‘Hey, you – what d’ye think—’
‘Out o’ my way, cully! I got business wi’ the Hannibals,’ the thick-set man growled, knocking him aside.
He slid down the fore-ladder, crossed purposefully to the hatchway and clattered down to the main-deck.
In an age-old routine men were clearing the tables to raise them up against the side of the ship; in the dog-watches the space had changed first from a gun-deck to a mess-deck, and now was transforming again into the open space where at the pipe ‘Down hammocks!’ it would be their communal bedroom.
‘Who are you, then?’ the stranger was asked in astonishment.
Men crowded around to see what apparition out of the night had suddenly appeared in their midst.
The man said nothing, folding his arms and staring about him. More came up, and when the hubbub had died, he spoke.
‘I’m Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate o’ Billy Roarer,’ he grated.
Puzzled looks passed between the men; the quartermaster hovered uncertainly.
He spoke louder. ‘An’ I’m come aboard Hannibal to tip me daddle to the gullion what did for Cap’n Tyrell.’
‘Aye, well …’
‘See, we goes back a long spell. I was gun captain in th’ old Duke William in the last war, when Mantrap was first lootenant o’ the barky.’
Glances of fellow feeling and a dawning respect began to appear.
‘A right bastard then as well, I’d reckon,’ one said.
‘Worse’n that,’ Stirk spat, his eyes glowing.
There were growls of sympathy and a stir in his audience. ‘Come on, Jeb – show yerself!’
A tall, serious-looking seaman came reluctantly forward.
‘Jeremiah Haywood.’
‘You did ’im?’ Stirk said quietly.
‘Aye, I did – but I’m not proud of it, I’ll have thee know,’ the man said, in a troubled voice. ‘Shootin’ in the back ain’t right for any man.’
There were encouraging shouts, and he went on, ‘Gives me two dozen f’r bein’ slow in stays, an’ another dozen afore the first was healed. When I saw him in front o’ m’ musket I just lost m’ rag an’ let fly, is all.’
‘Right. Well, let me go on an’ finish m’ yarn about Duke William. Could be interestin’ to some.’
He paused, letting all eyes find his. ‘See, I’m rememberin’ a young able seaman, runs afoul o’ the bugger. No fault o’ his, and a prime sailorman as ever there was, but he’s triced up and gets the lash as nearly sees ’im fish-meat. Didn’t I tell you his name? Why, it was young Tom Kydd as was.’
Realisation came slowly, but when it did there were sharp intakes of breath and uneasy looks.
‘Yes, mates. One of us. Come aft the hard way, now he always takes care o’ them as fights the ship for him. I’ve known him off ’n’ on for years since, and never ’ave I seen ’im let down ’is shipmates. Never.’
Haywood turned pale.
‘Now he’s in a right stew, no one t’ look out for ’im, no bugger to speak up for ’im. An’ all because us jolly tars won’t see ’im right in the article of owning t’ the crime.’
He turned and faced Haywood, looking at him steadily. ‘I’m not the one t’ peach on another, but if Tom Kydd gets his’n, on account another won’t step forward, I’d let every ship, watch, every mess-deck an’ every shellback in the whole o’ King George’s Navy know the name o’ the one who let him suffer. This I swear!’
In the shocked silence not a soul moved.
Then Haywood threw back his shoulders as though getting rid of a load. ‘No need for threats, mate. M’ mind was made up beforetimes. I’ll go. He’ll not swing.’
Stirk nodded slowly. ‘Cuffin. I’m still goin’ to tell it like it is – that as brave a cove as I know did the right thing when he could’ve walked away from it all.’ He held out his hand. ‘I want to shake yer hand, Mr Haywood.’
He did so, slowly and solemnly.
Turning quickly, Haywood pushed through the crowd, heading aft. ‘Where yer goin’, Jeb?’ someone called.
‘I said I’d do it, an’ I am – an’ that’s right now.’
The others hurried after him, but he strode on.
Stirk forced his way through and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Jeb, mate. Let’s see it’s done right by you. Not a lot o’ sense to give yourself over without you has someone t’ speak for ye. Don’t yez have L’tenant Bowden servin’ in this hooker still?’
‘Aye. An’ he’s aboard, in his cabin this hour.’
‘So let’s see him.’
The crowd had now swollen to more than a hundred and others swarmed up from the identical lower deck to join the throng. The young master’s mate tried to stop them, but Stirk was having none of it. ‘Ask L’tenant Bowden if he’s at liberty t’ come an’ talk.’
Bowden appeared out of the cabin spaces, looking tired and bewildered. ‘Mr Stirk, what are you … What do all these men want?’
‘Theys askin’ f’r a steer, like,’ he said to the young lieutenant, realising it must look like rank mutiny.
‘Er, what do you mean?’
It was the work of brief minutes to explain.
Bowden looked incredulous for a moment, then found his tongue. ‘You did right, you men. And I’m to do my part.’
To the master’s mate, he snapped an order: ‘Away all boats!’
‘B-but, sir, I can’t—’
‘Damn your eyes! I’m off to see the admiral. Do you question my order, sir?’ As senior officer on board HMS Hannibal he had every right, of course.
Hundreds of sailors swarmed down the side and tumbled into the boats, shipping oars and setting out for the shore. They passed ship after ship of the squadron, dark and lifeless as they settled down for the night, then too late coming to their senses as the boats pulled by, fully loaded with excited men.
At the stone steps the seamen disembarked and immediately hoisted Haywood on to their shoulders, setting off with Bowden proud and determined at their head through a late-night St John’s rudely awakened by the excitement.
It was exhilarating and fearful, shocking and exotic to be caught up in events that had changed things so fast and so completely. As they turned into the avenue leading to the admiral’s residence, the enormity of what they were about to do must have penetrated, for the excited shouts died away until there was now nothing but a silent body of hundreds of men tramping up to the torch-lit entrance of the Admiral’s Pen.
From the lights within, Bowden guessed that a card party was in progress – Cochrane was known to be partial to his bridge. Bowden held up his hand, and when the men had shuffled to a stop, he went up to the door and knocked.
A footman answered and was shocked by what he saw out in the darkness silently waiting. ‘S-sir?’
‘Admiral Cochrane. On a matter of extreme urgency,’ Bowden demanded.
‘Er, yes, sir. Immediately, sir!’
There was a slight delay before an irritated Cochrane appeared.
‘What the devil?’ he spluttered, seeing the hundreds of men quietly before him.
‘Sir,’ Bowden said quickly, ‘these men have come in support of their shipmate, who begs he might be allowed to admit to the death of Captain Tyrell.’
‘Am I hearing you right, Mr Bowden? He knows what he’s about in so doing, I trust.’
‘He does, sir. And he’s firm in his mind that it’s the right thing to do in the circumstances.’
Cochrane hesitated only for a moment, then threw to the footman inside, ‘Blue drawing room!
‘Well, Mr Bowden, do come in, and your men too.’
The room was soon crowded beyond belief. The admiral stood before them, bemused but in firm charge.
‘Now what’s this about, Lieutenant?’
Bowden brought Haywood to the front and said, ‘This is the man, sir – Jeremiah Haywood, main topman.’
The admiral brought his fierce gaze on to Haywood. ‘So you wish to admit to slaying Captain Tyr
ell.’
‘Yes, sir. It weren’t Mr Kydd, no, sir.’ His voice quavered but he returned the gaze steadily.
‘Then you’d better tell me about it – and be aware, it may well be put up as evidence later.’
‘Aye, sir. Well, it were like this. We was advancing up t’ this ridge, like, an’ because the Frogs was firin’ at us we took cover under all this green stuff. I looks up an’ sees Cap’n Tyrell flop down under the ridge, right ahead o’ me. And, well, ’cos I’d taken two dozen in two days from him just afore, I saw red an’ fired at him when—’
Quick as a flash, Cochrane intervened: ‘Ah, now I see what happened. Very clear, now I know.’
He looked benignly at the topman. ‘It was very courageous of you, Haywood, to bring this to my attention and you have my heartiest approbation of your act.’
He turned to Bowden. ‘Well, that clears that up. For the sake of Mr Kydd, just as well.’
‘Sir?’ the lieutenant said uncertainly.
‘Can’t you see it, man? It was an accident, is all! Any fool can see that. Your man taking hasty cover in all those sticks and leaves, accidents with a loaded musket will happen, a twig caught in the trigger, that kind of thing …’
‘No, sir, I did it, an’ I own to it.’
‘Nonsense! You had an accident and didn’t want to admit to it to your officer until you saw Captain Kydd unjustly accused. Quite understandable.’
‘Wha’? No, sir, I really—’
‘Let’s leave it at that, shall we? You men will want to get back to your ship before you’re, er, missed.’
Bowden, his mind in a flood of relief, could only stammer, ‘Th-thank you, sir. And on behalf of—’
But Cochrane had already returned to his guests. He smiled at his wife. ‘Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten. My dear, do see if Captain Kydd is free to join us.’
Kydd stood on his quarterdeck once more, pink with pleasure at the honour the wardroom had done him in laying on this reception and dinner in L’Aurore.
‘Welcome aboard, madam,’ he said, to yet another lady of station, delighted to be personally greeted by the captain. As his unjust detention had been quickly dismissed at the highest level, it would never do for it to be noticed by lesser mortals.
The deck was quickly filling with notables and friends but this was the reception – only special guests would move on to the dinner afterwards. One in particular, Louise Vernou, was received with the utmost warmth by L’Aurore’s captain as she approached on Renzi’s arm.
Yet in the midst of all his happiness Kydd had to accept that the fortunate turn of events had not extended to remedy one recent adversity. He could not get out of his mind the shock – the horror – on the faces of the dinner guests when Tyrell had done his worst and he had been revealed as a base-born common sailor.
His happiness faded when he realised that while his naval colleagues’ sentiments were genuine and deeply felt, those of society were not. They were here for one reason and one only – to be seen with the victor of Marie-Galante. After this occasion, when the memory dimmed, he could not expect to be welcomed at events where the high-born disported.
‘Why, Captain, you’re thinking on other things?’
Kydd turned in surprise. It was Wrexham – and next to him Miss Amelia.
‘Oh, er, just checking the lay of the downhaul,’ he managed.
‘After such a stroke, you should be proud of yourself, sir!’ the planter said warmly. ‘I’ve above a dozen ships that can now sail without fear, my credit restored and, dare I say it, my competition removed. The whole of the Leeward Islands owes you much, sir, now the vermin are put down and trade is resumed.’
‘I thank you for your kind words, sir, but do make notice that I’m one only of many who achieved this victory.’
‘None the less, I’d be honoured to shake your hand, sir.’
Shyly coming forwards, Amelia dropped him a curtsy and confided, ‘And I should offer you my sincerest congratulations on your recent conquest, sir.’
‘Accepted with pleasure,’ Kydd said, his spirits returning. ‘Shall I be seeing you below at dinner?’
A fife and fiddle started by the main-mast and people began to drift across to witness the singular display of a barefoot sailor executing a hornpipe.
One more boat was on its way – and it had the duty mate-of-the-watch hurrying to Kydd in consternation. ‘Sir! Admiral Cochrane to board!’
The side-party was hastily mustered and Cochrane mounted the side with all due gravity.
But as the ceremonials concluded the admiral took Kydd aside. ‘I’m sorry to take this occasion to break it to you, Mr Kydd, but I have grave news.’
He looked around, then continued sadly, ‘There are duties of an admiral that may never be termed pleasant, and this is one of them.’
Tensing, Kydd waited.
‘Captain, I have to tell you that my request to the Admiralty to take you into my command has been denied. You are to quit my station and return to England forthwith.’
Stunned, Kydd mumbled something, at the same time realising that Cochrane had had no need to inform him in this way: he had done so in order that the evening might now be seen as the ship’s last event in the Caribbean.
‘I’ll not tarry. You’ll have many you’ll want to see this night.’
He saw Cochrane over the side, his thoughts in a whirl. To leave the warmth and beauty of the Caribbean was a wrench but he suspected it had something to do with the forthcoming court-martial of Popham, the leader of the doomed Buenos Aires expedition. But, on the other hand, it meant they were going home.
He hugged the news to himself when they went below for dinner, graciously accepting the chair of honour at the head of the table.
Amelia and her father, of course, were not two places down. ‘So happy you were able to come,’ he said politely to Wrexham.
‘Why should we not?’ the man replied, with surprise.
‘Oh, er …’
Kydd recoiled once more at the vision of the shocking scene the last time they had dined together, and emboldened by L’Aurore’s splendid Caribbean punch he admitted as much. ‘I feared you would not wish to be seen with a … a common fore-mast hand.’
Wrexham gave a start. ‘Sir! I do believe you have misconstrued the entire affair! We were shocked, it is true, even appalled, and that is no exaggeration. But this, sir, was not at any aspersions on yourself, rather at the behaviour of one claiming the character of gentleman. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Captain Tyrell’s want of conduct in the open discussion of your past is beyond belief.’
‘So, you’re saying …’
‘Your antecedents are of no account to us. There are many, if not the majority, of society in these islands with humble beginnings, and if we were to exclude such from our fellowship then it would make for a strange situation indeed.’
Kydd was infused with a rising lightness and a flood of release.
‘Then I pray you will find it in you to attend at our society gatherings in the future with every sense of our respect and admiration, Captain.’
‘I thank you, sir,’ Kydd replied, trying not to look at Amelia.
But it couldn’t be put off for much longer.
He found a spoon and, looking down the table, tapped it sharply against a glass. The gathering fell quiet.
‘Fellow officers, new friends and old, I have to tell you that Admiral Cochrane came aboard to give me news. And it is this: in a very short while L’Aurore will put to sea. She will sail – for England.’
There were gasps of surprise.
‘Our secondment to the Leeward Islands Squadron has been revoked by the Admiralty and we must return forthwith.’
‘Mes chers amis – je suis désolé. I will miss you all so dreadfully!’ Louise drew out a handkerchief and Renzi reached to console her.
‘Damn it! We’ll catch the season if we’re quick!’ Curzon chortled, his face brightening.
‘To England?’
Buckle was anything but ecstatic, his face lengthening in what appeared to be dejection at the thought.
‘Cheer up, Mr Buckle. England’s not so bad you must despair of it!’ his captain offered.
‘Sir!’
The word was spoken so fiercely, so intensely, that it caught Kydd by surprise. ‘Yes, Mr Bowden?’
‘Is it possible – that is to say, should the parties be willing, um …’
‘You’re hard to catch, young fellow.’
‘I’m understanding what he’s saying, sir,’ Buckle said, with an equal passion. ‘And this party is willing indeed!’
‘Wha’?’
‘Sir, I formally request an exchange with Lieutenant Buckle into this ship, he to stay in the Caribbean.’
‘And ain’t that the truth?’ Buckle blurted.
What could he say? To have Bowden back in L’Aurore’s ship’s company in whatever adventures lay ahead …
With a broad grin Kydd snatched up his glass and, in a ringing voice, proclaimed, ‘We’re to be quit o’ the fair Caribbee, but God rest ye, merry gentlemen, we’ll be home for Christmas!’
Author’s Note
In the Georgian age the Caribbean was one of the most truly beautiful – and deadly – places on earth where, as if counterbalancing Nature’s gifts, fever claimed countless lives.
Even now, the majority of the thousands of far-scattered islands are much as they were in Kydd’s day, hardly touched by the centuries, albeit with the more accessible destinations well visited by tourists. For me, there can be little to beat the view from high in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica (where Kathy and I stayed on location research) down to the sinuous length of the Palisades to the legendary Port Royal and the fleet anchorage within. The town itself is in a sad state of decay but I spent many happy hours in the small archives and even unearthed some brown and curling correspondence from a certain Captain Nelson written while on station, complete with a flourishing pre-amputation signature.
The most atmospheric of all Caribbean sites was Antigua – not the cruise-ship St John’s in the north, but English Harbour in the south, where a perfectly preserved eighteenth-century naval dockyard could at a pinch even now set about a storm-racked frigate there under the guns of Shirley Heights. In Spanish Town there are parts still existing that Kydd would recognise, such as the memorial to Rodney’s great action at the Saintes, with its robust portrayal of ships-of-the-line and the stricken French fleet, ironically refurbished with the aid of an EU grant sponsored by the French. Guadeloupe is as Gallic as the Riviera and as pretty still as Renzi found it. Grand-Bourg on Marie-Galante is somewhat spoiled by development, but the rest of the island has enchanting parts and enjoys a reputation for its peach-fed iguana.
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