Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

At an hour before midnight, Seaflower’s press-gang formed up on the waterfront of Kingston town. ‘Do ye mark what I say,’ Merrick said. ‘Ye knows the rules – no violence. If they tries ter run, tip ’em a settler on th’ calabash.’ He seemed unperturbed by the contradiction, but nodded at the nervous civilian next to him. ‘This ’ere is a sheriff’s man come t’ see fair play.’

  Plans were laid. The Sign of the Mermaid would be their victim, away from the centre of the waterfront, and it was hoped to take hands from a merchant ship carousing after a long, hard voyage across the Atlantic. The boatswain would stand back and allow Doggo, experienced at the press-gang, to lead in when all exits had been covered.

  Kydd eased his broad belt with its cutlass. This would only be drawn if things grew ugly, and then there would be an accounting to the shore authorities. The main persuaders the party carried were stretchers from the longboat, the narrow lengths of wood against which the rowers braced their feet.

  A brief memory of the Horse and Groom three years ago in Guildford flashed by, when sailors of a press-gang had burst in to change his life for ever. But he had secretly to acknowledge that there was no question as to which life he now wanted.

  ‘So let’s get under weigh,’ grunted the boatswain, and they padded off at the trot. A few late-night citizens out on the street stared at the sailors, and there were scurries in the shadows.

  Without speaking, Merrick indicated their positions outside the well-lit seamen’s tavern. From within a riot of noise surged and fell, cackles of laughter and rumbles of conversation showing they were not expected, but the operation would not be easy: this was no gathering of unsuspecting rural lads.

  The boatswain winked at Doggo who threw open the door and thrust inside. ‘So who’s fer a life on the rollin’ sea? An’ we c’n even save yez the trouble o’ payin’ yer reckoning!’ he grated, into the falling silence. His stretcher tapped slowly in his palm.

  A female screech pierced the blue haze: ‘The fuckin’ press!’ There was instant pandemonium. Tables and chairs scattered as men leaped to their feet in their race for freedom. Into the chaos poured the Seaflowers. Kydd, right behind Doggo, sprang after one likely fellow and seized his collar, managing to avoid a wildly swinging fist. The man faced him, glaring and panting.

  ‘Now, cully, y’r taken fair ’n’ square––’ At this, the man charged, head down. None too gently Kydd tapped him on the head with his stretcher and he fell to all fours. Around them the scrimmage died away: there was no contest between a sober, determined press-gang and their fuddled victims.

  Merrick strode into the taproom, looking pleased at the sight of the eight they had secured. ‘Well, boys, it’s a life in the navy fer youse now. But I’m remindin’ yer, y’ c’n still enter as a volunteer . . .’ One of the eight saw the inevitability of the situation and accepted the offer, but the others threw bitter looks at the Seaflowers and stayed mute.

  Kydd’s man got to his feet slowly, murder in his eyes. Two Seaflowers began to hand him outside, but at that moment there was a scuffle at the entrance and a dishevelled woman appeared, heavily pregnant, looking around wildly. Two ragamuffin children clutched her skirts, wide-eyed with fear. ‘No!’ she shrieked, when she saw the man. ‘Not m’ Billy! You can’t – God save us, leave ’im!’ She threw herself at the feet of the boatswain, her sobs harsh and piteous.

  ‘Now, then, m’dear, y’r husband’s off t’ join Seaflower, as fine a man-o’-war as ever swam!’ Merrick stuttered, clearly put out by the woman’s emotion.

  One of the captives pushed forward. ‘God rot it, leave jus’ Billy Cundy, yer brute, yer has enough.’ The two children rushed to Cundy’s side and clung to him, crying brokenly.

  ‘Leave us m’ Billy – an’ look on these innocents! Oh, God, what shall I do?’ The woman sobbed into her pinafore and patted her belly meaningfully.

  Merrick shifted uncomfortably. ‘This is all very distressin’, I c’n see that. Perhaps we’ll stretch a point in th’ case of y’r Billy boy . . .’

  ‘Oh, sir, if yer c’n see yer way clear, the bantlings’ll pray fer y’r soul every night . . .’

  She tailed off when Doggo and two others descended the stairs with two more prospectives, still in their night attire. ‘What cheer, Sally?’ Doggo said, with a grin, taking in the scene. He crossed over to her and the woman’s eyes widened fearfully. With one hand he seized her wrists, the other he forced up her skirt.

  She screamed in outrage – but Doggo withdrew a large cushion, which he flourished aloft. ‘Still up ter yer tricks, then, y’ saucy tomrig.’ Her hands turned to claws as she flew at him, but Doggo held her at arm’s length until her struggles subsided.

  ‘Take ’im out,’ said Merrick, annoyed at being caught out.

  But the mood in the taproom had changed rapidly, from laughter at the deception to a very real anger. Billy Cundy whipped round to the others: ‘They ain’t about t’ take Billy Boy wi’out they has a fight – an’ if we get took one b’ one, it’s all over wi’ us. Our only chance is a fair fight all together!’

  He threw himself at Kydd, and they went down together. The tavern exploded into riot. Lanterns were caught and doused, screams and hoarse curses mixing with the splintering of furniture in the gloom. Kydd landed a punch on the side of Cundy’s head, but was enveloped in a beery bear-hug. This allowed his ‘wife’ to sit astride Kydd’s back while she seized his hair and yanked it back agonisingly.

  A barrelling body abruptly relieved Kydd of her weight. The tears in his eyes clearing, Kydd set about subduing Cundy, but the riotous diversion had attracted others from outside and the press-gang found itself outnumbered. The boatswain’s piercing call of ‘belay’ sounded, urging them to retreat while they could.

  Cundy, nose bloody but still full of fight, laughed coarsely in Kydd’s face. Kydd saw red. He pulled the man to his feet and hooked him by his torn shirt. ‘Aye, but ye’re with us, cully!’ Fending off flying bodies he propelled the man to the door, where two Seaflowers secured his thumbs behind his back with spun-yarn.

  The boatswain brought a charging man to a sudden stop with an efficient straight-arm blow and, giving one last look around, left, Kydd and his prize following. Outside, a crowd was gathering, menacing the sailors who looked anxiously at the boatswain. ‘Move,’ he said harshly. The sheriff’s man was nowhere to be seen. Surrounding their victims the Seaflowers bullied them off down the street, screaming women throwing dirt after them while gleeful children ran alongside.

  The tumult settled only when they boarded their boat and shoved off. ‘Small pickin’s fer our troubles,’ grumbled one sailor. For all the sore heads and bloody noses there were only three men to show: Cundy, the volunteer and one other, the remainder of their catch lost in the rough-and-tumble. This would hardly count in the need to replace the deserters who had taken the first opportunity to run after the cutter had made port.

  ‘Mates, it ain’t over yet, an’ I has me spies out,’ Doggo said hopefully, but it was a long pull back to Seaflower. In anticipation of a haul of pressed men she had anchored with the Fleet and its regular pinnace rowguard.

  ‘So, you has information,’ the boatswain said doubtfully.

  ‘An’ reliable,’ answered Doggo. ‘You’ll unnerstan’ I has t’ sweeten m’ man after, like.’

  ‘We will,’ said the boatswain shortly. ‘Th’ Press musters at three bells this forenoon.’

  Kydd reserved judgement on the wisdom of a raid in full daylight. They headed off not for Kingston but to Port Royal. Scornful jeers met their landing and taunts followed their progress through the shabby streets. ‘Here we is,’ Doggo said. With a frown he consulted his paper: his tip-off turned out to be a cooper’s yard near the dockyard wall, with the usual two-storey living quarters within.

  ‘This yer information?’ said Merrick contemptuously. The Seaflowers were in strength, Doud, Stirk and Stiles ready for anything, but looked ill-at-ease at the risk of being made a laughing stock.

  Do
ggo looked confused, but rallied. ‘We’ll ’ave prime man-huntin’ here, Mr Merrick – me man says as how there’ll be nine top hands restin’ quietly after a long v’y’ge, an’ all unsuspectin’ – be sure on it!’

  Seamen took up positions and the press-gang entered the yard. Some coopers, knocking down barrels into their constituent staves for better portability at sea, looked up. Doggo pushed through them to the two-storey dwelling and thrust inside, Kydd and the others following close behind. Three women in the front parlour paused in their darning of coarse sea stockings, but there were no men anywhere. The sailors swung out to the stairs on the outside of the house and clattered up, bursting into the first bedroom they found.

  ‘Should ye be wantin’ a dose of the yellow fever, ye’re welcome,’ said a doctor, easing a poultice on to the poor wretch writhing in pain. The sailors whitened and left hurriedly. Gingerly they entered another bedroom, but this one held an old woman rocking in her chair and her daughter at a large cradle.

  ‘Stap me, but you’ve led us a rare dance, mate,’ snarled Merrick to Doggo. The women looked on, quite as if they were used to having their privacy invaded by hard seamen with cudgels and cutlasses. The daughter smiled demurely at Kydd, who blushed.

  Even Stirk seemed abashed, his big hands shifting awkwardly. ‘Aaah,’ he said, and crossed to the cradle to pay his respects. The daughter’s smile disappeared and the old lady stopped rocking. ‘Aah! Dear liddle diddums.’ Stirk stretched to tickle the infant under the chin – then straightened abruptly. ‘Be buggered! An’ that’s th’ biggest baby I seen in m’ life!’ He wrenched away the covers revealing a lithe lad with all the muscular development to be expected of a first-class topman. The youngster leaped up, only to be collared by a laughing Stirk.

  The old woman’s race to the stairs was astonishing to see, but in vain, and the daughter had no chance with Kydd. ‘Take her,’ he told a nearby Seaflower. ‘Toby, I got a feelin’ the yellow jack next door’s goin’ to recover a mort sharpish!’ There would be no danger for Kydd if he were wrong, for he, of course, had lifelong immunity.

  The women darning had broken for the street but had easily been rounded up under the dumbfounded gaze of the coopers in the yard. ‘Don’t ye give no mind t’ us,’ Kydd called, as they passed, but Merrick stopped. He turned to face the coopers. They went back reluctantly to work under his gaze, but the boatswain did not move on: his unblinking stare seemed to make the workers nervous. They had finished knocking down the barrels to staves and now should take up tools to shape the raw wood of a cask head, but they shamefacedly tailed off . . .

  ‘Come along wi’ me, then, my little lambs,’ the boatswain said.

  Captain Kernon could not have been more of a contrast to Seaflower’s previous commanders. A grey, cautious lieutenant, he smacked of reliability before initiative. His words to the ship’s company on reading his commission were careful and considerate, but were notable more for the ‘do nots’ than the ‘do this’.

  Seaflower left Port Royal with her pennant streaming, bound for the Spanish Main across the width of the Caribbean. But, to Renzi’s disappointment, it seemed they would not be touching on the vast continent to the south, with its lure of amazing wild creatures and history of blood and conquest. Instead, as Kydd explained, having studied their passage plans with Jarman, they were to reconnoitre Aruba, an island off the mouth of the vast Gulf of Venezuela.

  ‘A Dutch island,’ Renzi said, with interest.

  ‘Are they not our friends?’ Kydd remembered hazily that the United Provinces had been one of the first to declare an alliance with Britain in the feverish times in the days following the guillotining of the French king.

  ‘I believe not,’ Renzi said.

  ‘Ah, so chance o’ plunder,’ Stirk growled.

  ‘Not as who would say,’ Renzi continued. ‘If you remember, the French invaded last year and we now must call their country the Batavian Republic.’

  ‘So it’s French.’

  ‘Again, we cannot say. I saw recently that William the Fifth, who is your Stadtholder of Holland, has crossed the Channel seeking refuge at King George’s court. He still rules – or so we must accept. I think it an imprudent commander who makes the assumption that his possessions are for their plundering.’

  ‘They are our allies?’ asked Kydd, in disbelief.

  ‘It is safe to say that they are neither our friends nor our enemies. I rather fancy that our enterprise is one of prudent enquiry.’

  ‘Spying,’ said Kydd.

  ‘Judicious reconnaissance.’

  The ship sailed on, knifing through the slight swell southward, and Kydd felt contentment build. Seaflower seemed to realise this, and lay more snugly to the quartering wind, the hiss of her passage always at the same eager pitch but rising and falling in volume. Kydd sent the helmsman below for an early supper and took the helm himself, letting the recurved tiller press against his hip with the slight weather helm.

  Out to starboard a fine sunset promised: he and Renzi would probably sit on the main-hatch gratings and see out the dog-watches in companionable conversation. Muffled laughter eddied up from below as supper was served at the mess tables. The watch on deck sat forward, little to do but spin yarns and watch the night steal in.

  Reluctantly, Kydd gave up the tiller to the relief helmsman and murmured the hand-over mantra to the quartermaster’s mate relieving him, together with the slate of course details. Luke arrived with a plate of supper and he joined Renzi forward. The golden sunset spread gradually and silently to a vast scarlet spectacle, an unfolding heavenly splendour perfectly unobstructed to the far bounds of the darkling seas. It was not a time for idle talk and the two friends took their victuals in appreciative silence.

  When Luke came with their grog pots, Renzi took out his clay pipe and prepared it, letting the fragrance of the smoke drift away until it was whisked into nothing by the higher stream of air above the bulwarks. ‘Little enough chance of a prize,’ he said idly.

  At first Kydd didn’t reply. Then he gave a small smile and, still gazing at the copper ball of the sinking sun, said, ‘But ye have other things in y’ sea life, Nicholas.’

  ‘A sight better than town or country alike, these troubling times.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kydd, his eyes still on the majesty of the sunset. ‘Nicholas, I’ve been thinkin’ over what y’ said before,’ he said slowly, ‘about betterin’ m’self.’ He eased himself to a more comfortable position. ‘I own that it would be very agreeable t’ see m’self in a gunroom as master’s mate, an’ in course o’ time to take m’ ticket with Trinity House as sailin’ master – is that idle dreamin’, do ye think?’

  A master in the Royal Navy was as high as it was professionally possible for a seaman to go: he had his own cabin and advised the Captain himself. Kydd was a natural seaman, having the skills and rare combination of moral courage in a decision with an instinctual understanding of the sea. Yet he was only a few years into the sea-service – but that, by fortunate coincidence, in some of the most testing regions of the globe. It would not be impossible. ‘Indeed it is not, given the time and opportunity, dear fellow.’ Renzi smiled. ‘Who knows? This war is spreading like a canker over Europe and its dominions. Soon England will be wanting every man of skill and enterprise to man its fleets. Your course is set fair for the greatest things.’

  Kydd’s secret smile did not escape Renzi.

  ‘You may find it happens sooner than you expect,’ he added.

  Shifting uncomfortably, Kydd hesitated, then said, ‘Rattlin’ good news from Cecilia, she meetin’ this Lady Stanhope an’ being rated companion. D’ye think she’ll make a good ’un?’

  In turn Renzi paused. ‘Inasmuch as she values politeness above all things, a quality her brother is only now achieving, yes, she has the vivacity, or we might say the liveliness of wit, that the position requires . . .’ he said drily.

  When the smoky blue of Aruba island rose grand and distant in the shimmering sea the
next day, Seaflower shortened sail and altered away to stand off and on until night stole in. ‘Mr Jarman, I will not risk the vessel by closing on Oranjested,’ Kernon announced.

  Jarman looked uncomfortable. This was taking caution to the limit: a cutter like Seaflower had reconnaissance as one of its main purposes, and risks had to be taken. The harbour might well have a larger warship ready to put to sea in chase, but this was an acceptable part of their duty.

  ‘I have it in mind to despatch the longboat to oversee the port,’ Kernon continued. This was hard on the boat’s crew but would reduce the risk to Seaflower. ‘I will need a steady hand to command, one with the sea knowledge and the skill to navigate the boat there, and back to the rendezvous.’

  Kydd stepped forward and touched his hat. ‘Sir, I have m’ figurin’ an’ can do this.’

  Kernon said nothing, ignoring Kydd, and continuing to regard Jarman gravely.

  ‘It’ll be me who takes th’ boat, o’ course, sir,’ Jarman said calmly. ‘You’ll have y’r chance in good time, lad – please be s’ good as to assist the Captain. Sir, Kydd is a fine quartermaster and knows his charts. I leave him with ye.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jarman, I knew I could rely on you. Kydd, please to wait on me presently with the charts. We approach the island at dusk.’

  The reality was more perturbing than Kydd had imagined: the sea details to be won from the austere lines of a chart – the bearings, tide sets, implied wind variants inshore – were exercises in imagination compared to the reality on deck: a moonless night, the longboat bobbing alongside being boarded by Jarman and four men, who must push off into the blackness and trust that Seaflower would be in exactly the same position for their return. The quiet faith of others in his powers – this was the true end of his sea learning.

  A barricoe of water was passed down: they would be holed up for a day in the craggy hills overlooking the port and would rendezvous the next night. There was little chatter, and when Jarman was ready, he climbed into the boat, settled his hat and ordered, ‘Bear off for’ard – give way together.’