Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

  A shouting on the mole drew his attention. With a burst of triumph Kydd saw that the soldiers were turning into file and trotting back along the mole, presumably to defend the town. Events moved quickly. The longboat sheered off under the threat of a swivel gun hastily manned in the brig, leaving the fishing boat to reach ‘safety’. They reached the forechains, laughing Frenchmen urging them up. Kydd watched the lighter out of the corner of his eyes, seeing Renzi berating Quashee’s hapless bulk at the tiller, while Farrell jumped on his hat in exasperation.

  The French leaned over the bulwarks, offering hands to help, but Kydd played for time. Yelling incomprehensibly, he pointed at the ‘exhausted’ oarsmen and gestured for a rope-ladder. By this time the lighter was nearly upon them. Shouting angrily, men from the brig jumped to the stonework of the mole with bearing-off poles and fenders as it threatened to drift across the brig’s bows.

  Kydd knew that the time had come. The lighter thumped violently to lock across the brig’s forepart. ‘Seaflowers! Huzzah for the King!’ shouted Farrell, and swung himself up into the bowsprit of the enemy. A storm of cheering rose from all around the Frenchmen – an unstoppable stream of seamen boiling up from concealment in the lighter, Kydd’s wildly excited men swarming up the forechains, and Stirk’s longboat, racing to board by the stern.

  They had minutes only before the soldiers found they had been fooled. The French sailors recovered quickly from their surprise, grabbed pikes and weapons from their ready-use positions around the mast and rushed to the sides of the vessel.

  Kydd landed on the deck of the brig, and was immediately met by a sailor in a red cap, who jabbed a long boarding pike at his face. Kydd’s cutlass blade went up and deflected the lunge, keeping pressure on the haft until he was close enough to grab it with his left hand and yank the man off-balance. The grey steel of Kydd’s blade then thrust forward and took the man in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, grabbing at the pitiless steel. Kydd’s foot slammed into his face as he wrenched the cutlass free.

  A pistol banged somewhere and Kydd felt the violent passage of the bullet past his ear. Seconds later the pistol itself crashed into the side of his face, hurled by its owner. Kydd crouched instinctively at the pain, the swish of a blade sounded above and his head cleared. He thrust up with his cutlass at the man’s extended armpit. With a howl of pain he dropped his weapon and fell to a foetal position. A foot kicked into Kydd. Across him an English sailor was being hard pressed by a bull of a Frenchman. Kydd stabbed upwards into the unsuspecting man’s bowels, bringing an inhuman screech and the man’s blade clumsily and brutally down on his back. A burning line of pain opened, but a second later the man was skewered by his original opponent. Heaving himself to his feet, Kydd snatched a look at the man he had saved: his eyes were wild and unseeing as he turned back to the fight.

  From aft a wave of men advanced. Kydd braced himself and turned to face them, his head thumping and his back a cruel red-hot bar of pain – but these were Stirk’s men, and in a startlingly short time the deck was cleared.

  Farrell’s voice sounded loud, commanding. Men dropped to the mole, axes rose and fell on the mooring ropes. A warning shout came – soldiers were racing back along the mole, many soldiers. The ropes fell free, and the axe-men scrambled aboard. The lighter swung away and drifted into the harbour. More shouts from Farrell and men were in the shrouds, racing for the yards. Kydd staggered, pain and nausea swamping his senses. He sank to his knees, retching into the slime of blood.

  The brig’s foresail dropped, and flapped impatiently before taking the wind. The vessel’s bow began to open clear water next to the mole. The soldiers, seeing this, came to a stop and knelt to fire at the brig, but their hard running was not conducive to good shooting and their balls whistled past harmlessly. Others made a charge against the brig, but were decimated by the quarterdeck swivel gun cracking out above, plied by English seamen.

  The brig parted from the mole, more sail was set and, while Kydd held his head on his knees, they victoriously put to sea to rejoin Seaflower.

  ‘Ye had us a mort worried, m’ friend, coming in so strange-like,’ Kydd told Renzi, remembering the stop–start dispute he had seen on the lighter. He was lying stomach down on the main grating of Seaflower, Renzi gently applying goose grease to the angry weal down his back.

  Renzi paused. ‘It was not the best of times to be seeing a pack of soldiers waiting for us – were we betrayed?’ He resumed his soothing strokes. ‘Then the Captain sees our longboat chasing fishermen! His comments on undisciplined rabble disobeying their orders were a curiosity to hear, please believe, but then I recognised your shirt hoisted up the mast and we understood.’

  ‘As y’ should have,’ Kydd said crossly. The treatment hurt, and his head throbbed, broken skin and a dark bruise extending out from his hair-line were where the pistol had struck. The surgeon’s mate had been dismissive of the head wound and, in Kydd’s opinion, ham-fisted in his ministrations to his back.

  He brooded, but by raising his head just a little he could see the fine sight astern of the French brig-o’-war lifting and bobbing – his prize money must now be growing significant and the prize agent would soon have golden guineas to hand out. This was a happier thought: what would he and Renzi enjoy ashore on the proceeds? Seaflower was only hours from Port Morant. She would soon make her number to the small naval station there, and all the world would then know that saucy Seaflower had been lucky again.

  ‘Mr Kydd!’ Luke’s eager voice broke in on his thoughts. ‘Cap’n desires yer should attend on him, if ye should be at leisure t’ do so,’ he recited. The odd phraseology set warning bells ringing. Warily Kydd got to his feet. For a moment he wondered whether he should put on a shirt: he had received dispensation while his wound was still sore and decided that this still held.

  He went down the after hatchway to the Captain’s minuscule cabin. Farrell was seated at the tiny desk. He turned, and held a sheet of paper. ‘This is my despatch to the Commander-in-Chief, to be landed at Port Morant.

  Farrell found the right place and read:

  . . . but as we approached, a body of soldiers hitherto concealed from us became evident. I was minded to abandon the venture, were it not for the clever ruse of Thomas Kydd, coxswain of the longboat and quartermaster in Seaflower. He caused his party to be split, one part of which went ahead in a fishing boat in the character of a craft under pursuit by English seamen, the other part in the longboat that followed.

  The action was most successful, surprise being complete. The soldiers were lured away from their place by the supposition that a landing in force was under way in the town. The brig was carried at slight loss . . .

  Farrell could easily have claimed that Kydd was acting under orders. Kydd glowed at the tribute – being mentioned in despatches was an unusual honour.

  Renzi looked at him oddly at the news, but said nothing. On the matter of where they would celebrate, he smiled secretly and assured Kydd that he would not be disappointed were he to trust him to find somewhere.

  For such an insignificant man-o’-war as Seaflower there was no manning of yards in honour from the ships of the Fleet when she entered port, but the enemy brig demurely astern, so much bigger than Seaflower, was proof enough of their prowess. There was no real need for the elaborate sail-handling when curving so prettily around to anchor under the envious eyes of the Fleet, but it was another chance to show the world what kind of man-o’-war the Seaflower really was.

  Within the hour, Farrell had returned from his call on the Admiral bearing deeply satisfying news. Seaflower was due for refit, and her people could rely on two weeks at least of liberty ashore. The Vice Admiralty Court sitting at Kingston had duly condemned their barque as prize, and they had tickets on the prize agent for a gratifying amount.

  Kydd considered his ticket. There was the choice of parting with it now, suitably discounted to a moneylender in town, or cash it for the full amount later when the prize agent could be cajoled into
drawing on account. He would see what mysterious entertainment Renzi had in mind first: he hoped it would not be a curious pile of stones or the residence of some worthy poet.

  ‘Tom, mate, yez has a letter.’ Stirk handed over a folded and sealed packet. ‘An’ that’s fivepence y’ owes me fer the post, cully.’ Kydd took it gingerly: the writing was small and well formed – a feminine hand. He frowned, then his expression cleared. This was from Cecilia, his sister. The date was only five weeks earlier, and with pleased anticipation he took it forward to open and read in privacy.

  He broke the wafer; it was a single sheet, closely written. As usual she wasted no time and went straight to the point. Kydd’s eyes widened – he read quickly and stared outwards. It seemed impossible.

  He found Renzi searching in their sea-chest for a suitable kerchief: in his blue jacket with the white whalebone buttons he looked ready for the delights of Port Royal. The mess-deck was rapidly emptying for there was every incentive to get ashore to make this a time to remember: the Seaflowers were going on the ran-tan. Kydd waited until they were alone, and held up his paper. ‘Ye’d never have guessed it, Nicholas, but here’s a letter fr’m Cecilia!’

  ‘I pray she is in good health,’ Renzi said, perfectly in control.

  Kydd grinned. ‘Aye, she is that, m’ friend. An’, can you believe it? She is here in Kingston!’ Renzi stood quite still. ‘Ain’t it prime?’ Kydd laughed. ‘Here, listen to this, “My dear brother, I found how I might write a letter to you, and I have news that will make you stare! You may offer your felicitations, Thomas, for you see, I am to be wed.”’

  Kydd paused to see the effect on Renzi. His friend had always got along well with Cecilia, and Kydd knew he would be pleased. Oddly, Renzi stared back at him with unblinking eyes.

  Shrugging, Kydd went on, ‘“Peter is a very amiable man, and he has the most wonderful prospects. I met him at one of Mrs Daryton’s assemblies. Oh, yes, she wishes to be remembered to you, and of course dear Nicholas.

  ‘“But what I really want to tell you is that Peter is going to Jamaica to be under-manager of a sugar plantation. You’ve no idea how happy that makes me! It will only be a few years and we will set up our carriage, and a little time after that we will be rich, and I will look after Mama and Papa – but I am going too fast! I have to say that we have an understanding. Peter will return to Jamaica and next month I travel with Jane Rodpole (you remember, the one at school with the long hair and hopeless giggle). She goes to Jamaica for the same reason. We will take lodgings to get her until––”’ Kydd broke off. ‘So, y’ sees, she must even now be in Kingston, Nicholas. We have t’ find her, an’ celebrate all together.’

  Chapter 13

  Kydd and Renzi’s appearance – smart man-o’-war’s men – attracted some curious looks in Kingston town. Sailors rarely left the more direct pleasures of Port Royal for the commercialism and bustle of Kingston, across the harbour from the Palisades.

  It was not hard to find the newcomers: there were streets of hostelries providing rooms for merchants, travelling army wives and the like, and with rising excitement Kydd found himself outside one of these. The door was opened by a mistrustful housekeeper. Kydd shyly enquired about Miss Kydd. The woman agreed to see if she was in to two sailors, but firmly closed the door on them while she did so.

  The door opened again: a young lady with laughing eyes, hair whirled in a tight bun in deference to the heat, looked at them both. ‘Do I fin’ m’self addressing Miss Jane?’ Kydd enquired, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands.

  ‘You do, sir. Might I ask . . .’ She looked puzzled, but there was a barely repressed animation that was most fetching.

  ‘Thomas Kydd, Cecilia’s brother.’

  Her hands flew to her mouth.

  ‘An’ my particular friend, Nicholas Renzi.’

  She bobbed a curtsy in return to Renzi’s studied bow, but her eyes were on Kydd, wide and serious. ‘Cecilia is out at the moment,’ she said quietly, ‘but if you are at leisure, you may wish to await her return?’

  Kydd grinned widely. ‘That’s kind in you, er, Miss Jane,’ he said. She flashed a smile, but it disappeared quickly. They eased past the discouraging gaze of the housekeeper, and were ushered into the front parlour.

  Kydd sat on the edge of a faded chintz chair. ‘Ye must be happy f’r Cecilia, I believe,’ he began.

  Jane lowered her head for a moment, and when she spoke, it was controlled, formal. ‘It were better she will tell you about it herself, Mr Kydd.’

  He felt the first stirrings of alarm but suppressed them. ‘An’ I got word that you will be hearin’ wedding bells y’rself, Miss Jane.’

  She bit her lip and replied, ‘For two months hence.’ An awkward silence developed, and Kydd glanced at Renzi, who sat opposite. His expression had that frustratingly impenetrable quality, which Kydd knew concealed his understanding of a situation that he himself could not grasp.

  Tea arrived, the china rattling on the tray. They sipped decorously, in their sea rig the little graces seeming incongruous. Kydd caught a furtive look from Jane, a look of frank curiosity, and he wondered what the girls had discussed concerning him. There was, however, something about the present situation that was not right.

  A rattling at the front door had Jane recovering her poise. ‘This is your sister, I believe,’ she said brightly, and rose to her feet. ‘Oh, Cecilia!’ she called. ‘You have guests, my dear.’ Footsteps sounded along the passage, and the door opened.

  Kydd advanced to meet her – and faltered to a stop. It was Cecilia, but the pale, drawn face, the black dress and veil? His smile faded. Uncertain how to continue, he hesitated.

  ‘Thomas!’ Cecilia seemed to wake, a small smile breaking through as she threw back the veil. ‘How wonderful!’ A little of the old spirit came through. ‘My, you look so handsome in your sea costume!’ Her eyes strayed to the livid bruise on his head, ‘Oh!’ she said faintly.

  ‘Jus’ a wound o’ battle,’ he said. She approached and hugged him with controlled passion, the wound on his back making him gasp. ‘Cec – what is it?’ he blurted out.

  ‘Oh, I declare, I’ll be late for my dancing lesson,’ Jane said. ‘Please excuse me, I must rush.’

  Cecilia noticed Renzi, standing unmoving in the background. ‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she said warmly, ‘how good to see you!’ Renzi inclined his head, but stayed where he was. Impulsively, Cecilia crossed to him and embraced him as well. ‘Nicholas, your complexion is like a Red Indian’s, not the thing at all at home,’ she said.

  When Cecilia turned back to Kydd, her expression was rigid, brittle. ‘It is only the ten days I have been here in Jamaica, Thomas, but . . .’ Kydd pulled her towards him, and held her tight while sobs racked her. Neither noticed Renzi slip from the room.

  ‘It’s so – so unfair!’ she wept. ‘He was so happy to see me, and a week later he’s in his grave!’

  ‘Er, what . . .’

  ‘On Wednesday he had dreadful pains and sickness, and by Sunday . . .’ The tears were all the harder to bear for their brevity and harsh depths. ‘I was with him until . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry f’r it, Cec, truly I am.’ If it were the yellow fever, and she was involved in his nursing, then the end would have been unspeakably hard to bear.

  Cecilia dabbed her eyes and looked away. There was now only the emptiness of destroyed hopes.

  Kydd released her and said, gently, ‘Cec, you’re here in Jamaica with nothin’ any more. Have ye any means?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, but would not look at him directly. Kydd was stabbed with pity: he knew his sister was strong and independent, and would rather die than admit to any weakness. But a single woman without substance far from home . . .

  ‘Have ye any plans? There’s nothin’ t’ keep you here.’

  She glanced at him. ‘If you mean, what do I next, then . . . I will attend on Jane for her nuptials, of course.’

  Kydd’s mouth opened in amazement. ‘But . . .’


  She looked at him with fondness. ‘That is to say, my dear brother, that I crave time to think, to put this nightmare from me – you do understand?’

  Kydd let a small smile show. There was time enough for brother and sister to get together later. He felt doubtful, but blurted out, ‘Nicholas an’ I, we were on our way t’ kick up a hullabaloo on account of our success in Seaflower – I know y’r not feelin’ s’ spry, but if ye’d like to . . .’

  ‘Thank you both – I hope you’ll forgive me, but I need to be alone for just a little while.’ Her sad smile touched him deeply.

  Then he remembered. ‘Here, Cec, if y’ please.’ He brought out his prize-money ticket. ‘Do ye see? Y’r Jack Tar is a foolish wight ashore. They say, “Sailors get money like horses, ’n’ spend it like asses.” I’d take it kindly if ye could look after this f’r me – takes th’ temptation away.’

  She looked at him steadily, then kissed him.

  ‘Y’ presents it at the prize agent when he’s got word fr’m the Admiralty – sign on th’ other side an’ be sure the mumpin’ rogue doesn’t chouse ye.’

  Renzi was waiting outside, and they fell into step as Kydd told him of the conversation. Renzi listened, and nodded gravely. Cecilia was right, she needed time to herself for the moment to settle her feelings. Therefore there was no reason why they shouldn’t carry on with his original plan. ‘Brother, there is someone that it would give me the greatest of pleasure that you should meet.’ Kydd looked at him curiously. ‘And it requires that we go up-country in a ketureen.’

  On Broad Street they found one, the driver at first disbelieving that two sailors wanted to head away from the delights of the port. ‘On’y dese sugar pens dere, nuthin’ else, kooner-men!’

  They made Spanish Town before noon. The ketureen waited on the Grand Parade while Renzi impressed Kydd with the sea splendours of the Rodney Memorial, the noble portico of the King’s House and the Rio Cobre of Columbus. They dined at a roadside stall on rich yellow akee, salt fish and bammy bread before resuming their journey. By late afternoon they had reached May Pen where they took the road north.