Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Do we know then who’s to have Seaflower ?’

  ‘We don’t, but we’re gonna find out this afternoon,’ Doud said. ‘Due aboard three bells, I heard. We’se t’ priddy the decks an’ set all a-taunto.’

  Kydd slapped Doud’s arm and hurried below to shift into his loose, sea-going rig. The master was visibly pleased to see him. ‘Ye know our new cap’n, Mr Jarman?’ asked Kydd.

  ‘I do. L’tenant Swaine, Admiral’s staff – comes aboard at three bells.’

  Kydd was puzzled by his laconic reticence, but put it down to disappointment at the departure of the patrician Farrell. ‘Are we ready f’r sea?’ he enquired. As quartermaster he was responsible for stowage of stores. Jarman told him in full detail: in essence, within a day they could be ready for whatever task Seaflower was called upon to perform.

  Renzi seemed a little preoccupied when Kydd passed on the news of the name of their new captain. All Kydd could learn for him was that Renzi had seen Lieutenant Swaine, on the Admiral’s staff in Spanish Town.

  At three bells, Seaflower was ready for her new captain, with her boatswain’s mate, Stiles, in his hat with the ship’s name picked out in gold on a red background, and Luke, the sideboy, complete with white gloves, standing at the ship’s side. Jarman, as senior, stood waiting on the tiny quarterdeck in his best uniform, with Merrick close at hand.

  They waited. It was a grey day, the rain catching them unawares at one point, and the muggy heat afterwards was a trial – and still they waited. At five bells Merrick went below and Luke sat on the deck. Kydd was not required but he joined others standing about, curious to see their new commander.

  At seven bells, as the late-afternoon sun put in an appearance, there was a stir on the shore. A dockyard wherry put off, a single occupant in the sternsheets. Jarman growled a warning and the side party reassembled. The boat bumped alongside, and an officer in cocked hat and sword stepped aboard. A piercing single blast from Stiles greeted him. Until he read his commission, this officer was not entitled to be piped aboard. Jarman removed his hat and stood attentively.

  ‘Lieutenant Swaine, to be captain of this vessel,’ said the officer formally.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Jarman. ‘William Jarman, master, and might I present Mr Merrick, bo’sun.’ Swaine lifted his hat briefly to each, then stepped quickly to the centre of the deck, pulling out a parchment. In a monotone he ‘read himself in’, the sonorous phrases rendered flat and uninspiring by the lack of inflection and speed of their delivery – but it was sufficient; Lieutenant Swaine was now indisputably captain of HMS Seaflower.

  Carefully folding the parchment, he placed it back inside his coat. For a moment his eyes passed over the neat decks of the cutter, then he turned to Jarman. ‘Carry on, please.’ But he made no move to go to his cabin: instead, he stepped over to the side of the deck. The wherry had not shoved off, but lay alongside, and Swaine stood at the deck edge, with a frown deepening on his face. Merrick hastened over to the side with a mumbled apology – it was the last thing to be expected, that the Captain would be off ashore just as soon as he had come aboard.

  ‘I desire that the longboat call for me at the careening wharves at nine – no, make that ten. Have you trusties enough to man?’

  Merrick flicked a glance at Jarman before responding stolidly, ‘We’re all volunteers in Seaflower, sir.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Swaine, after a moment’s pause.

  Merrick’s piercing call of piping the side sounded as Seaflower’s new lieutenant-in-command, now entitled to special attention, went ashore.

  ‘Means nothin’, mate,’ said Stirk. ‘He must ’ave engagements ashore, like.’

  Stiles was unconvinced. ‘An’ did yer see ’is coat? Lace was tatty as a whore’s petticoat, ’n’ brass buckles – must ’ave a light purse . . .’

  Kydd bridled. ‘Not everyone’s flush in the fob as we,’ he said. ‘Three prizes wi’ our name on ’em, more t’ come – what we want is a good square hand who c’n show us the way to a few more.’

  Stirk lifted his drink and sank it with a grimace. ‘Somethin’ about the cut o’ his jib sets me teeth on edge – I just dunno . . .’

  ‘Yair, somethin’ slivey about ’im,’ Stiles agreed. ‘Wouldn’t like ter trust he’s on yer side, kinda thing.’

  ‘You would grant, however, that the man should have a chance to show something of himself before judgement is passed?’ Renzi’s words only produced a restless grumbling.

  The two double strikes of ten o’clock sounded from on deck. ‘Not yet back aboard,’ Stiles said. ‘Not allowed ter sleep out of ’is ship, is he?’ he added needlessly.

  Kydd disliked the way the talk was headed and made his excuses. Jarman had the deck, but responded to Kydd’s cordial conversation with monosyllables, staring at the pinpricks of light ashore where Port Royal’s taverns continued their raucous trade.

  Kydd made to leave, but Jarman said softly, ‘Do you kindly remain with me, I’d be obliged.’

  ‘Is there anythin’ amiss, Mr Jarman?’

  ‘Nothing you can’t help b’ being here.’

  Uneasy, Kydd kept the deck with Jarman, seeing the lights douse on other ships, and the shore lights wink out one by one. It was after midnight when the longboat returned. And in it were two passengers.

  Jarman lifted his hat to the Captain, who was followed by a figure that tripped as it came over the bulwark and sprawled headlong. ‘Shit!’ came a voice, as the figure picked itself up.

  ‘Midshipman Parkin,’ Swaine said, in a surly tone. Rounding on the lad he snarled, ‘Damn your eyes, an’ you’re a useless lubber!’ before making his unsteady way to the after hatchway. A muffled roar for a steward had Jarman exchanging looks with Kydd.

  Seaflower proceeded to sea the next day after completing stores. Kydd took the helm himself, keeping a wary eye on Swaine. To his relief, Swaine seemed content in the main to leave the direction of the vessel to Jarman, indicating his desires in grunts. The new midshipman was useless. Large and raw-boned, he seemed disinclined to join in with the seamen in their hard work at the running rigging of the huge sails, but on the other hand threw anxious, beseeching looks at the boatswain or others when called upon to take charge.

  ‘Seen it all before, mates,’ murmured Doggo, at the shroud batten lashings. ‘Tradesman’s son. Reefer’s been wished on ’im b’ some tailor ’e’s got debts with.’ He yanked at the cordage viciously. It could go either way, depending on how far the Captain shielded the lad.

  They tacked about when clear of the cays to the south, and shaped course to round the east of Jamaica for the small naval base of Port Antonio on the north coast. They made the customary stop off Morant Bay to pick up packets and bags; this was easier than carrying them by mule over the almost impassable Blue Mountains inland. Shaking out their sails they rounded the turbulent Morant Point before sunset, and headed north-westward past the red cliffs of Sail Rock.

  ‘This will do, Mr Jarman,’ growled Swaine.

  ‘Sir?’ said Jarman, puzzled.

  ‘Manchioneal Bay. Good enough holding, I’d have thought.’

  ‘We anchor?’

  ‘For the night – no sense in risking a night passage inshore, when we can arrive early tomorrow.’ Swaine looked narrowly at Jarman.

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Jarman said, his face blank. The anchor went down off the muddy river between the reefs, the stream flowing fast from the recent rains. Seaflower swung to her anchor, facing into this, and the cutter stood down sea watches.

  Kydd dropped down the fore hatchway to the hubbub of the mess-deck. On one side Patch was holding court, men clustered around his table. As Kydd approached he looked up, resentment and anger in his face. He spoke to Alvarez but his eyes were on Kydd. ‘So where’s our piggin’ prizes comin’ from, we lie with our hook down all th’ time? This ain’t work worth a spit, all hard-lyin’ an’ no purse at th’ end of it – we’re nothin’ but a parcel o’ scranny-pickers.’

  Farthing m
uttered, ‘Some says as how we’s a Judas boat now – sittin’ like this, we ain’t a chance.’ Others joined in.

  Kydd waited patiently for them to make their feelings known. By long-hallowed custom of the sea, seamen in their mess were free to voice their grumbles to each other, short of mutiny or sedition.

  It subsided, as Kydd had known it would, but when he resumed his way forward to the petty officer’s mess, the privateersman pushed to his feet, locking his gaze on Kydd’s. His hand dropped to his knife. Kydd froze. The knife came out. Then, in a vicious one-handed movement, the blade flickered from his palm and thudded into a deck beam between the astonished men of the opposite mess-table, pinioning a hapless cockroach.

  The talking died away in an edgy silence. The reality was that they were only a King’s cutter, whose duties were mainly despatches and reconnaissance; their prizes before were a lucky chance and not to be relied upon. Patch was not the only privateersman aboard – Kydd realised it could get ugly if their captain . . . ‘If y’ askin’ to have y’r blade cropped, I can oblige ye,’ Kydd said mildly. His hands dropped loosely to his side but he tensed. Any hasty words from Patch now and he’d see him in irons: there was no other way.

  At the sudden quiet, the canvas screen of the petty officer’s mess at the end of the mess-deck suddenly pulled back. ‘What’s th’ gripin’, mate?’ Stirk called.

  ‘Nothin’, Toby. Shipmates talkin’ cat-blash is all,’ Kydd said loudly, but he continued to stand, watching Patch. Slowly, the privateersman unwound and, turning away his gaze, moved to retrieve his knife. Kydd followed him with his eyes, then continued on.

  ‘Gettin’ worried they can’t see us takin’ prizes with this owner,’ he said briefly, accepting a pot from Renzi inside their mess.

  ‘An’ ain’t that the truth!’ said Stiles, lifting his tankard in disgust. ‘He’ll be a-kissin’ his dear ones just this minute, if y’ believes young Luke.’

  ‘Kissing . . .?’

  ‘His dear ones – loves ’is bottles so much he’s a kissin’ of ’em every day,’ Stiles grated.

  Stirk gave a brief smile, then leaned forward. ‘Other ways yez c’n get a taste o’ gold, these parts . . .’

  The others leaned forward to hear. ‘Yair, wasn’t it in the Caribbee yer Cap’n Kidd buried ’is treasure? Nearly a million in gold ’n’ jools! An’ guarded b’ ten dead men an’ never found till this day?’

  Eyes gleamed in the lanthorn light, then he turned to Kydd. ‘Now then, cully,’ Stirk said, ‘yer must know somethin’ about it, ’e bein’ kin an’ all.’

  Kydd smiled. ‘Terrible great pirate, I grant ye, but no kin o’ mine – he comes fr’m Scotland, ’n’ the Kydds are fr’m the south. An’ he has an I in ’midships where we have a Y.’ Embarrassed, he added, ‘An’ I’m the only one – the first one, that is – t’ follow th’ sea in the Kydd family.’

  ‘An’ a right shellback you is turnin’ into, if’n I says so,’ Stirk said warmly.

  Clearing his throat, Renzi attracted attention. ‘A great pirate – I have to disagree. He was only a merchant, an investor of Wall Street, which is in New York, no seaman he. But he married a lively lady, and bethought to go a-roving – one voyage only, and his crew is so dissatisfied with his conduct they set him ashore, stranded, in Antigua.’

  Renzi grinned at Kydd. ‘But he gets another ship, and continues – and finds an East Indiaman, which in course he captures with a great treasure. A simpleminded creature, he sails straight back to New York, but takes the precaution first of burying the treasure nearby to bargain with in case he meets trouble for his actions. It didn’t work, and he pays with his life at Tyburn tree. The treasure is still there, my dear friends, but somewhere close by New York, not here in the Caribbean, I do regret.’

  Stirk growled, ‘Aye, but y’ had some real pirates hereabouts.’

  ‘Take Calico Jack, mates,’ Stiles began. ‘Lures an Irish lass ter leave ’er ’usband fer a life a-piratin’ together. They takes a Scowegian hooker an’ in it there’s this other lass. So he has this Anne ’n’ Mary too, an’ they are the equal ter any in bein’ ready ter board, and the cuttin’ of throats.’

  Stirk broke in: ‘But in th’ end, as ye knows, Calico Jack wuz turned off at Tyburn, but ’is women, both on ’em, pleads their bellies. And says he weren’t no fighter, lets ’em all be captured.’

  The thoughtful quiet was broken by Renzi. ‘Not all came to a bad end,’ he said, ‘Take Henry Morgan––’

  ‘You musta ’eard o ’im while you wuz clerkin’ in Spanish Town.’ Stirk chuckled.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Renzi. ‘And you can say in truth that we are here today because he was the one who secured Jamaica as our Caribbean centre for trade. Top class as a freebooter, as you know, took Campeche just in order to seize fourteen prizes in one go, and there was so much plunder after the sack of Panama that Spanish pieces of eight were legal tender in Jamaica for years afterwards.’

  Kydd’s shipmates became preoccupied: it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that Spain could join in the present war, the old times return.

  ‘Morgan came back to Jamaica?’ prompted Kydd.

  ‘Yes – when it was peace with Spain, he retired to England, but it was war again, and the King thought he was best placed of all to know the Caribbean, and appointed him Governor of Jamaica with an eye to its defence, and a fine fist he made of it, too. Sad, really, he missed the buccaneering life, and spent much government time in the Port Royal taverns, lifting a glass with his old shipmates. That’s when Port Royal was at its most lively, a rousing good time guaranteed for any seaman . . . He drank himself to death, and within three, four years a mighty earthquake finally sent most of Port Royal into the sea. Let’s raise a pot to Cap’n Henry Morgan!’

  Wiping his mouth, Stirk said loudly, ‘If y’ wants a reg’lar-built pirate, then m’ grand-daddy can tell ye – he saw Blackbeard ’imself! Back in Queen Anne’s day only, scared th’ piss outa him. Comes swarmin’ aboard, black beard wi’ ribbons, an’ all this slow-match strung through, alight ’n’ smokin’ away, roarin’ and shouting. Carries four pistols an’ a ’eavy cutlass, ain’t none can stand against him.

  ‘Colonies see their trade go somewhere else, so they puts a King’s ship on to his tail, sloop-o’-war. Lootenant Maynard – that’s it. Hides ’is crew below while Blackbeard boards, then takes ’em! Th’ l’tenant meets Blackbeard face on, ’n’ isn’t shy. There’s this great fight, the two on ’em, but Maynard wins, and sails back t’ port wi’ Blackbeard’s head a-danglin’ from the bowsprit fer all to see.’

  The anchor was won the next morning in a sullen rain squall, hissing and lashing at the men on the windlass and sending Seaflower in a skittish whirl around her moorings. When the anchor finally tripped, the cutter was facing inshore, into the swollen river current emerging to carry her seaward. At the same time the wind strengthened from the sea, prevailing over the current, and Seaflower duly drifted towards the shore, not three hundred yards distant.

  ‘Sheet in the main, y’ bastards!’ It was the first time Kydd had heard Jarman swear as he gave orders to carry sail aft with sheets a-fly forward. The cutter would rotate to face the sea under the leverage of the big after sail.

  ‘What? Belay that, you dogs!’ yelled Swaine. His eyes were red and hair plastered down his face by the rain. ‘What are you about, sir?’ he threw at Jarman, before screaming down the deck, ‘Let go anchor!’

  The men forward were making ready to cat and secure the anchor shank painter and were totally unprepared, the windlass taut and the cable on the pawl. The gawky Parkin had charge of the operation and floundered.

  ‘God rot me bones!’ spluttered Merrick, and thrust forward hastily, but the situation was already in hand: Doud’s furtive bringing in of the main sheets had given force enough for the bows to swing. Swaine seemed to ignore his previous order with the promise in the bow’s swing. ‘Carry on, then, Mr Jarman,’ he said testily, handing the deck to the master.
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  ‘Never seen such a dog’s breakfast,’ Doud muttered, under his breath – but not quietly enough.

  ‘You, sir!’ Swaine rounded on him. ‘Damn your sly ways – I heard your vile words. Y’ think to slander your ship, do you? Bo’sun! Do you gag this infernal rogue.’

  Kydd watched with growing anger as Stiles found an iron marline spike, which he forced between Doud’s teeth, securing it in place with spun-yarn. The quarterdeck fell quiet at the manifest injustice. Doud would wear the ‘gag’ until given leave to remove it.

  Seaflower made the open sea and shaped course for Port Antonio, some small hours away. There they landed their packets and bags and took on two slim packages before resuming their voyage to St Kitts and thence Barbados.

  Kydd thought it an unworthy spite that Swaine did not have the gag removed until after the noon meal – and the grog issue. In the way of sailors Doud would later enjoy their sympathy and illegally saved rum, but that was not the point.

  A fine north-easterly had them bowling along the familiar passage south of Hispaniola and by evening they had the precipitous knife shape of Cape Rojo abeam. ‘Up spirits’ was piped, but there was not the usual happy hum on the berth-deck as the grog was measured out. The popular Doud was well plied with good cheer, but all the talk was on the Captain’s character.

  Watch-on-deck turned to; there was not a lot for them to do in the steady sailing weather, and they hunkered down in the warm breeze. Doud made himself comfortable on the main-hatch gratings and, looking soulfully at the stars began singing softly, his voice coarsened with rum:

  ‘’Tis of a flash frigate, La Pique was her name,

  All in the West Indies she bore a great name;

  For cruelly bad using of every degree,

  Like slaves in the galley we ploughed the salt sea.

  So now, brother shipmates, where’er ye may be

  From all fancy frigates I’d have ye steer free . . .’