertinence!’ another burst out.

  ‘Wine with you, sir,’ Marston exclaimed to Renzi. ‘Your visit should not be damned by our moaning.’ Renzi smiled and lifted his glass. Around the table, talk resumed: gossip, local politics, eccentricities. The barrister politely enquired of him London consol prices; fortunately, Renzi’s recent devouring of the latest newspapers had left him able to comment sensibly.

  The claret gave way to Madeira, ginger sweetmeats and fruit jellies appeared, and chairs creaked as they accommodated the expansive relaxation of their occupants. The cloth was drawn and decanters placed on the table. ‘Gentlemen, the King,’ intoned Laughton.