Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

  Too late Doud recognised the dark figure of Swaine looming and scrambled to his feet. ‘Do y’ wan’ the second verse?’ he said truculently, to his captain.

  Swaine didn’t answer at first. Then he bawled, ‘Mr Merrick!’ down the deck to the helm.

  ‘Aye, sir?’ said the boatswain, hurrying to the scene.

  ‘What’s this, that you have a man on watch beastly drunk?’ A thick edge to the words betrayed the Captain’s own recent acquaintance with a bottle, but there could be no answer to his question: there was a fine line to be drawn between the effect of the usual quarter-pint of spirits and that of more. Swaine turned back to Doud. ‘I came to tell this rascal to hold his noise but I see this – seize him in irons, and I shall have him before me tomorrow.’

  ‘We have no irons in Seaflower,’ said Merrick, expressionless.

  ‘Then shackle him to the gratings right here, you fool,’ Swaine hissed.

  At seven bells of the forenoon the following day, the ship’s company of Seaflower mustered on the upper deck. Kydd saw the sanctimonious expression on Swaine’s face as he gave a biting condemnation on drinking. The inevitable sentence came. ‘Twelve lashes – and be very sure I shall visit the same on any blackguard who seeks to shame his ship in this way!’ Kydd felt a cold fury building at the man’s hypocrisy.

  Doud was stripped and tied to the main shrouds facing outboard. Stiles came forward, slipping the ugly length of the cat out of its bag. He took position amidships and experimentally swung the lash, then looked at Swaine.

  ‘Bo’sun’s mate – do your duty.’ There was none of the panoply of drumbeat and marines, just the sickening lash at regular intervals and the grunts and gasps of the prisoner. Seaflower’s company stood and watched the torment, but Kydd knew that a defining moment had been reached. The fine spirit that had been Seaflower’s soul was in the process of departing. His messmates cut Doud down, and helped him below. On deck Swaine glanced about once, to meet sullen silence and stony gazes.

  The cutter sped on over the sparkling seas, but the magic was ebbing. Kydd felt her imperfections slowly surfacing, much as a falling out of love: the suddenly noticed inability to stand up below, the continual canting of the decks with her fore-and-aft rig, the discomfort of her small size. He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind.

  Parkin was mastheaded at three bells for ‘rank boneheadedness’ but at the beginning of the first dog-watch it was Stirk who ran afoul of the increasingly ill-tempered Swaine; told to flat in the soaring jib he turned and ambled forward, his scorn for the uselessness of the order only too plain. ‘You bloody dog!’ raved Swaine. ‘Contemptuous swine! But I’ll see your backbone at the main shrouds tomorrow – silent contempt – depend upon it. Mr Merrick!’

  Shackled on deck Stirk was a pitiful sight, not so much in degradation but in the sight of a fine seaman brought to such a pass. Merrick carefully avoided the side of the deck where Stirk lay, but Stiles merely stepped around him – in the morning he would be the one to swing the cat on Stirk’s back and there was no room for sentiment in a boatswain’s mate.

  The evening arrived, and with it a convenient anchorage off an island south of Hispaniola. Seaflower immediately swung on her anchor to face into an offshore current of quite some strength, and as soon as the longboat was placed in the water it streamed astern to the full length of its painter, ready with its oars aboard for any lifesaving duty.

  ‘Holding should be good even so,’ Jarman told Kydd. ‘Sand an’ mud because o’ the river yonder.’ Swaine disappeared and, after securing the vessel at her moorings, supper was piped.

  It would be a dispiriting meal. Thinking of Stirk, Kydd winced as he heard rain roaring on the deck overhead. The berth-deck filled as men chose its heat and fug over the deluge above, leaving the luckless lookouts and Stirk the only ones topside.

  ‘What cheer, Luke?’ Kydd said, when the lad brought the mess kid of supper. Luke didn’t look up, his bowed head sparking concern in Kydd. ‘How’s this?’ he tried again, but the boy didn’t respond. ‘Luke, ol’ cuffin, are you––’

  ‘He called me names, Mr Kydd, no call fer that,’ Luke said, in a low voice. His eyes were brimming. He had served the Captain first, so there was no need to know who it was had taken it out on this willing soul.

  ‘F’r shame, o’ course,’ Kydd said softly, ‘but a good sailorman knows how t’ take hard words fr’m his officers.’

  Luke stared back obstinately. ‘But he called me . . . it ain’t right what ’e called me.’ He turned and, with great dignity, left.

  ‘I seen bilge rats worth more’n he, the shonky fuckster,’ Doggo growled.

  Renzi said nothing, but stared at the table. Kydd tried to lift the mood: if things got worse, Seaflower could easily turn into a hell-ship. ‘There’s no one seen him with a Frenchie in sight – could be he’s a right tartar, he gets a smell o’ prize money.’

  ‘Don’t talk such goose-shit, cully,’ Stiles said wearily.

  The table lapsed into a morose quiet, and the wash of talk outside on the larger berth-deck became plain. Patch’s voice came through loud, his tone bitter. ‘I tell yer, we flogs up ’n’ down the Caribbee in this ol’ scow, yer ain’t never goin’ ter feel a cobb in yer bung again!’

  ‘Yair, but––’ someone began.

  Patch’s tone rose in contempt. ‘Drops hook fer the night, never ’eard o’ such shy tricks. We choked up inter this squiddy cutter . . .’ The never-ceasing background babble rose and fell, and Kydd pictured the pugnacious seaman glaring wildly about. ‘. . . blast me eyes if it don’t stick in m’ craw, nothin’ but this fer ever . . .’

  There were sounds of scuffling and mess traps falling to the deck, then Alvarez calling, ‘Where ye goin’ camarada?’

  ‘Topsides – I’ve had a gutful.’

  ‘Wait––’

  Kydd met Renzi’s eyes. ‘It can only get worse,’ said Renzi slowly. Kydd knew he was right: Seaflower’s captain was alienating his own ship’s company, treating them as some necessary evil in his own problem.

  Kydd agreed. ‘No chance o’ this one gettin’ a promotion out o’ Seaflower,’ he added. The probability was that he had been given the command of a lowly cutter to satisfy some Byzantine relationship of obligation, knowing that he would not be put to the test so easily. Seaflower would gradually decay from within, her heart and spirit wilting and fading under the disinterest and neglect of her captain. It was intolerable that the willing and exuberant soul of their vessel was to be wasted so.

  A discordant sound – it might have been a muffled shout, thumping – jarred Kydd’s ear against the general noises. It seemed to originate from on deck. If the lookouts had failed to see an approaching attack in time . . . Kydd scrambled to his feet. ‘Somethin’ amiss on deck.’

  Renzi did not move, but looked up with a dry smile. ‘I can conceive that Toby Stirk may well be a trifle restless!’

  No one else seemed to have noticed as he forced his way aft. Kydd had no idea what would he would see on deck, and his mouth went dry as he mounted the ladder. It was dark, and he stopped short of emerging on deck while he blinked furiously, trying to pierce the murk. It had stopped raining, but the deck was wet and slippery. He caught movement around the stern but could not detect any other as he climbed out on to the upper deck.

  He hurried aft, to where bumps and thuds sounded, and nearly fell over the lookout, who was on all fours trying to pick himself up. Kydd looked around hastily. In the longboat were Patch, Alvarez and two others. Patch had his knife, was sawing at the painter. Kydd shouted, and the chorus of snarls and laughter from the boat as it fell away left no doubt as to what they intended. The oars came out and it disappeared quickly into the night.

  ‘What is it?’ puffed Merrick, appearing next to him.

  ‘Deserters,’ Kydd replied. ‘Skelped th’ lookout an’ took the longboat.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Patch, Alvarez ’n’ a couple of others.’

 
Desertion was a continual worry for the navy – a good seaman could greatly improve his wages in the merchant service, or do even better by shipping out in a privateer. Theoretically, it could be punished by death or, worse, flogging around the Fleet, but practical considerations usually led captains who recovered men to treat the offence lightly rather than lose a good hand. But Swaine . . .

  ‘Get below an’ tell the Captain,’ Merrick muttered. Without another boat there could be no pursuit.

  Kydd went down by the after companion, and knocked at the door. ‘Cap’n, sir!’ he called.

  There was movement inside, and the unmistakable clink of glass. ‘What is it?’ came a hoarse reply through the closed door.

  ‘Sir, the longboat’s been taken b’ deserters.’

  At first there was no response, then Swaine’s angry face appeared. ‘Deserters? Did y’ say deserters?’ He pulled on his coat. The thick odour of drink in the tiny cabin turned Kydd’s stomach.

  ‘Vile set o’ lubbers, I’ll have y’r livers at the gangway t’morrow, try me like this!’ The diatribe continued until Swaine had made the upper deck, where he staggered upright. ‘Poxy crew, this’s an aggravated offence an’ I’ll see you all at th’ yardarm, so I will!’ he shrieked into the darkness.

  To his disgust Kydd saw that Swaine had on his naval officer’s coat, but no breeches. Lurching along the deck forward Swaine continued until he came to Stirk, still shackled to the main-hatch grating. ‘Don’ ye dare cross my bows li’ that, y’ scowbunkin’ brute,’ he snarled, kicking viciously at Stirk, who recoiled against the blow. It threw Swaine off-balance – he flung out an arm to seize a shroud batten, but missed, and fell headlong into the sea.

  The current carried him swiftly down the side of Seaflower, splashing and choking. A line was thrown but Swaine was in no condition to snatch it, and within seconds he was disappearing into the dark astern. The knot of men stood paralysed. There was no boat to go to the rescue, and nervous eyes turned to the boatswain. ‘We has to get under way an’ go after him,’ Merrick said, shaken.

  Jarman appeared, drawing on his shirt. ‘No! We have blashy weather an’ coral under our lee, no time t’ be standing in t’ the land in the dark––’

  ‘Y’ misses m’ point!’ Merrick said, in a stronger voice, and with a peculiar emphasis. ‘I says we have t’ get under way, Mr Jarman.’

  Jarman stared at the boatswain. Then his face turned mask-like, and he replied, ‘O’ course we must.’ It was madness – but there was a chilling reason for the dramatic play. Each of the warrant officers was acting a part, knowing that every word and action would replay at the court of investigation that was certain to come.

  ‘Haaands to unmoor ship!’ Stiles’ pipe was made in a complete and appalled silence, the deck filling with apprehensive men. No good would come of this night, that much was clear, but they would go through the motions all night if need be.

  At noon the next day Seaflower sombrely reversed her course after spending all night and the following morning searching for her captain. His body was never found. At Port Royal Jarman and Merrick both went to the flagship; they swiftly returned, and with them a lieutenant and file of marines. Seaflower was effectively under arrest.

  The court of inquiry was over almost as quickly as it was convened – the overwhelming number of witnesses made it so, and it became clear that their evidence concerning Swaine came not as a complete surprise.

  Kydd felt a pressing need to be out of Seaflower, ashore and somewhere different, and when it was learned that the new captain would not be appointed for some time, he lost no time in suggesting that he and Renzi call on Cecilia.

  The housekeeper’s disapproving look was just the same, but when Cecilia hurried to the door Kydd was amazed. ‘Thomas, my dear!’ she cried gaily. ‘How sweet of you to call!’ She kissed him soundly, then noticed Renzi with a bob and dropped eyes.

  ‘Cec, you look so, er, in rousin’ trim!’ Kydd said awkwardly. And, indeed, there was colour in her cheeks, her eyes held their usual sparkle and the warm vivacity of her nature shone through.

  ‘Yes, dear, life must go on, must it not?’ she said quickly. ‘And you, Thomas, are you not the picture of good health?’

  It was established that the men would stay for an evening meal. Cecilia quickly took charge. ‘I shall invite Jane, of course, and I want you to meet her betrothed – it’s so exciting!’ Dinner would be in the front parlour due to the unexpected number of guests, and Kydd helped the frosty housekeeper with the table.

  As Cecilia laid places and bustled about, she told Kydd and Renzi her news. ‘Lady Charlotte – that’s the wife of Lord Frederick Stanhope – met me at Mrs Burchell’s rout!’ The idea of a Kydd meeting a noble lady socially was astonishing. ‘It’s the very place to meet people, here in the colonies, you know, Thomas. It would never do in Guildford, would it?’ Her infectious laugh made Renzi smile.

  Then she went on, her manner a fetching mix of youth and sophistication, ‘And you’d never guess, she wants me to be her companion when they go travelling.’ Kydd said the expected, and Renzi murmured encouragement, and she concluded, with what looked suspiciously like a pout, ‘Who knows who I may meet on our travels? Why, there are gentlemen in this part of the world worth millions.’

  They sat down to table with only the barest discussion as to seating; Jane’s intended was a young ensign of Foot in regimentals and quite at a loss when confronted with a requirement to sup with a brace of thoroughbred sailors. ‘Wine, er, gentlemen?’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Renzi said. He twirled the glass elegantly before a candle. ‘I do find the Margaux a martyr to travel – this colour has a pallid quality, perhaps not your foremost cru.’

  Kydd dabbed his lips with his napkin: those weeks up-country had not been wasted. He raised his eyes and said unctuously, ‘Y’r claret is a sensitive flower, o’ course. F’r m’self a hardy Burgundy would be more t’ my taste,’ he added easily. ‘I’d recommend a Chablis were we t’ be granted a breeze-mill in the cooling. But y’r very good health, sir.’

  It was worth the pain of all Renzi’s patient efforts just to see the expressions around the table.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Name’s Kernon,’ said Doud, ‘an’ I don’t think we’re goin’ ter have the same kind o’ grief fr’m him.’ He finished his seaming of the jib and bit the thread. ‘’Sides, he sets me up as yeoman of the store-room,’ he added, with satisfaction. This made him a man of influence, of some moment in the small ship, for he was in charge of the boatswain’s sea-stores.

  ‘Give y’ joy, Ned,’ said Kydd. He’d only been back on board an hour or two, and there were definite signs of improvement about Seaflower.

  Doggo smiled grudgingly. ‘O’ course, we lost s’ many men b’ deserting, Cap’n just has to fin’ senior ’ands fr’m somewhere.’

  Renzi came up on deck. ‘What cheer, mate,’ said Doggo, ‘an’ what’s the griff?’ Renzi, acting as clerk to the Captain, would know ship’s secrets.

  ‘I’m not so certain that I should allow Captain Kernon’s confidences to become public property,’ he said, frowning. Kydd caught his quick wink.

  ‘Publick? We’s yer backbone o’ the ship, has t’ be in on th’ noos so we c’n plan things out, like. C’mon, tell us what yer knows!’ Doggo’s hoarse wheedling brought a grin to Kydd’s face.

  Renzi leaned forward and said earnestly, ‘This must not get out – it’s of the first importance to the future of this ship.’

  ‘We understands, mate,’ said Doggo eagerly.

  ‘Ship is under sailing orders!’

  ‘Yeah, we knows that.’

  ‘And tonight . . .’ Renzi halted, looking dubious.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well . . . it involves your own good self, you understand.’

  ‘Strike me dead – clap on more sail ’n’ get on wi’ it!’

  ‘Tonight – but we’re so short-handed . . .’

  Doggo drew a deep b
reath, but before he could erupt, Renzi ended, ‘. . . that you’re to lead a press-gang!’

  ‘Press-gang?’ Doggo spluttered.

  Kydd grinned broadly.

  ‘And Thomas Kydd is to assist him . . .’

  The grin vanished. It was now years since Kydd had been a victim of the Press; in the frigate Artemis there had been no pressed men in her famous voyage around the world. And since his lucky rescue from the dockyards to Seaflower he had had no contact with pressed men. Now Seaflower had to fall back on impressing hands from wherever she could.

  ‘Where ’re we raidin’, do y’ think?’ Doud asked. It was well-nigh impossible to attract good seamen to a King’s ship in the Caribbean – there were too many better-paid berths competing; merchant ships commanded good rates to man ships for the Atlantic run, and privateers could rely on the lure of fat prizes.

  ‘Kingston town, I’d wager,’ said Doggo, his face alive at the prospect of the entertainment. ‘Port Royal ’ll be awake up ter the press-gang.’

  ‘I can’t do it, Nicholas,’ Kydd muttered into his grog, at the noon meal. ‘I knows about it, is all,’ he finished lamely.

  Regarding him steadily Renzi appreciated that Kydd was exploring his feelings and needed to talk. ‘So pressing men is an unmitigated evil?’ he said coolly.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Kydd retorted.

  ‘Some would say it’s nought but slavery.’

  ‘So what’s t’ do if there’s not enough t’ man th’ Fleet?’ Kydd said heatedly. Then he subsided. ‘You’re turnin’ it all around as usual, Nicholas. But you can’t argue with me that tearin’ a man fr’m his family an’ all is a fine thing, dammit!’

  Renzi lifted his pot and said, before taking a pull at his grog, ‘Then may I hear what it is you propose in its place?’

  Kydd’s slow smile was his answer, and Renzi grinned back. ‘So, we are overborne by logic. It is a disagreeable necessity while we cannot find any other means. Therefore you shall do your duty tonight, as is your bounden obligation.’