The Guineaman

  In the weeks that followed, Spitfire lay refitting in Roberts’ shipyard at Newport. The men of the yard, though obliging and thorough in their work, made no attempt to offer Kite hospitality, nor a secret of their disapproval of Kite’s way of life. Once Puella had been seen in town, taken by Kite to buy outer garments more suitable to a northern climate and in readiness for their eventual arrival in England, an unsubtle campaign had inveighed against them. Kite withdrew to the Spitfire, concerned for Puella and her unborn child. He reconciled himself to this state of affairs insofar as it relieved him of the expense of social pretension, for he was committing much of his negotiable resources on the refit, leaving him little for further expenses. High among these was the payment of his crew. Several wished to sign off and abandon the voyage, and Kite had no desire to keep unwilling hands aboard by refusing them their wages until they reached Liverpool.

  In the end he was fortunate in shipping three young New Englanders for whom Rhode Island was a place of little attraction. One, a former clerk named Whisstock, claimed to nurse ambitions only satisfied by living in London, where he thought he could make his fortune. Kite nicknamed him Whittington, after the optimistic youngster in the fairy tale.

  The condition of the schooner had caused Kite some anxiety but in fact she had weathered her ordeal better than he had anticipated. A portion of caulking had been dislodged by the straining of the hull, but the prompt cutting away of the vessel’s top-hamper had prevented serious wracking. The Spitfire was first careened and the caulking renewed, after which the greater part of the work was in re-rigging her. In this Kite took the advice of the master-rigger, who suggested some modifications in tune with the schooners of New England, better fitted the Spitfire for a winter crossing of the North Atlantic. Inviting Jones’s opinion, Kite found the mate supporting the master-rigger’s views and so the work was put in hand. The only other modifications were the fitting of stoves in the crew’s forecastle and the cabin, where the repair work to the stern windows was extended to incorporate some additional comforts for Puella’s convenience. This latter work was done in a frosty atmosphere of severe disapproval, for Puella had nowhere to go while the carpenters laboured. Though quite indifferent on his own account, Kite was distressed at being unable to prevent this affecting Puella. She retreated into herself and Kite, preoccupied with the affairs of the schooner, had little time for her during the day and often found her withdrawn by the evening. She would crouch silently in a corner of the cabin, sometimes muttering silently to herself, communing with her spirits and talking to Dorothea. It was a disquieting reminder of her ancestry, but Kite sensed it was her way of coping with her intense loneliness, against which he was unable to offer any comfort.

  With the vessel in the hands of the shipyard, the schooner assumed the unpleasantly uncertain character of a camp on campaign. In the circumstances this was not entirely inappropriate, for during the sojourn in Rhode Island, they learned the latest news of the war. The combined forces of General Sir Jeffrey Amherst and Admiral Boscawen had been successful in capturing the great French fortress at Louisburg in July of the previous year. This was in marked contrast to the bungled attack of General Abercrombie on Fort Ticonderoga, which been ignominiously repulsed by General Montcalm. But the French military commander was in disagreement with Governor Vaudreuil and the rumours coming down from Canada, whence the British were now concentrating their effort, suggested that matters therer were coming to a head. Better news from Europe was already stale; the Duke of Brunswick had won a victory at Crefeld against the Austrians, but while the work on Spitfire was in hand, Kite heard that Brunswisk had won a second, decisive battle at Minden, on the River Weser in Hanover. Reports that the British field officer in command of the cavalry, Lord George Sackville, had disgraced himself by refusing to advance, amused the Rhode Islanders. This interest in a scandalous and gloomy addendum to the news of Minden, a battle of distant irrelevance as far as the colonists were concerned, Kite noted, was relished largely because cheering news came from Canada. Montcalm had been killed and Quebec taken by British troops under Major General Wolfe after a night landing and a scrambling ascent of the Heights of Abraham.

  The brilliant young hero of Louisbourg, Wolfe, had also been killed, but the exploit had over-turned the French position and now the future of Canada as a French colony seemed at an end. There was also heartening intelligence from the distant coast of Portugal. Here, it was learned, a French squadron, on its way to join forces with the fleet at Brest, had been destroyed by Boscawen after a chase from Gibraltar.

  Then, one morning, as Kite stood shivering on the deck in the frosty December air, the master-rigger climbed aboard waving a newspaper. ‘See here, Cap’n, we have drubbed the French good and proper. This will sting them mightily,’ the master rigger remarked gleefully. Kite took the proffered copy of the broadsheet and read of Admiral Hawke’s dramatic chase of De Conflans deep into Quiberon Bay.

  Apparently bad weather had driven Hawke from his blockading station of Brest and the principal French fleet had escaped to embark troops intended to invade the English coast. The French Minister, the Duc de Choiseul, had planned to seize a number of coastal towns and hold them as hostage against the return of Martinique, Guadeloupe and Quebec. This project was known of in London and on learning of the departure of Conflans from Brest, Hawke had sailed in pursuit, catching the French fleet in a rising gale off the entrance to Quiberon Bay. De Conflans hoped to slip through a narrow, rock-girt passage into the shelter of the anchorage there, confident that his local knowledge would ensure success while the onshore gale would deter Hawke’s ships from closing with his fleet on a dangerous lee shore. De Conflans was wrong; Hawke’s men-of-war fell upon De Conflans’ in a pell-mell, running battle which continued until nightfall, as both fleets manoeuvred among the rocks. The French were overwhelmed, their fleet almost entirely annihilated in a victory which crowned a year already being described as remarkable.

  ‘Our anxieties are at an end, it seems. Surely the French will sue for peace…’ Kite said, looking up from the paper.

  ‘Well, the luck certainly seems to be running in our favour, Cap’n, that’s for sure, and with winter upon us I guess you’re right. But to business, Cap’n,’ the man pressed and Kite handed the newspaper back. ‘See here, Cap’n, I shall complete work today and we must concert arrangements to move you from here…’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Kite, putting the affairs of the greater world aside and returning his thoughts to the matter of the schooner. ‘We shall have to reload that portion of our unspoiled cargo which we discharged and I have arranged a small lading from this place.’

  ‘We will be obliged, Cap’n, if you would haul off as soon as possible.’

  Kite noticed the shifting tone of the man’s voice and followed his glance. Puella had come on deck, pulling a shawl tightly around her and regarding the steely cold waters of the harbour with distaste.

  ‘As soon as possible, Cap’n,’ the master-rigger repeated as he turned away.

  Kite approached Puella. She looked up at him, her face troubled.

  ‘What is the matter, my dear,’ he asked, touching her gently.

  ‘I do not like this place, Kite. It is too cold… Why do you laugh at me?’

  ‘I am not laughing,’ Kite suppressed his smile, ‘but you have a talent for understatement.’

  ‘I have?’ Puella looked doubtful, but seeing she had Kite’s attention she smiled back. ‘You have forgotten me, Kite. I am alone…’

  ‘No my darling, you are not alone, you are lonely and I am lonely and I too want to leave this place. We shall be gone soon…’

  ‘How soon?’

  Kite looked at her, then said, ‘that I cannot promise, but within a week, perhaps a little less. It depends how long it takes to stow the cargo.’

  ‘Will we be long at sea?’

  ‘Three weeks to a month.’

  ‘And is England as cold as this?’

  ‘You should not be o
n deck. It is best that you remain in the shelter of the cabin…’

  Accompanying Puella below and persuading her to remain there, Kite realised that his provisions for her were inadequate, despite the fitting of the stove. The prejudice he had encountered on their shopping expedition had shocked him, so inured had he become to the presence of black skins in the seething and vibrant waterfront of St John’s. A kind of condescending tolerance existed alongside the hidebound gulfs of inequity in the Antilles. Here, in New England, the assumed equality of the northern colonies was characterised by this barrier against what he had heard euphemistically referred to as ‘the race of Ham’.

  For Kite, both were infinitely preferable to the stews of waterside Liverpool, where neither quality existed and dog-ate-dog in perpetual communal turmoil. Something of that littoral mish-mash added a louche charm to St John’s, set as it was amid the lush tropic vegetation, working a sinister yet seductive interplay between the throbbing passions of the dominant whites and the down-trodden blacks. Here in the north, where the leaves fell from the trees in riotous colour, the austerity created a chill as penetrating as the winter frosts riming the bare black branches. Kite shuddered to be off to sea. But in the mean time he had other ideas; smiling at Puella he made his excuses and went ashore.

  He walked into town, heading for a furrier’s he had seen on his previous visit, intent on purchasing some adequate furs for Puella. The woods of the back-country provided an abundance of wild animals, and was able to buy a fine fox-fur coat. He was in the act of negotiating for a large bearskin, when a woman’s voice over-rode that of the proprietor.

  ‘My goodness, Captain, she must be a very worthy mistress that can command so rich a wrapping.’

  He turned as the proprietor, not a whit disaffected by the intrusion, bobbed a bow at the newcomer. She was young, tall and strikingly handsome in a plain grey riding habit about the shoulders of which was cast an elegant pelisse. Above dark hair a feathered hat was worn at a jaunty and improbable angle and her gloved hand held a riding crop with which she tapped her long skirt, beating quietly at the boot beneath it. Kite made a small, stiff bow. He was aware that he had coloured up, angry with himself for rising to the woman’s obvious innuendo. It was quite clear that this stunning creature knew of his identity and the colour of his mistress. Having delivered her deliberate slight, she was smiling insolently at him. Her effrontery fuelled a sudden anger.

  ‘You refer to my wife, Madam,’ he lied with such emphasis that his sincerity carried an outraged conviction which struck her like a blow from her own crop. But she was equal to the occasion and even as her cheek paled, she replied with such a cool composure that she heaped insolence upon presumption.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, stringing out the word as though passing judgement on him. ‘Your wife.’

  The woman’s hauteur made Kite realise that his falsehood had worsened the situation. The guilt of his own deception further infuriated him, notwithstanding the conviction of the vehement lie, for she had cooly regained the upper hand. Puella as wife was in her eyes clearly worse that Puella as whore.

  ‘My name is William…’

  ‘Kite,’ she interrupted cuttingly. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Then you have the advantage of me, Madam.’

  ‘I know that too, Captain.’ She smiled victoriously. Kite felt a strong impulse to strike her, but swallowed his anger and turned to the furrier.

  ‘We are agreed then,’ he said, ignoring the woman.

  ‘Ten Portuguese moidores,’ the man said, returning his attention to his business.

  ‘You should pay no more than eight,’ the woman’s voice came from behind him.

  ‘There sir,’ Kite said, ‘are ten moidores for the bearskin and a further two for your courtesy. Pray send the goods down to my schooner before this evening.’

  The astonished furrier picked up the gold coins as Kite took up his hat from the table upon which the rich fur lay spread. He turned and jammed it on his head as he confronted the woman whom he saw he had succeeded in merely amusing by his rather childish largesse. Her smile, for it was not a smirk, he was annoyed to see, tripped his restraint.

  ‘Should you wish to learn manners, Madam,’ he said coldly, ‘my wife would be delighted to teach…’

  But he got no further, the riding crop struck his cheek and he recoiled, catching his balance and raising his hand to his face. The rising wheal was already bleeding profusely as their eyes met. Behind them the furrier’s sharp intake of breath seemed to have been his last conscious act before immobility seized him.

  Kite’s shock and the beating of his heart were as nothing, he noted with a painful smile, to hers. Regret at the impetuosity of her rash act made her first blench and then colour. She staggered a little as if resisting an impulse to faint, but then her chin went up and her challenge was irresistible.

  ‘To teach you over a dish of tea aboard the schooner Spitfire, lying at Roberts’ yard.’ Kite finished his sentence disdainfully and stalked from the shop.

  The refit of the Spitfire was now almost completed. As the winter afternoon drew on and the sun westered, a red ball in a cloudless sky of pale lavender, Kite was sturdy amidships, in final consultation with the master-rigger and Jones. The following day would see them ready to warp down to the jetty and complete their lading.

  ‘What happened to your face, Cap’n?’ Jones asked.

  Instinctively Kite touched the crusty scab that marked his cheek. He looked at the master-rigger as he replied. ‘Oh,’ he responded, feigning indifference, ‘a white lady gave it to me for sleeping with a black lady. I cannot imagine why, can you Mr Jones?’

  Jones shook his mulatto head, embarrassed in front of the master-rigger who could scarcely contain his interest. ‘Well I’ll be damned, Cap’n. They sure aren’t too friendly hereabouts,’ Jones said.

  ‘You’ll have noticed it too, I daresay,’ Kite said pointedly.

  Jones nodded. ‘Aye, I have.’

  The master-rigger coughed awkwardly. ‘If we could just keep to the business in hand… Say, is this the lady concerned?’

  Kite and Jones turned to where the master-rigger was pointing. The woman from the furrier’s was stepping gingerly over the rail, her grey skirt lifted and the black leather of her boots gleaming in the sunset. A workman was handing her down, holding a large bundle which she had obviously passed to him for safe-keeping while she negotiated the bulwarks.

  Thanking the workman and recovering her parcel, she approached the three men. ‘Captain Kite,’ she said coolly meeting his eyes.

  Beside Kite, Jones whistled under his breath and the master-rigger coughed again. ‘Thank you gentlemen,’ said Kite, turning, raising his hat and footing a bow as the two men withdrew forward.

  ‘Madam?’

  She offered him the parcel. ‘I have brought your wife’s bearskin, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took it and stared at her, angry that she had chosen to invade his small kingdom, and coldly formal in the hope that she would take the hint and leave at once.

  ‘I thought perhaps I could take tea with your wife,’ she said, as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them and they had known each other for years.

  ‘To what end, Madam?’ he asked with cold civility, masking his astonishment.

  He saw her composure slip to the extent of her shooting a glance at Jones and the master-rigger. ‘I wish to make amends, Captain,’ she said, her voice low.

  ‘And why would you wish to do that, Madam? I cannot think that you act without a motive? Are you simply curious to see my wife, or are you intending to whip her?’

  ‘Please, Captain Kite,’ her voice was little more than a whisper, her face strained. ‘Do not humiliate me any more than I have already humiliated myself.’

  He sighed. His cheek burned and throbbed. How could he explain to Puella what he had already explained as a flying rope’s end? How could he tell her that this elegant and beautiful white woman wanted to gawp at her as a
black exhibit? Knowing Puella’s jealousy, how could he stop Puella from jumping to the stupid conclusion that rich creature had designs upon Kite himself, just as Kitty Robertson had.

  ‘I am apologising, Captain Kite,’ the woman insisted. ‘And have brought you the bearskin as an act of contrition.’ She paused. ‘I would like to meet your wife, sir, if only to explain why I struck you.’

  Kite almost laughed, then he said, ‘I have explained this,’ he touched his cheek, ‘as the result of a rope fall flying from a block.’ He saw her frown with incomprehension. ‘It is no matter.’

  ‘But I should still like to meet your wife, Captain. She must be lonely cooped up aboard here.’ She gestured round the deck and he suddenly wanted to be rid of her. If she wanted an olive branch then so be it.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said, hurriedly going on to prevent interruption. ‘Puella, er that is what I call her, for it seemed cruel to give her an English name when I cannot understand her native one…’ Then his courage failed him as he found her face quite enchanting.

  ‘Go on, Captain, I understand.’

  Kite swallowed. ‘Well, Madam, she is not my wife. In the Antilles these things are not so important…’

  ‘Quite so,’ the woman said, the hint of a self-satisfied smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

  ‘But she is free, Madam,’ Kite said with as much convincing emphasis as he could muster. ‘She is not a slave.’

  He started to edge back towards the gangway, but the woman moved aft, towards the companionway where Puella, with that disarming intuition that she seemed to have inherited from Dorothea, stood at the top of the steps leading below.