The boat slipped into the darkness and out of human ken; Kydd’s farewell wave faltered when Jarman did not look back. Seaflower’s sheets were taken up and she surged ahead, safely out to sea on a fixed course. At a calculated time, she would reverse her heading and run down the line back to this position – in theory. The wind dying or freshening, and her speed over the ground would be different. An unsuspected current in these heated tropical seas, roiling to the surface at right-angles to their course, would displace her bodily from her intended track – even the shape and strength of waves at different aspects of the hull would result in a deflecting.
Kydd watched intently as the watch prepared to launch the logship. This triangular float would be cast astern with a log-line to measure the ship’s speed. Kydd himself held the twenty-eight-second sand-glass, and when the logship had exactly reached its mark he instantly inverted it and stared at it by the small light of a dark-lanthorn. The log-line whipped away from the roller held above his head by a seaman until Kydd saw the last sand grains slipping away. ‘Stand by!’ he growled. The glass emptied. ‘Nip!’ he bawled, and the point reached by the log-line was noted. The number of knots tied at equal distance that passed out with the line would give the speed directly. While his crew hauled in the wet log-line, Kydd chalked in the speed on the slate, and set about worrying over the wind direction.
Kernon was cautious, but considerate: he treated Kydd like a master, consulting and discussing, allowing Kydd’s concerns but meeting them with his greater experience. The next day wore on, and the evening drew in. Now was the testing time, whether the miracle could take place of a conjuncture in the dark out at sea of the two craft.
In the last of the light as they headed in once more, Kydd yet again took bearings of the headland and single islet that he had selected as his seamarks, additionally using Jarman’s octant to determine their angle laterally, fixing their position by triangulation. The geometry was not onerous, but still intimidated Kydd, and he was grateful for Renzi’s easy way with the formulae. He was only just beginning to see them not as some kind of machine that took in raw ingredients and out the other end came a neat and finished product; now he could, with Renzi’s insights, dimly discern the elegance and fine reasoning behind them.
The moonless night was impenetrable, the soughing breeze and shipboard noises reducing awareness to a narrow circle of perceptions. The boat might be either in their path – or passing blindly by. ‘Mr Merrick,’ said Kernon, consulting his fob watch. There was fumbling in the gloom and sparks flew in the wind. A red glow and fizzing, then a blinding blue light issued from a wooden tube held aloft by a seaman. The acrid smoke caused Kydd to choke, but the ghostly blue radiance shone out into the night in a goblin splendour, and threw the vast mainsail into a stark, pale relief. The tube spluttered busily and hissed, pouring towers of cloud downwind, each man on deck motionless and bathed in the unearthly light.
‘Deck hoooo!’ The cry from forward was quickly followed by the challenge, ‘Booooat ahoy!’ and a faint cry from out in the blackness. Seaflower altered course – and her company was made whole once more.
Their welcome at Port Royal was puzzling: a lowly cutter returning from her servile duties, yet before she had taken up her moorings her number was hung out importantly on the flagship summoning her captain, and a pinnace pulled energetically from the shore.
‘Barbados – an’ not a moment t’ be lost!’ the dockyard functionary said with relish. ‘Lord ’n’ Lady Stanhope an’ one other.’
Kydd recognised the name with a start, and before Captain Kernon returned from the flagship, Cecilia was aboard, gazing warily about her, something about her manner repelling Kydd’s greeting.
The boatswain called tersely for Kydd as the senior hand responsible for stowage of the hold. ‘Do you consult Miss, er, Cecilia, concernin’ the passage o’ the noble gennelman,’ he ordered.
Cecilia’s eyes flashed a warning as she drew herself up. ‘That is kind in you, Mr, er, Kydd.’
‘This way, Miss,’ Kydd mumbled, holding his hat awkwardly, and led the way to the broad midships. ‘Cecilia––’
‘Thomas, please!’ Cecilia hissed. ‘I cannot acknowledge you as kin, you must understand that. It were best that we stay at a distance, if you please.’ She looked around warily. ‘It is not often Fortune smiles on such as we, and I will not allow this opportunity to slip through my fingers.’ Kydd smiled bleakly, while Cecilia continued, ‘And, besides, you’ve no need for concern on my behalf. I rather like Lady Stanhope, she’s kind and good.’ She looked at him with a touch of defiance but more a plea for understanding.
Kydd straightened with a grin. ‘Then, Miss Cecilia, we’d better be about y’r master’s business.’
His sister was gratifyingly practical. It was urgent that Lord Stanhope reach Barbados as soon as possible to take ship for England on a matter of some high diplomacy, the details of which would be disclosed, no doubt, to Captain Kernon on his return. There was no expectation of special treatment – it was known that Seaflower was a small, but fast, vessel, best suited for the purpose, and Cecilia had personally seen that their baggage would not exceed four sea-chests in all. They themselves would board only when Seaflower was ready.
The wherry with the chests arrived at that instant, and Kydd tasked off three seamen to rig a tackle and sway them aboard. Kernon returned in some degree of distraction, giving immediate orders that his day cabin and bedplace be turned over to his noble passengers, arrangements for others to be put in train in due course.
Seaflower had to be stored for the passage and her extra passengers, and Kydd was hard put to plan the stowage and as well take in private stores required en voyage. A polite message came off from the shore enquiring whether four p.m. would be a convenient time to board. Cecilia’s approval of the cabins and Kydd’s report on stowage allowed Kernon to send a civil reply.
‘A great honour, my lord,’ Kernon said, very politely. Lord Frederick Stanhope was a thin man with oddly black eyebrows against his snow-white hair, and a slight stoop. His eyes were penetrating.
‘Thank you, Captain, for accommodating us at such a notice,’ Stanhope replied. His voice was soft but clear. His wife looked every inch the grand lady, and Kernon visibly shrank at the duty of greeting her.
‘Sir, I will show you to your cabins,’ he said, with a bow, but Lady Stanhope cut him off with a flourish of her gloved hand.
‘Nonsense. I’m sure Cecilia knows the boat by now, you have much more important work to do. Tempus fugit, Captain?’
Cecilia moved up silently on cue. Kernon took the hint, and without delay the boatswain’s mate was pealing his call, ‘Haaands to unmoor ship!’ Seaflower readied herself for sea. Kydd took position at the conn and heard a last interchange as Cecilia helped Lady Charlotte down the near-vertical ladder below. ‘Young lady, I was travelling in boats before you were born – do not fret so!’
Seaflower weighed in late afternoon and, breasting the tide, slipped along the colourful Palisades to the untidy clutter of buildings at the tip, Port Royal and Fort Charles, then gybed for the passage south.
‘If’n ye pleases,’ the boatswain rumbled, indicating to the interested party emerging on deck that they were to occupy the more spacious midships area. Kydd had used some forethought: a grinning Doud stood by to warn the noble group should the mainsail boom decide to traverse the deck in an untimely fashion.
They emerged into the open sea past reefs and islets, which Jarman took delight in pointing out – Gun Cay, Salt Pond Reef, Drunken Man’s Cay, Turtle Heads; all well known hazards to Kydd, who remained alongside the helmsman with a sharp eye. His gaze strayed occasionally to Cecilia, who stood at ease with Lady Stanhope clearly enjoying the experience. Seaflower lifted gently to the broader swells of the Caribbean when Kydd was free to hand over the conn, but it was passing strange to see his sister in such a context.
Jamaica became an anonymous patchwork of green and brown, and Kernon approached Stanh
ope. ‘We strike south first, m’ lord. In the central Caribbean we shall not be annoyed by corsairs or privateers. We then alter to th’ east, and should make landfall in Barbados in no more than three or four days, for agreeable to your request I shall bend on all sail for a fast passage.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Stanhope answered courteously. ‘Now, my wife is wondering would it be convenient if perhaps we supped on deck rather than in the cabin – not that our accommodation is in the least objectionable,’ he added hastily.
‘Of course, sir,’ said Kernon, with a wrinkled forehead. This was not an easy thing to achieve in a lively cutter. ‘However, might I take this opportunity to present Petty Officer Renzi, whom I have detailed as your personal aide, and Master Luke who will be your servant.’
Renzi stepped forward; the elegance of his small bow incongruous in his plain sea-faded seaman’s gear. He did not look at Cecilia. ‘My lord,’ he said quietly.
Lady Stanhope smiled, then glanced at her husband, who had a preoccupied expression. ‘What is it, Frederick?’ she asked curiously.
Stanhope’s face cleared. ‘Nothing, m’ dear,’ he said lightly.
Under the interested gaze of the watch on deck a table was brought up from the master’s cabin to be lashed into place next to the main gratings and both cabins were deprived of chairs so supper could then be spread.
‘Could I suggest the veal and ham pie and cold tongue, m’ lady?’ Cecilia said, standing by, eyeing Luke’s efforts with the cloth and cutlery doubtfully. ‘And the orange custard will not keep, of course.’
‘Charlotte?’ Lord Stanhope extended an arm to his wife, and politely helped her to her place, which in keeping with other sea-service furniture was compact and neat.
‘Oh, Mr Renzi, would you be so good as to open a hock for Lord Stanhope?’ said Cecilia, looking at him through her eyelashes.
Lady Charlotte watched the evening sea hiss past from her chair and sighed. ‘How wonderful, Frederick, just we two again.’ She turned to Cecilia and smiled sweetly. ‘My dear Cecilia, on this small boat we simply cannot stand on ceremony – be so good as to join us at supper.’
Blushing, Cecilia took her seat to the side and glared secretly at the grinning Luke.
‘A glass with you, my dear,’ said Stanhope. She accepted graciously, careful not to look at the waiting Renzi, standing silently in the shadows abreast the fore windlass.
Lady Stanhope leaned forward, her face alive. ‘Don’t look now, dear girl, but I do believe that you’ve made a conquest of that handsome sailor at the back of the boat.’ Unable to resist, Cecilia snatched a glance – and saw Kydd looking at her along the length of the deck from the helm.
‘I – I shall beware, milady,’ she stammered.
They made good time, and before noon the next day had shaped course eastwards to Barbados, the trade winds coming comfortably from the beam.
Jarman came on deck with a serious expression. ‘Sir, th’ glass is dropping – one-eighth inch since Port Royal, an’ still going.’
Kernon considered, his brow furrowing. ‘The reading now?’
‘Twenty-nine an’ three-fourths. I’m not happy, sir.’
‘But is this not your usual for these waters?’ Kernon seemed unwilling to face the implication. ‘Lord Stanhope will not look kindly on any delay, Mr Jarman.’
‘Sir.’
But Kernon’s face was troubled as he returned to his guests. Lady Charlotte and Cecilia thrilled at their leaping passage. They were standing right in the bows gripping a stay, mesmerised by the rush of glittering sea. Lord Stanhope, near the helm, remained preoccupied.
‘Should the weather turn out for the worse, we may have to delay, m’ lord,’ Kernon said, hesitating.
Stanhope turned, but did not speak.
‘That is, we face a blow of sorts across our path, which could be . . .’
‘You will make the right decision, of course, Captain – bearing in mind the urgency of my mission, which I now feel obliged to point out is of the utmost moment for the safety of England.’ As if to underline the point, he drew out his fine watch and consulted it.
‘I understand, my lord.’ Kernon’s grey features set in worry, and he trudged off along the deck.
Within the hour the horizon across their path subtly changed in character. To the low band of silver and dark grey of the familiar rain curtains there was now added a trace of menace – a tingeing of the clouds with tiny, subliminal amounts of copper verdigris. Kydd had seen this before, and reacted at a primal level.
‘Sir! We must return t’ Port Royal!’ Jarman’s forceful plea beat at Kernon’s resolve while Seaflower plunged on gaily with her sails flat, the taut rigging harping musically. ‘We must put about now, sir!’
Anxious looks were now being directed aft by seamen who knew of the animal savagery of sea scourged by giant winds. Kydd stole a look at the helmsman, and was comforted by his stolid performing of duty.
‘We put back to Port Royal,’ Kernon announced. It was a measure of his worry that he omitted first to consult Stanhope. ‘Ease sheets, and we take in the topsail – bear off t’ leeward and set course, um, nor’ nor’ west.’ He seemed easier, having made a decision.
Seaflower’s speed fell off and the ladies looked aft curiously. ‘If you please, ladies,’ Kernon called. He explained to the group what had to be done. Lord Stanhope frowned but said nothing, and Cecilia darted a quick look at her brother.
Kydd spoke quietly to Jarman: ‘In Trajan we could never outrun a revolvin’ storm. We worked out its position, an’ then it was bear away in the safest direction f’r us.’
Jarman nodded. ‘Aye, but in such a cockleshell we needs to go further. These tropic storms are monsters an’ go at such a gallopin’ pace – it’s not only th’ centre we needs to worry about, it’s where they’re headed. We plots the centre every hour, an’ works out a path where it’s going, an’ hope t’ God to outwit the infernal beast.’
The ugly skies loomed frighteningly quickly. The ladies stopped their marvelling and stared soberly at the massing hideousness astern. Fear struck at the sight of what nature was bringing out from its sack of terrors.
On deck seamen secured as best they could. The cutter was dead before the wind and slashed ahead at an insane rate, like a hunted animal trying to flee a carnivore. But the bearing shifted, slowly but surely, about the starboard quarter. A rain-spot spattered the folded chart that Jarman had brought from below. The tiny dots inside circles were their plot of the path of the storm marching across from the east – and curving north. ‘This is th’ worst f’r us,’ Jarman murmured. His face had a strange, detached calm that struck a shaft of icy fear through Kydd. ‘That devil will go between us an’ Port Royal. There’s no returning there now.’
They struck south, every sail drawing, then south-west into the vague direction of the reef-strewn interior of the western Caribbean, anything to keep from the path of the rampaging monster. By the dog-watches the vast dark roiling masses of cloud had reached overhead and the wind had turned edgy and fitful.
A presentiment forced itself on Kydd’s mind, born of his sea knowledge, his increasing empathy with the deep. This was going to be the time when it would claim its price for that understanding, a hard price that he knew might be his life – and then he thought of Cecilia, and felt a hot misery.
‘Sir, if you could go below it would ease our worries at this time,’ Kernon said, distracted. Lord Stanhope looked about to demur, but Lady Stanhope took him by the arm. ‘We are together, Frederick, never forget that. We will see this through with each other, my love.’ She kissed him. ‘Come! You shall read to me. Captain, any news . . .’
‘Of course, my lady.’
They turned away, arm in arm. Cecilia paused for a moment, looking into Kydd’s eyes. He felt helpless in the face of emotions that women seemed to meet with such nobility. Her eyes dropped and she went to him, clinging soundlessly for a long time. ‘Tell me . . . when . . .’ she said, in a muf
fled voice. The lump in his throat prevented Kydd answering, but he squeezed her hard. The cutter lurched under a spiteful gust.
‘Haaands to shorten sail!’ They could not run any more.
‘Cec––’ He could think of nothing to say, and she pulled herself away and staggered over the deck to the after hatchway; one last long look, and she disappeared below to face whatever unseen madness was in store.
Lifelines rigged fore and aft, square sails struck, lines prepared for frapping, pumps checked – there was not much they could achieve in their little ship. Kydd remembered the violence of a hurricane from the decks of a ship ten times the size. In this they would not survive, but they could meet their fate with courage and dignity.
They lost dead reckoning when the horizon closed about them in a welter of white: from now on they might be anywhere, flying endlessly from nowhere into nothing in the cruel and uncaring storm.
Kydd remembered a true storm being painted by his first sea friend, so long ago: it was seared on his memory. ‘Comes a time when yer knows that there’s a chance yer might not live – sea jus’ tears at the barky like it was an animal, no mercy a-tall.’ Bowyer’s iron-grey deep-sea mariner’s appearance had reassured him then, but now . . .
The moaning wind turned to a banshee ululation, driving spray into Kydd’s face with a stinging spite that made it almost impossible to see. Merrick levered himself aft, shouting in the ear of every seaman he could find. In turn he came to Kydd. It was the closing act. The last remaining scraps of sail would shortly be torn away and with it any control over their fate. Seaflower was going to stream a sea-anchor: this was a drag on a line over the bows that would bring them around, bows to the sheeting chaos, the final move. Kydd’s part would be to bring them up into the wind at the right moment, after which his role as quartermaster of Seaflower would no longer have any meaning.
The tiller had relieving tackles seized to its end: Kydd could dimly perceive, crouched on the deck, the hunched bodies of the seamen who must haul on these. Through salt-sore eyes in the screaming wind, he made out the jerking figures of those working in the bows. Seas smashed in, burying them under white torrents.
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