Caribbee

by Julian Stockwin

  L’Aurore was no longer clean-bottomed. Her last careening had been in far-away Cape Town, and it showed in her sluggish responses. Her bowsprit nevertheless swung obediently to aim like a rapier at the merchantman.

  ‘Er, what d’you want me to do, sir?’ Buckle said eagerly. A generous-sized portmanteau lay at his feet.

  They picked up speed, the coral bottom flicking past in the crystal-clear waters. ‘Mr Oakley, double up the fo’c’sle hands. I want ’em to sweat when the time comes,’ Kydd threw at the boatswain.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ Buckle persisted.

  Kydd saw red. ‘Get off the deck, blast y’r eyes. I’ll wait on your explanation later!’ he ground out, trying to see past him to the rapidly growing bulk of the merchant ship. Buckle stood irresolute and Kydd thrust him aside savagely.

  ‘Stand by, for’ard!’ he roared. But, as he had fervently hoped, close to the merchant ship the wind veered and eased.

  ‘Helm up!’

  As they rounded the ship’s stern there were frightened faces at the rail on one side, and on the other the men at the sweeps in the barge simply gazed up in shock as the frigate swashed heavily past.

  ‘Wh-where shall I put my baggage, then, sir?’

  Not trusting himself to speak, Kydd waited until L’Aurore emerged on the seaward side to take the breeze happily, leaning into it with a will as they made for the blessed expanse of the open sea.

  ‘Get below to the gunroom and wait until I send for you. Give him a hand, Mr Searle.’

  They had done it, but the situation should not have arisen in the first place.

  Course set westward and order restored, Kydd went to his cabin and summoned Buckle.

  Leaning back at his desk he took in his new lieutenant. An agreeable-looking young man in his twenties, with an anxious-to-please expression, he was still in his wildly out-of-place shore clothing.

  ‘This is damned irregular, joining ship out of rig, Mr Buckle,’ rasped Kydd.

  ‘Oh, that’s because m’ friends insisted on a righteous send-off, is all.’ The accent was peculiar, touched with a slight Caribbean lilt.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Why, nobody thinks to see you put to sea so quick, an’ when they spy you ready to go, I threw m’ gear together an’ here I am.’

  ‘Was it you fired those shots?’

  ‘I did! Always take m’ duck gun everywheres and it surely came in handy this time.’

  Incredulous, Kydd began, ‘You thought to fire away in a naval anchorage …’ He let it go rather than endure another explanation. ‘Be so good as to show me your orders, Mr Buckle.’

  They were correct, the commission dated only the day before and with Cochrane’s signature. ‘Weren’t you in a sickly way betimes?’

  ‘Er, I took the fever an’ was landed from m’ last ship, but I know my duty when I sees it. When the call came, how could I not arise an’ answer?’

  ‘Quite. We’d better ask the doctor for a survey, just in case.’

  ‘Oh – that won’t be necessary,’ Buckle said hastily. ‘I’m feeling prime.’

  Kydd frowned. There was something odd about the whole business. And the commission referred to Acting Lieutenant Buckle.

  ‘Do tell me something about your sea time, Mr Buckle – and I’m bound to tell you that in L’Aurore it’s customary to throw out a “sir” every so often.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir! Well, I starts in Mediator as a volunteer o’ thirteen years and—’

  ‘No, your last few commissions.’

  It came out. From a prominent Barbados planter family, he had made midshipman at fifteen, managing to serve his entire career in the Caribbean, but had been unfortunate in the matter of promotion. His first service as lieutenant was in his previous ship and had been brief, terminated by a near-mortal but mysterious fever.

  ‘What, then, was your last ship?’

  ‘That would be fourth o’ Hannibal 74, Captain Tyrell. A hard man, sir, cruel hard!’

  A midshipman with no shortage of interest, yet well past the usual age for a lieutenancy, was questionable, but what raised Kydd’s hackles was the suspicion that he had shammed illness in order to be quit of a lawful appointment – at Bowden’s expense. No wonder he had ‘recovered’ so quickly, the thought of shipping out in a frigate too good to miss.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Buckle. I mislike the cut o’ your jib. You’re not my idea of a naval officer and I doubt others on board L’Aurore will disagree. We’re at sea now and I don’t have a choice, but mark my words, sir, there’s no passengers on a frigate. If you’re not in the trim of a sea officer by Jamaica I’m having you landed as useless. Understand?’

  ‘You can count on me.’ Seeing Kydd’s expression, he squeaked hastily, ‘Um, sir!’

  ‘Go! And get in sea rig!’

  With a sketchy salute, Buckle left hurriedly.

  Sighing deeply, Kydd knew he had problems. He couldn’t let the ninny take a watch on his own. His first lieutenant Gilbey would have to stand his share, which would not please him. And what the hardened man-o’-war’s men aboard would think of Buckle to serve under …

  ‘Sir?’ It was the boatswain, knocking softly. He had an odd smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bit of a predicament is all, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mr Oakley didn’t often come across problems he needed to take to his captain.

  ‘Like, it’s the new lootenant. His dunnage don’t fit in his cabin. Three chests an’ other gear he has, sir.’

  ‘Has he, now. Then he’s to take what he wants as will stow, the rest to go over the side. Clear?’

  Grinning openly, the boatswain turned to leave.

  ‘Oh, and ask Mr Curzon to attend me,’ Kydd added. Buckle would be second officer-of-the-watch to Curzon and Kydd decided to make him responsible so that there was no opportunity for his junior to create a disaster in the taut machine that was a thoroughbred frigate.

  It was a fair wind for Jamaica, the reliable north-easterly trades nearly abeam with never a tacking to contemplate, the easiest blue-water sailing possible. Curzon had the deck. Hesitantly his second came up the hatchway and self-consciously fell in behind him.

  The watch stared at him in wonder: not only was his uniform stiff new but he wore highly polished hessian boots, a cocked hat a shade too big and a marvellously ruffled shirt peeping out from under his coat.

  ‘Good God,’ Curzon spluttered, his own plain sea uniform green-tarnished and well-worn.

  ‘Hello,’ Buckle said brightly. ‘What do you want me to do at all?’

  ‘We’re on watch. I’m your senior – you call me “sir”.’

  ‘Oh, right, um, sir.’

  ‘You should have been here for the handover,’ Curzon said testily. ‘How else can you think to know your course and sail set?’

  ‘Well, I had s’ much trouble with that odious neck-cloth and things, I can’t think how—’

  ‘Course west-nor’-west, all sail to royals, nothing in sight,’ Curzon said impatiently.

  ‘That’s, er, all sail—’

  ‘If you don’t know, why not take a look at the quartermaster’s slate?’ Curzon’s words were heavy with sarcasm, for it was the officer-of-the-watch himself who chalked in the orders.

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’ Buckle went to the binnacle. ‘Er, do you mind if I take a look at your slate at all?’ he asked an astonished quartermaster, who handed it over without a word.

  He returned to stand companionably next to Curzon. ‘I do want t’ get it straight, you see.’

  Curzon rolled his eyes heavenward, then told him, ‘Those men forrard at the fore topmast staysail. They’re slacking – I want that tack hardened in properly. Go and stir them along.’

  Buckle strode forward importantly and stopped at the group swigging off. ‘I say, you men! Come along, now – work harder!’

  Returning, he was met with a stony-faced Curzon, who curtly ordered him to keep close behind for the remainder
of the watch to mark and learn – and woe betide if he once opened his mouth.

  Days passed and L’Aurore pressed deeper into the Caribbean. It was now well into the hurricane season and Kydd, who had reason to fear them from his experience of these waters in the past, took to tapping the barometer every time he went below. But the airs remained fine and settled.

  In flying-fish weather the boatswain took the opportunity of doing what he could to fettle the rigging – turning worn ropes end for end so wear took place at another spot, re-reeving same-sized lines to different tasks and taking up stretched ropes where they had slackened. The sailmaker sat on deck in the sun, patching and seaming, helped by his mates and skilled able seamen. By the main-mast midshipmen took their instruction in sea skills from the older men.

  The gunroom gathered for supper. With Curzon and Buckle in charge of the deck, Gilbey, now off-watch, was idly reading an old newspaper.

  The boatswain came in, found his place and sat, tucking a napkin around his neck.

  ‘Are we a-taunt yet, Ben?’ rumbled the gunner, Redmond.

  ‘Not as would satisfy any blue-water sailor I knows.’ Oakley reached for the cold meats.

  The master polished his spectacles. ‘Still an’ all, eleven knots on a bowline satisfies me.’

  Gilbey lowered his paper and glanced around for pickles to add to his cheese as Curzon came in, shaking water off his hat. ‘You’ve left the deck to that damn looby?’ he asked sourly.

  ‘That, or be driven out of my wits before my time.’ He slumped into a chair and picked at the offerings. ‘The man shows willing, but …’ He gave a theatrical sigh.

  ‘We has to do something,’ Gilbey snapped. ‘I don’t fancy standing watch an’ watch for ever – which is what’ll happen if’n he’s landed in Jamaica. We’ll never find another l’tenant there.’

  The warrant officers held silent: it was not their place to criticise an officer, but the gunner found a way. ‘Then there’s no word yet about a l’tenant at quarters, then, Mr Gilbey?’ he asked innocently.

  That was the nub: this was a fighting frigate, and if their third lieutenant couldn’t be trusted to lead his men at quarters or to take charge of a division, what use was he?

  There was only an unintelligible growl in response.

  Clinton said mildly, ‘He’s a decent sort of chap, I find. Get him going about the Caribbean and he’s an entertainment well enough.’

  ‘As we need in a ship o’ war,’ snarled Gilbey, throwing down his paper. ‘How the fool got his step I’ve no clue.’

  Renzi, as always in a corner chair, set down his drink carefully. ‘It might be profitable for us to consider his origins before going to judgement on the fellow.’

  ‘His origins?’ Curzon said warily. Renzi, with his learning, was accorded respect in their little world and all quietened to hear what he had to say.

  ‘Indeed. He’s born and bred a Barbadian, of a respectable family. So we must ask why, then, should he seek a life at sea?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I believe he wishes to be at a distance from the life he was born into, even as he has a taking for his Caribbean world.’

  ‘A pity he thinks to be a sea officer.’

  ‘Er, I believe this, too, deserves our attention. Consider – his is not the life of ambition and ardour so warmly displayed in this gunroom. He harbours no desire to return, well promoted, to cold and unwelcoming England, to him a foreign shore. Therefore he contrives to see service in smaller, unnoticed vessels – your gun-brigs, cutters and similar, all of which carry little danger of unwelcome promotion.’

  There were smiles of understanding around the table. ‘He’s badgered by his father for the sake of outward show to make something of this naval exile and passes as lieutenant. At this point the only way he can achieve his swab is to be appointed into a ship of size, which, unfortunately for him, is Hannibal, Captain Tyrell. I can only begin to imagine what he suffered before he thought to be taken by the fever.’

  He ignored Gilbey’s ill-natured grunts, and continued, ‘Therefore we have before us an oddity, not to say curiosity, a naval officer whose entire existence has been within the confines of the very smallest of King George’s sail. Now I ask you to conceive of duty in such for a youngster forming habits of sea service. No big-ship ways to encourage him to a respectful understanding of our traditions, no ocean-going routines to fall in with, no taste of the puissance of the great guns. In short, he’s nearly as much a stranger to our life as the merest landman.’

  ‘If you saw him handle the men,’ Curzon drawled. ‘Good God! Even a—’

  ‘He was perhaps the only midshipman aboard,’ Renzi went on, with quiet conviction. ‘He must command hard men, some twice his age. With none to stand at his back, he finds a reasoned, mild approach more to his liking than hard-horse discipline, and I dare to say he’s well practised in the art. That our own tars do expect a more, er, hearty manner is not altogether his fault.’

  The master coughed quietly. ‘It’s not unkind to say that he’s a little rum in his nauticals, as we might say. I saw him brace around wi’ men still on the yard and—’

  ‘It would be strange indeed if, after such an apprenticeship in coastal fore ’n’ aft rig, he’s as well practised in ocean square-rig, wouldn’t you say, Mr Kendall?’

  ‘You’re just takin’ the bonehead’s part!’ accused Gilbey.

  ‘Not at all,’ Renzi replied coolly. ‘I’m only pointing out that should you not recognise his limitations then you stand to be watchkeeping for months or years to come. The choice is yours, of course.’

  ‘Be damned to that jackass!’ Gilbey burst out. ‘If he don’t come it the sea officer soon, I’ll—’

  ‘Mr Curzon, sir,’ the mate-of-the-watch interrupted from the door, perfectly blank-faced.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mr Buckle’s compliments, and … and could you come on deck instanter …’

  Kydd had made up his mind about his third lieutenant well before raising Jamaica. They had neither the time nor the facilities to nurse a lame duck to something like effectiveness. If only he’d stayed in a ship-of-the-line where it was easier to absorb such a greenhorn … To be fair he’d recommend that he put in service with a bigger ship first but still discharge him in Kingston. Better to have no third lieutenant at all than a morale-sapping passenger taking up space.

  He brightened. Jamaica: memories came warmly to mind of those times at the beginning of the war when he was there in the old Seaflower. There was no question but that this part of the world with its exotic and matchless beauty would be a splendid place for his lovely frigate to serve.

  This time, though, he was an officer of distinction and quality, captain of his own ship, and he would not want for comforts. He would be revisiting with a very different pair of eyes.

  A first spatter of rain brought him to reality: they were being pursued by the lofty white curtain of a line-squall advancing with the breeze, and its outliers were just reaching them. It took him back to hot afternoons in the boat-shed where he had worked, waiting for the deluge to pass, the red rivulets appearing as if by magic, staining the green transparency of Antigua harbour, and that distinctive warm, earthy smell.

  It would be good to return.

  Ahead, the horizon was obscured by another squall, the white drifting veil lazily moving across their vision.

  ‘Shorten sail, sir?’

  ‘No, I think not.’ He didn’t need to look at the chart: the only hazards between them and Jamaica were the Morant Cays, tiny islets with reefs over which the seas continually broke in a smother of white. In daylight, even through the rain, lookouts would spot these well in time.

  The squalls thinned and lifted slowly to reveal the two-mile-long line of breakers over to starboard and well ahead.

  ‘Take ’em south about, a mile clear.’ As they had been so many times before, the cays were a reassuring token of where they were, a mere half-day’s brisk sail from Kingston, t
o the north-west.

  Unexpectedly, over on the far side, the flutter of raised sail appeared. Two masts – and not square-rigged. The hull was hidden by the line of surf but it was obvious that the unknown craft had been anchored in the lee of the cays and on seeing them had cut his cable to run. Was this sudden flight the result of a guilty conscience?

  ‘Helm down!’ Kydd snapped. ‘Get after him!’

  They were far upwind of the stranger and here the big square driving sails of the frigate would be decisive.

  Interest quickened around the ship as word spread. Kydd’s swift action had placed the chase squarely ahead of them and even before they reached the islets it was clear that in the fresh conditions they could look to overhaul the vessel before dark.

  It couldn’t be better: they would arrive in Kingston with a prize at their heel!

  Speculation went back and forth. It was a schooner, raked masts and a black hull, no trader he – almost a caricature of a privateer and almost certainly lying in wait for inbound Jamaican traffic. It was their bad luck that the rain squall had hidden L’Aurore’s approach until it was almost too late.

  Within a short time the schooner sheeted in for a dash to the north. Instantly Kydd had L’Aurore on a parallel course to keep upwind and closing slowly.

  By rounding Morant Point at the eastern tip of Jamaica and staying ahead until darkness fell, it would be in a position where Kydd would be forced to guess whether it had decided to go to Hispaniola, Cuba or even out into the open sea to the west.

  The move closer to the wind was not to L’Aurore’s advantage. With the fresh breeze now forward of the beam the schooner was more than holding its own and the two ships raced ahead, every line taut and straining. Soon after midday the flat, palm-studded Morant Point was in sight but now the schooner was well in the lead and before L’Aurore could come up with the low sprawl, its distinctive pink earth, the schooner had vanished behind it.

  ‘Sir, charts are talking of reefs offshore a mile, two?’

  Kydd tried to recall when he had been last this way – but the small cutter that Seaflower was drew far less than a frigate. ‘Keep her away, then, Mr Kendall.’