Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

  Chairs scraped as the diners scrambled unsteadily to their feet. ‘The King, God bless him!’ The simple act of the loyal toast unexpectedly brought a constriction to Renzi’s throat: it symbolised for him the warmth and good fellowship of the company to be had of his peers. A blue haze arose from several cigars and the talk grew animated; the evening proceeded to its end, and carriages were announced.

  ‘I wish you the sleep of the just, Nicholas!’ Laughton joked as he stood with Renzi at the door of his bedroom. He hesitated a moment, then turned quietly and went.

  Renzi lay in the dark, the softness of the vast bed suffocating to one who had become accustomed to the neat severity of a sea-service hammock. He stared into the blackness, his thoughts rushing. It had caught him unawares, he had to admit, and even more, it had unbalanced him. The sight of his brother and the memories this brought of home, and above all the easy gaiety and reasoned conversation, all conspired against his high-minded resolution.

  He rolled on to his side. It was hard to sleep with the up-country night sounds – the long snore of a tree-toad outside the jalousie window, the chirr-chirr of some large insect, a non-stop humming compounded with random chirping, whistling and croaking. An insect fluttered in his hair. He swore, then remembered too late that it was usual to search the mosquito net for visitors first. A larger insect blundered around in the confines of the net and he flapped his arms to shoo it out, but felt its chitinous body squirming against his hand and threw aside the net in disgust.

  But then he recalled the usual method of dealing with giant scorpions dropping from above – hot wax from a candle: there was none lit, so he reluctantly draped the net again, and sank back into the goose down.

  There was no denying that he had enjoyed the evening – too much. And he could feel himself weakening. It would not take much for an active mind to rationalise a course of action that would release him from his self-imposed exile. Such as the fact that, with his dear friend no longer at hand to share his burden, it might be thought excessive durance; he would then be released, free even to join his brother in the plantation . . .

  Morning arrived. Renzi had slept little, but when he awoke he found that his brother was out on the estate. When he was ready he presented himself at the dining room. A tall black servant offered a chair and a small table outside on the veranda, obviously following Laughton’s practice.

  A breakfast arrived – but nothing Renzi could recognise. ‘Ah, dis callaloo an’ green banana, sah,’ he was advised by a worried butler. Renzi smiled weakly and set to. The coffee, however, was a revelation: flavoursome and strong without being bitter.

  As he was finishing, Laughton came into sight astride a stumpy but well-muscled pony. He slid to the ground and strode over to Renzi with an easy smile. ‘Do I see you in good health?’

  Renzi had never shied from a decision in his life, and the moral strength to stand by its full consequence was deeply ingrained. ‘Brother, may we talk?’ he responded quietly.

  It was done. Although he knew he had made the only decision possible, the resumption of his exile was hard, and time slipped by in a grey, dreary parade. The probability was that he would not visit his brother again: the contrast was so daunting.

  Day succeeded day in monotonous succession, the work not onerous, or demeaning but stultifying. While on one hand he would never need to turn out into a wild night, on the other he would not know the exhilaration of sailing on a bowline, the sudden rush of excitement at a strange sail, or touch at unknown and compelling foreign shores.

  After the morning’s work there was already a respectable pile dealt with and ready for signature. He picked up the next paper: another routine report, a list of names and descriptions of new arrivals from somewhere or other available for local deployment. His eyes glazed: he would need to advise the appropriate departments separately for each individual, a lengthy task. Sighing, he put down the paper, then snatched it up again. It was impossible – but the evidence could not be denied. On the fifth row, in neat copperplate, was the name Thomas Paine Kydd.

  Feverishly, he scanned the line. Apparently a Thomas Paine Kydd, dockyard worker, was being transferred from the Royal Dockyard at English Harbour as surplus to requirements. The odds against two men with the same name being in the same part of the world must be colossal – but, then, this one was indisputably a dockyard worker. And probably a bad one at that. Renzi knew by now the code for offloading a useless article.

  On a mad impulse he stood up. He gathered together the pile of papers, hurried outside and found Jacobs. ‘These are for signature, Mr Jacobs. I have been called away by Admiral Edgcumbe again,’ he said, and hastened away. If he was quick, he could ride on the noon mail and be at the naval dockyard in an hour or two.

  Chapter 9

  The boat skimmed over the spacious harbour, on its way from Kingston town to the naval dockyard at the end of a seven-mile sandy spit of land, the Palisades. This was Port Royal, the notorious pirate lair that had been destroyed spectacularly by an earthquake a century before. But Renzi had no eyes for this curiosity. Furious with himself for his impulsive and unreasoned act, he was yet in a fever of expectation and hope that had no foundation in logic – just a single name on a piece of paper.

  He waited impatiently while the boat came alongside the wharf, then swung himself up and strode ashore. Ignoring the close-packed victualling storehouses, he followed the road through the sprawling ruins of the Polygon battery, the odd grey-flecked sand of the spit crunching loudly underfoot.

  As he passed the stinking pitch-house and the bedlam of the smith’s shop he had no real idea how to find his quarry – the employment return had merely said that this man was a dockyard worker, no indication of what type. It would be useless to ask any of the dockyard men about a new arrival: no one would know him. Over there was a rickety row of negro houses – Renzi had found that, generally, sailors got on well with slaves so perhaps . . .

  He stopped dead. An unmistakable figure was coming round the corner at the dockyard wall with his head down. Kydd. Renzi stood still, noting the droop of the shoulders, the preoccupied air. He called softly, ‘Avast there, brother! Spare an old friend a glance.’

  Kydd stopped as though struck in the face. Incredulity, then joy lit his features. He hurried over and shook Renzi’s hand until it ached.

  ‘Do ye leave me my hand, Tom. It is the only one I have left on the right side,’ Renzi said.

  Port Royal town was old, a sea town with a gaudy past, and its superfluity of sailor taverns gave pleasing choice for their reunion. The early hour of the afternoon ensured they would not be disturbed, and they selected the Shipp Inn on Queen Street: it had a table in a bay window overlooking the calm of the inner harbour.

  ‘You are safe – preserved!’ Renzi said, with great feeling.

  Kydd looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, yes. ’Twas nothin’, really. L’tenant Calley told us t’ march out to Putty Borg on Bass Tair, but there they had th’ fever, so we went to t’ other side, Fort Mathilda, an’ were picked up b’ Trajan.’

  Renzi had shared too much with Kydd to believe that this bare account was all there was to tell, but it could wait. ‘You’re in the dockyard line now?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Kydd, his brow creased, ‘but I’d give a bag o’ guineas t’ get back t’ sea.’

  ‘How––’

  ‘Trajan was surveyed ’n’ condemned, I had th’ chance f’r a spell in a reg’lar-goin’ dockyard.’

  ‘And––’

  ‘An’ I ran afoul of a blue-light shipwright. Seems m’ spirits were too – who should say? – ardent with the ladies,’ Kydd explained, without rancour.

  Renzi contemplated this. He knew that Kydd was not a concupiscent and signalled to the pot-boy. ‘The punch here is considered of the first class,’ he offered.

  ‘Thank ye, no. I had th’ yellow fever not a month past. Lost m’ taste f’r grog lately.’

  ‘Then we have your lemonadoes, rap, cacao-drink
––’

  ‘A small beer will answer,’ Kydd said.

  It was indeed satisfying to see Kydd again, and once more Renzi realised that here was his only true friend. He dreaded the parting that must come. Rebellion forced itself on his consciousness, but he conquered it. ‘What are you about at the moment?’ he asked, unwilling to confess to his impulse in coming.

  ‘Scullin’ about – seems I have t’ wait for assigning,’ Kydd said moodily. ‘What’re you doin’ for y’rself?’

  ‘Oh, somewhat in the character of a clerk. My small French is of value here, it seems. I labour in Spanish Town.’ It was depressing, the very thought. ‘Shall we not view the ruins of the old pirate town?’ he went on quickly. ‘I have a yen to see the very streets of Captain Morgan.’

  They walked along the narrow streets of Port Royal. It was small and compact, occupying the tip of the Palisades, and it didn’t take long to discover that there was no trace at all of the notorious city.

  ‘Ah, dearie, ye have ter unnerstan’ – all th’t was wicked and godless, one arternoon, jus’ ups and slides down inter the sea! All th’ people fallin’ into great cracks in th’ ground an’ screamin’ an’ being carried ter their doom – a judgement on ’em all,’ the old washerwoman told them, with relish. ‘They’re still dahn there!’ She cackled.

  They passed back along the other side of the spit, seeing its inner prospect of the fleet at anchor in all its puissant presence, the Admiral’s pennant floating proudly atop the 74-gun flagship. Renzi saw Kydd’s forlorn attention on the ships as they paced along.

  Kydd stopped. He lifted an arm and pointed to a small vessel anchored much closer, in Chocolate Hole. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Like a yacht, ’n’ with saucy lines. If ever I get th’ chance t’ ship out again, she’d be m’ choice.’

  ‘Is she not overmuch small?’ Renzi teased.

  ‘Be damn’d t’ that! She’d be everywhere, all over th’ Caribbee, never rottin’ at anchor ’n’ seein’ parts o’ the Main where y’r ship-of-the-line would never touch in a hunnerd years!’ Kydd went on. ‘An’ th’ best chance o’ prize money ye’ll ever get.’

  Shielding his eyes, Renzi tried to make out the vessel.

  ‘She’s Seaflower cutter,’ Kydd said, in a low voice. ‘With a commander new promoted, an’ he can’t fin’ a crew,’ he said, finally tearing away his eyes.

  An idea came to Renzi in the wagon to Spanish Town. A stupendous, fantastic idea. He elaborated and tested it on the rest of the way and, during the night, planned his move.

  Requesting the muster lists of all the ships in the Fleet was easy – they were filed together and no one questioned his sudden use of them for undisclosed purposes. He sat down and started work, scanning the names and making the occasional note.

  The ‘pack’ on Seaflower was not large: a swift riffle through the papers told the story well enough. A tiny unrated vessel, she was beneath notice and would be left far behind the sloops and frigates in the competition for skilled men. He picked up the latest letter from her captain, a young lieutenant in his first command. A third piteous plea for hands – she had been stripped of men while her previous commander was dying of fever and was at the moment unable to sail. The signature was in the same hand as the body of the letter: it seemed her captain had to write his own correspondence.

  Renzi smiled. He picked up a fresh sheet, checked his quill nib and started.

  Captain, His Majesty’s cutter Seaflower.

  The Secretary of the Cheque views with concern your letter to this office of the 19th inst. concerning your sea readiness.

  It has long been the practice on this station to render full returns in the form governed by Commander-in-Chief’s Fleet Orders dated 21st Nov 1782 which provides fully for the correct procedure. Your attention to detail on this matter in the future is most earnestly requested, touching as it does on the effectiveness of this department in the carrying out of its duties.

  As a closing paragraph he added, almost as an aside:

  Attached a list of seamen to be sent into Seaflower to answer your deficit of skilled hands.

  Your obedt servant, etc., etc.

  That should suffice. Now the usual to the dockyard commissioner, answering the availability for employment return and directing the assignment of Thomas Kydd to Seaflower, quartermaster.

  And the others: they would be all of the same form and it should not take long. He glanced at his notes and began, his pen flying across the paper.

  Captain, His Majesty’s Ship Cumberland

  You are directed to detach Tobias Stirk, gun captain, for service in Seaflower, with immediate effect.

  And the next, concerning Ned Doud, and another for Doggo – or William Shea, as he would appear on the ship’s books. He finished the others, then took the sheets across and slipped them randomly into the pile awaiting signature. They would never be noticed by the hard-pressed secretary to the Admiral.

  ‘Nicholas!’ Kydd yelled. ‘You’d never believe – I can’t credit it – I’m to be made quartermaster into Seaflower !’ He laughed.

  ‘Why, my felicitations, to be sure,’ Renzi said smoothly, joining his friend.

  ‘An’ Toby Stirk is t’ be her gunner’s mate!’ Kydd exclaimed in glee. ‘Come an’ sup wi’ us at the King’s Arms.’

  Stirk, conspicuous in his usual red kerchief and gleaming earrings, was holding loquacious court at the tavern table, vividly describing the last moments of Artemis to an admiring throng. Kydd’s heart swelled at the pleasure in his old shipmates’ faces.

  The riot of noise was broken by a gleeful shout from the door. ‘Tom – Tom Kydd!’

  Kydd stood to get a better view over the crowd. To his delight he recognised Doud, the born seaman and pure-voiced singer from Artemis. ‘Well met, Ned, m’ old shipmate! Warp y’rself alongside, cuffin!’ he called.

  Doud pushed his way through, closely followed by Elias Petit’s seamed old face. They nodded in pleased surprise at Stirk and Doggo, then eased themselves on to a seat.

  ‘What ship?’ Kydd asked.

  ‘We’re Irresistibles mate,’ Doud said, referring to the big 74 out in the bay, ‘but the damnedest thing – we’ve jus’ bin turned over inter that squiddy little Seaflower cutter, an––’

  Stirk stared at Kydd in amazement. Suspicious, Kydd turned to Renzi, who suddenly found the view from the tavern window over the harbour remarkably absorbing. ‘Nicholas, do ye know––’

  ‘The most amazing coincidence this age,’ Renzi replied quickly, ‘Especially in view of my own somewhat precipitate wrenching from the felicity of Spanish Town to the uncertain delights of this same vessel.’

  Kydd reached out and gripped Renzi’s hand. ‘M’ dear friend . . .’ Whatever had brought about their reunion he would not question it in the slightest particular.

  ‘Could be a mort interestin’, mates,’ said Petit seriously.

  ‘How’s that, then?’ Doud asked. Petit, the hoary old seaman, could be relied on in the matter of sea-sense.

  ‘Seaflower ain’t a-goin’ ter be swingin’ around her anchor fer long. Ships like ’er are off doin’ all th’ jobs that’s goin’ – despatches, carryin’ passengers, escortin’ merchant ships, not ter mention takin’ a prize or two.’

  Doud frowned. ‘But ye’ll have ter say she’s small, the smallest, an’ if we comes up agin even a half-awake brig-o’-war, we’ll be in fer a hazin’.’

  Leaning forward, Stirk gave a hard smile. ‘As a nipper I were in th’ trade outa Folkestone.’ Knowing looks appeared around the table – there was only one trade of significance so close to the remote fastness of Romney Marsh. And the navy was always keen to press smugglers for their undoubted skills as seamen.

  ‘An’ I learned t’ have a care when the Revenooers were out in th’ cutters, so much sail on ’em, like ter hide the ship. Fore ’n’ aft rig, sails like a witch snug up to the wind – you don’t ’ave much ter worry of, ’less yer gets under the lee of some big bastard.’ His
smile twisted. ‘An’ Seaflower is right sim’lar t’ yer Revenoo cutter.’

  Petit nodded slowly. ‘Just so, Toby. But I reckon as we should get aboard, mates, else we chance t’ lose our berths if she sails.’

  In the boat approaching Seaflower eager eyes assessed the qualities of the ship that was their future. She was a cutter, single mast with a dashing rake, but an enormously lofty one, and with a splendid bowsprit that was two-thirds as long as the vessel herself. ‘Should carry a damn fine press o’ sail,’ said Kydd, noting the sweep of deck up to her neat stern, her lines all curves and graces. Closer to, there were loving touches: her clear varnished sides were topped by one wale in black; her attractive decorated stern – a whorled frieze of gold on bluish green – looked stylish and brave; on deck the fittings were smartly picked out in red.

  ‘Not s’ many aboard,’ Doud murmured. Under the awning aft there was a man in shirt-sleeves watching them suspiciously with folded arms. Another was fishing over the side forward of the mast.

  ‘Boat ahoy!’ hailed the man under the awning. It was obvious they carried no officers to pipe aboard, but naval ritual demanded the hail.

  ‘No, no,’ Kydd yelled back, the correct response. They swung alongside, and Kydd pulled himself up to the little quarterdeck and an impression of yacht-like neatness. There was nothing to indicate the rank of the man awaiting them, so Kydd played safe. Touching his hat he reported, ‘Come t’ join ship, sir.’

  After a disbelieving pause, the man turned to the young officer emerging from the companionway on deck. ‘New men, sir.’

  The officer returned his salute punctiliously and looked eagerly at the men piling up the side. He withdrew a paper from inside his light cotton coat. ‘Are you the men sent by the Admiral’s Office?’

  ‘Sir.’ The deck of Seaflower was an entirely new experience for Kydd. Only about seventy feet long she was galley-built and a comfortable twenty-five feet broad. There were eight guns a side, but these seemed miniature to Kydd after a ship-of-the-line.