They lay offshore to seaward, out of sight of the main island and snugged down for the night. The sunset’s golden tendrils faded to a deep blue and then soft darkness, and without a moon the stars glittered fat and tremulous. After supper, Kydd and his shipmates repaired to the upper deck with their grog, making the most of their unaccustomed inactivity. Kydd settled next to Renzi, who was enjoying a pipe of tobacco, and Stirk sat on the main-hatch.
‘Amazin’ that,’ Stirk mused. The black, calm sea stretched into impenetrable darkness on each side, but the slap and chuckle of water around Seaflower’s cable was soothing to a sailor. ‘Puts me in mind o’ Mount’s Bay,’ Stirk went on. ‘Not as I’d want ter be reminded.’
‘Why so?’ someone asked.
Stirk sat back against the mainmast and ruminated. ‘’Cos o’ what happened while I wuz there,’ he said finally.
‘What was that, cuffin?’ the voice persisted.
‘Well, mates, if yer wants to know the full story, I warns yer, it’s a tough yarn, but I tell yer, it’s as true as y’r mainstay is moused!’ Stirk teased.
‘Cast loose yer tongue, matey,’ an invisible voice urged.
‘Spread more sail!’ another said. Luke scuttled up and squatted under Stirk’s feet, agog to hear the yarn.
‘Right, I’ll fill and stand on,’ Stirk agreed. ‘When I was a younker, I was in another trade,’ he began.
Kydd hid a smile.
‘Reg’lar run fr’m St Marlow ter Penzance in brandy. Had a shipmate aboard name o’ Cornish Jack, liv’d nearby. Now, he was a right frolicsome cove, always in wi’ the ladies. An’ he snares a real spruce filly – Kitty Tresnack she wuz called. Trouble is, she’s married, see, to old man Tresnack ’oo owns a sizeable tin mine. Didn’t stop ’em – he’d step off soon as he knew ’ow, back aboard last minute, ’n’ all the time off in the hills wi’ this Kitty.’
Stirk gave a snort that some might have interpreted as disapproval.
‘He comes back aboard jus’ as we’re about t’ sail, but there’s noos. Seems old man Tresnack goes down wi’ a fever ’n’ dies real quick. So Cornish Jack can’t wait t’ get back ’n’ marry Kitty – but when we does make port agen, he finds ’is intended in clink, arrested fer murder of ’er ’usband!
‘They ’as the trial, an’ she’s found guilty, sentenced ter ’ang. Cornish Jack can’t believe it – ’e sleeps outside the prison walls till the day she’s due ter be choked off. He asks permission to go with ’er to the scaffold. They agrees, an’ on th’ day he goes up ter the gallows ’oldin’ ’er ’and and when it’s time ’e clutches ’er tight. The rope goes around ’er neck, an’ she asks ’im, solemn-like, “You will?” Jack gets uneasy, but says, “I will.” She then goes calm and it’s all over fer ’er.’
Stirk paused for effect, and continued. ‘After that, Kitty’s ghost wuz seen twice, three times or more on the road b’tween Penzance an’ Hayle, an’ Cornish Jack’s a changed man. Goes pale ’n’ thin, never laughs – terrible change if y’ knew ’im. At th’ tavern ’e was ’eard ter say, “She gives me no peace, follers me everywhere.” We all knows ’oo “she” is.
‘Just a year after this, Cornish Jack was back at sea wi’ us, an’ in the fo’c’sle. He then finally tells what it was they said on th’ gallows. “She made me swear that on this day, one year more at midnight, I’d marry ’er.” See, not bein’ able to get wed in th’ flesh, she would in th’ spirit.
‘An’ that’s where it gets right scareful, we bein’ in our ’ammocks ’n’ jawin’ together, it all goes quiet, like. That’s when we ’ear these sharp small steps on the deckhead, comin’ fr’m forrard. He goes white as chalk an’ gets th’ trembles. They stops right above where Jack ’as his ’ammock. His face goes mad wi’ terror, but he drops ter th’ deck and makes ’is way topsides. We rushes t’ follow – but jus’ in time ter see ’im leg it over th’ bulwark ter throw ’imself in th’ sea.’
Stirk took a deep breath and said, in a low voice, ‘We catches only a couple o’ white faces in them black waves, so ’elp me, an’ then ’e’s gone!’
The long silence following was Stirk’s satisfying reward.
From seaward, Christiansted turned out to be a cosy, settled piece of Denmark in the Caribbean, all cream-coloured buildings with red roofs, before lofty hills inland. At the sight of Seaflower’s ensign a warning gun thumped from Fort Christiansvaern, marked on the chart as ‘in want of repair’. Obediently, Seaflower rounded to, let go her anchor outside the reef and awaited the boat putting off from the town.
The Danish officer boarded quickly, his glance taking in the clean lines, neatness and loving detail that only a sailor’s pride in his ship could evoke. ‘Løjtnant Holbaek,’ the man said, in crisp military tones. His-red tasselled blue uniform looked odd on the deck of a Royal Navy cutter.
Farrell advanced with outstretched hand. ‘Welcome aboard His Majesty’s Cutter Seaflower, er, Loytnant,’ he said. Holbaek shook hands. Turning meaningfully to Jarman, Farrell said loudly, ‘Loytnant Holbaek takes back to Christiansted the best wishes of His Britannic Majesty for prosperity and peace, and our hopes that the Jacobin upstarts will soon be swept from the seas.’
‘Mange tak, Kommandør – thenk yo,’ Holbaek said, with a clicking of heels. He seemed to bristle a little under the curious stares of Seaflower’s sailors. ‘An’ my packet?’
‘Of course.’ Farrell handed over the sealed package, which Holbaek quickly slipped inside his uniform. The dour officer did not seem inclined to linger, so Farrell handed him over the side with profuse expressions of regard, and the boat pushed off. ‘Now we shall proceed. Course for Port Royal, Mr Jarman.’
‘Crusty bugger,’ was Stiles’ judgement. He had been invited in with the petty officers, notwithstanding that as boatswain’s mate his was probably the least popular job aboard. So far there had been no call on his services with the cat-o’-nine-tails, a tribute to the sense of harmony that Farrell was achieving.
The noon meal was well under way, rum sweet in the glass. The morning exercise at the after six-pounders had been particularly impressive and the light breeze was sending Seaflower along at a relaxed pace, the seas with barely a swell or more than a stipple of waves. Doggo poked his head inside the canvas screen, which by now had its full quota of mermaids and Davy Jones painted on it, and announced, ‘Might like ter come topsides – could be a bit of a to-do brewin’.’
On the horizon to windward a tall pillar of smoke, hazy and pale with distance, rose straight up. ‘Ship afire,’ said Doggo bluntly, then nodded significantly aft at the Captain and Merrick in urgent conversation.
Detaching himself, Farrell called to Kydd, ‘Bear up for that fire.’
Kydd ordered the helm over, Seaflower obediently turning towards. It was dead to windward, in the teeth of the light breeze, and even with Seaflower’s fore-and-aft rig she could lie no closer than four points off the wind before the luff of her sails began shivering and she lost way. The deck fell quiet. It didn’t take much imagination to think of what must be happening in the unknown ship: the visceral terror at the flames rampaging, the bravery of those on board – then mortal despair taking hold.
Jarman reached the deck and quickly took in the scene. Kydd opened his mouth to comment, but Jarman held up his hand, keenly sensing the wind direction. Kydd noticed Farrell watching him closely as well. The vessel would know by now that they had been seen and their hearts would be leaping – but all would depend on how speedily they could reach the scene. ‘A bridle for bowlines on the topsails may answer, sir,’ Jarman said at last, ‘an’ Kydd will bring her more by th’ head by re-stowing.’
Jarman’s order meant sending a line to the forward part of the square sails to haul them even more flat to the wind, and shifting provisions and water barrels towards the bow to deepen the stem to give more bite. Kydd hastened below, grabbing hands for the task, which was soon completed. On deck he was joined by Renzi. ‘A nice problem,’ Renzi murmured, shielding his
eyes to make out the approaching details.
‘Aye,’ said Kydd. The ship afire was dead into the wind – how to get to her? To tack towards, of course, but the problem lay in whether to do short but direct boards and much tacking about, or long fast boards with few delays in tacking, but considerable distance to each side of the goal.
Given the constant of time necessary to go about, Jarman compromised on seven-minute legs. The breeze was frustratingly light, but even so the disastrous tableau came gradually closer. Every glass available was on the harrowing scene.
‘Has a sea anchor over th’ stern . . .’
‘Yair – keeps ’er poop inter the wind, flames don’t reach ’em.’
‘See it blaze at th’ main-hatch! Give ’er less’n a dog-watch afore she goes up altogether . . .’
Kydd took a telescope and trained it on the smoky ruin. The flame-shot vessel leaped into sharp focus. He could almost hear the devilish roar of the fire, the sharp banging and crackling of timbers in hopeless conflagration. There were dark figures against the flames, jerking and moving, but the main body were massed on the as yet untouched after end of the vessel. Kydd swept the telescope along – it was impossible to say which nationality the ship was, or even what species it was.
‘Get th’ longboat overside,’ urged some. Seaflower was now only a mile off but the wind was so soft and light that the cutter only made a walking pace through the calm waters.
‘Longboat, stand by for launching,’ warned Farrell, ‘but avast lowering, we have to be closer.’ Seaflower was still just faster than men could row. The towering pillar of smoke darkened the whole area, tongues of flame an angry wild orange against the smoke.
As Kydd stared at the ruin, the stern fell off the wind – the line to the sea-anchor had given way. He whipped up the telescope. In sharp detail he saw the after end of the vessel sag away to leeward and the fire leap up triumphantly. Dark figures fell into the sea as the flames advanced on the poop.
The calm seas around the stern became agitated. Flickers of white in dark flurries puzzled him for a moment until he understood – survivors in the water were being taken by sharks. His hands shook as he held the telescope. With a sick horror he saw the remaining figures on the poop hesitating between being burned to death or eaten alive by sharks. One by one they toppled into the water or danced insanely before crumpling into a briefly seen dark mass in the flames.
Seaflower curved smoothly into the wind and her longboat splashed into the water. Kydd watched as it pulled towards the hulk, now no more than a blackened wreck, a dying ember. The hideous twitching around the stern was now irregular and the desolate stink of the fire drifted down on them. The boat reached the still smoking hull and circled around. It returned with a pitiably burned corpse. ‘Weren’t none made it, sir,’ the bowman said softly. ‘We c’n give ’em a Christian burial, like.’
‘No – they stay with their ship. They go together.’
‘Tom, mate!’ whispered the carpenter’s mate, plucking Kydd’s sleeve. ‘Come an’ ’ave a squiz ’tween-decks.’ Wondering at Snead’s peculiar air of anxiety, Kydd followed him down the fore-hatch below.
Chasing aside seamen at the galley, Snead lifted the access grating to the forward hold and dropped inside, listening intently in the musty gloom. Satisfied, he hauled himself out. ‘Tellme what y’ hears,’ he said, his lined grey eyes serious.
Kydd let himself down. As quartermaster he had the stowage of the hold, but that was in port or calm waters. Now, in this increasingly boisterous sea, wasn’t the time to be rummaging among the big water barrels or tightly tommed-down stores. He hunkered down in the cramped space and listened carefully, bracing himself against the cutter’s roll. Nothing at first, but then he heard over the swish of sea on the outside of the hull an intermittent sibilance as quiet and deadly as a snake. In time with the roll came a sudden rushing hiss which for a seaman had only one meaning: ‘We’ve sprung a plank somewhere on th’ waterline – takin’ in water fast!’
Snead looked at him peculiarly. ‘Yair, but when I sounds the bilges, ain’t any water!’
‘What? None?’ Kydd asked. It was peculiar to a degree – the rushing hiss returned with every roll, and at this rate the water should be at least a foot deep in the lower hold.
‘Don’t like it, cully,’ Snead grumbled. ‘What say you ’n’ I ’as a word wi’ the Cap’n?’
‘Heard o’ this happenin’ to a cargo o’ rice – swells when it’s wet, it does,’ Merrick said.
Jarman stroked his jaw. ‘Nothin’ stowed below that I knows of like that,’ he said slowly. ‘But there’s some kind o’ – something – that’s soaking it up fast . . .’
‘No chances. We heave down and get at it from the outside,’ Farrell said with finality. ‘I believe Islas Engaño will answer.’
Kydd was relieved. A small cutter like Seaflower could easily find an island to beach between tides and get at the hull planking from the outside, and in this case the sooner the better. They raised the island late in the afternoon. Because the leak was getting no worse – in fact, the vessel was still mysteriously dry – they anchored in its lee to wait out the night. A passing rain-squall spattered and then deluged the decks. Only the disconsolate lookouts fore and aft remained, the rest were snug below.
In the free discipline of a cutter, there would be no ‘pipe down hammocks’ or other big-ship ways. And now at anchor was a time when a sailor could relax, no fear of an ‘All the haaands!’ to send him on deck, no sudden course-change requiring the vessel to tack about – instead the sewing ‘housewife’, the gleefulness of dice play, the scrimshaw, the endless letter . . .
Lanthorns spread a warm golden glow in the crew spaces and the hum of his shipmates’ conversation was a reassuring backdrop to Kydd’s thoughts. Renzi’s musings about his future had awakened possibilities that were unsettling. It seemed that Renzi believed he was destined for something beyond quartermaster – that could only be master’s mate, which required an Admiralty warrant . . .
He watched Stirk throw a double trey at the dice with a roar of satisfaction – did he concern himself with times unknown? Unforeseeable circumstances? Himself in twenty years? Of course not! Kydd settled back in his hammock and listened to the drumming of rain on the deck above, grateful to be dry and warm. The rain eased, then stopped. Kydd slipped into drowsiness, unperturbed by the noises of his shipmates’ pastimes and merriment, sure of himself and the world he had made his own.
A soft dawn revealed their island to have a long sandy beach, suitable to heave down Seaflower and get at the leak. Kydd had tried to localise the sound of inrushing water but, bafflingly, it had died away as they anchored.
The cutter gently grounded on the sand of the beach and was brought broadside to in the gentle waves. Snead waited in the longboat while lines were secured to her mast, taken to a tackle on a sizeable palm ashore and back to the windlass. Snead only needed to see the waterline region and it took little effort to achieve the required cant to one side. ‘’Tain’t this side,’ he called from the boat, after going the length of the cutter. Seaflower was laboriously refloated and rotated for a survey of the other side – with the same result. A perfectly sound hull.
‘Only one thing left t’ do,’ Kydd muttered. They would have to rouse out the entire contents of the hold to put paid to the mystery, a long and tedious process. Starting from forward the first of the stores were brought out and laid against the after end of the crew space. Kydd saw that the men were well positioned in chain to pass up the provisions, and turned to go.
He was stopped by an incredulous shout. ‘God rot me! Come ’ere, Mr Kydd!’ Hurrying over to the fore hold, Kydd looked down. A seaman was standing and pointing to what he had found in the close stowage of the hold. It was a substantial-sized cask with its head knocked in, and in it was the remains of what it had contained – peas, dried for stowing, a sea of seven hundredweight of hard peas. And as the ship rolled, the peas had swished from side to side i
n the smooth barrel, sounding exactly like the hiss of inrushing water.
They made good sailing in clear conditions and secured a morning landfall on the odd-looking island of Alto Velo, off the southernmost point of Hispaniola. ‘We will take the inside passage, I believe, Mr Jarman,’ said Farrell, inspecting the stretches of low, flat land to the north and the peaked dome of Alto Velo to the south.
The swell increased as they approached, a peculiar, angled swell that felt uneasy. Over to the north-west a serried rank of sharp-peaked mountains appeared out of the bright haze, white-topped and distant. Kydd growled at the helmsman when the Seaflower’s topsail fluttered, his eyes flicking astern to check her wake. It was straight – the ever-reliable trade winds were slowly but surely backing; it was not the fault of the helmsman. ‘Wind’s backing,’ he called to Jarman.
‘Just so,’ said the sailing master. ‘Those mountains, t’ weather.’ His mouth clamped tight and he glared generally to windward.
‘We have the current in our favour, Mr Jarman,’ Farrell said mildly.
‘Sir.’
The swell angled more and met a south-going counterpart that had Seaflower wallowing in confused jerking in the cross seas. Unfriendly green waves slopped and bullied on to her decks, sluicing aft to wet Farrell’s shoes. They passed through the passage, the wind backing so far that Seaflower had to strike her square sails entirely. Once through, the predominant westerly current and north-easterly winds reasserted themselves and the way was clear for the final run to Jamaica. But for one thing. A brig-of-war. Five miles ahead across their path, her two masts foreshortening as she altered course purposefully towards them.
Chapter 12
‘Be damned,’ said Merrick, as he came up from below and saw the vessel. The meeting was most unfortunate: having emerged from the island passage Seaflower was prevented from going to windward by the lie of the land, and to bear away to leeward would favour the bigger canvas a brig-sloop could show.
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