14-Caribbee: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  Then it was time to withdraw for brandy and cigars, an appropriate moment for the more staid to make their excuses and the others to form a companionable group close together.

  ‘Can’t top a Trafalgar yarn,’ Pym chortled, ‘but did I ever recount what happened when we raised the Spanish treasure fleet in ’ninety-seven?’

  ‘Yes!’ came from half a dozen throats.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you about it …’

  The warmth and intimacy of a shared professional world reached out and enveloped Kydd, leaving him in a daze of contentment.

  Then he noticed Tyrell on the fringe of the happy crowd, looking on expressionless, his glass near empty. Kydd realised what was going on: the others were ignoring him – his own fault, true, but sad for all that.

  Dunn of Acasta followed Pym’s dit with an interesting tale of bluff and chicanery among the Malays and the Dutch in the East Indies. Then a young officer shyly came in with a simple but harrowing account of an Arctic traverse the previous year.

  The numbers thinned as the night wore on but Kydd was reluctant to leave and break the spell. He valued Renzi’s companionship dearly but in any ship her captain had no professional equal with whom to make frank conversation, to offer advice, to exchange banter and risqué humour – to unbend and be at ease in like company. It was a precious occasion.

  Finally Pym stood up and yawned elaborately. ‘I’m for the cot, I believe.’

  ‘I also,’ another added, but cocked his head meaningfully to one side. In one corner Tyrell sat, quite alone. There were two bottles on a side-table and he appeared to be talking to himself.

  With a cynical smile, Pym looked at Kydd. ‘Well, m’ lad. You’re junior captain – the duty’s yours.’

  It took him a moment to understand: Tyrell was in his cups and, for the sake of decency, had to be hustled out and sent safely home.

  ‘Lives ashore. The carriage knows where,’ Pym murmured and, with another yawn, left with the others.

  Reluctantly, Kydd went across to Hannibal’s captain to see what he could do – and stopped short.

  Tyrell wasn’t talking to himself, he was singing. In a tuneless, broken bass he was giving out the mournful ‘Valiant Sailor’ of Anson’s time, a century before.

  It took Kydd aback – this was no hearty patriotic tune or lyrical trifle. It was a fore-bitter, one that seamen sang to each other and certainly not for the ears of the quarterdeck.

  ‘Come all ye wi-ild young men,

  A warning do take it by me,

  And see you no more, my boys,

  Sent off to a foreign countree …’

  Hesitantly he moved into Tyrell’s field of vision. ‘Rufus? We’re all away now. Are you ready to leave?’

  There was no acknowledgement of his presence. Tyrell’s eyes were unfocused, his body swaying with the song. An empty glass in his hand beat time.

  ‘… we sailed all that night and into the day

  And the first ship we spied was a Frog man-o’-war!

  We bore her head upright, a bloody flag we did fly

  Each man was prepared, the Lord says who dies …’

  Kydd touched his arm. ‘Rufus! Time to be quit, now.’

  With a bleary effort Tyrell looked up, but didn’t stop.

  ‘Your carriage is waiting!’ Kydd said, louder.

  The singing went on, raucous and uncaring.

  ‘Our yards, masts and rigging were all shot away

  And begob our great guns did they roar!

  Why can’t I be there with my Polly on the shore?’

  Kydd glanced around the near empty hall in despair. A couple of footmen were standing by the door in studied boredom. ‘Over here, you men. Bear a hand,’ he called to them.

  They came unwillingly, but Kydd made them take one arm while he took the other and they lifted Tyrell bodily. He made to struggle but saw it was useless and allowed himself to be dragged away, raising his voice in rebellious conclusion:

  ‘The decks were aswim in blood dire and red,

  It’s then that I’m wounded full sore;

  Dear Polly my love, with her black rolling eye

  Here I lie bleeding, it’s for you I do die …’

  There was no hiding it now, and as soon as they made the open air, Kydd roared, ‘Cap’n Tyrell’s carriage, ahoy! Lay alongside now, you villains!’

  A small conveyance with an expressionless driver stepped up. Tyrell was hoisted in by the footmen, his cloak and cocked hat tossed in beside him, leaving him to sprawl in confusion.

  Kydd felt a stab of pity at the sight of such a man brought low. The least he could do was to see him safe home. He pushed Tyrell to the other side and clambered into the vehicle next to him, propping him upright in a semblance of dignity. As an afterthought he found the cocked hat and clapped it on; it seemed to steady him and the singing stopped.

  ‘Cast off,’ Kydd snapped, and obediently they started away, clopping down the road.

  By the time they had made Tyrell’s residence, a modest house at the fringes of the smarter Georgetown, he seemed to be back in possession of his wits. The carriage ground to a stop and Kydd got out, ready to hand Tyrell down, but he was imperiously waved aside while the other alighted, staggering a little before holding himself erect with drunken dignity.

  ‘Your house, Rufus,’ Kydd said neutrally. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight now.’

  ‘W-what? Never!’ Tyrell spluttered. ‘An officer an’ gentleman, you are, Kydd – you’ll come aboard for a snifter, as is the least I can offer a fellow cap’n.’

  ‘Er, I really must—’

  ‘Stuff ’n’ nonsense! You’ll come in an’ take m’ hospitality like the gennelman you are.’ A thought struck and he leered suspiciously at Kydd. ‘That is, if you’re not one of the blaggards who can’t stand the company of a fighting seaman.’

  The door opened and light spilled out. ‘Is that you, Rufus?’ asked Mrs Tyrell, hesitantly. She was in a mob cap and held a gown tightly around her, clearly called from her bed.

  ‘Damn sure it is, Hester,’ Tyrell roared, ‘wi’ a guest who’s dry, for God’s sake!’

  There was nothing for it but to humour him. Kydd hoped it would not be long.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Kydd,’ she said faintly. ‘Er, do come in, pray. I must apologise for the, er …’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Tyrell,’ Kydd said warmly, removing his hat. ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience.’

  A disgruntled servant, still in his nightcap, stumbled up but was told firmly by Mrs Tyrell that the gentlemen would be supping alone in the front room and she herself would look after them.

  They were settled into chairs and a single candle lit; what Kydd could see of the room seemed wan and eerily lifeless.

  Mrs Tyrell brought a brandy decanter and glasses and left them.

  ‘Here’s t’ honour an’ distinction!’ Tyrell said, gesturing grandly, then downing his drink in one.

  ‘As is the right of every true sea officer,’ Kydd replied, conscious that he had been so blessed but his host had not.

  The decanter splashed out more brandy and Tyrell waited meaningfully.

  ‘Oh – er, to the saucy Arethusa,’ Kydd said hastily, bringing to mind the most iconic ship of the age and impatient to be away.

  ‘Aye! To the—’ Tyrell stopped. A look of puzzlement, then deep suspicion crossed his face. ‘Why do you … Wha’ do you know about what happened? I demand t’ know!’

  Confused, Kydd tried to think. Then he had it. Years ago, part of the blockading fleet off Toulon, as master’s mate he’d been sent, without reason given, as independent witness to Arethusa frigate while the boatswain mustered his stores, returning none the wiser. Then, months later in Gibraltar, he had been sworn to secrecy by her gunner’s mate, a friend, who needed to get it off his chest.

  A simple, tawdry tale: the boatswain had conspired with the captain to sell stores and had been found out. Of noble birth, the captain had not been court-martialled and the pair had b
een quietly removed.

  ‘Yes, I know about it, Rufus, but that was a damn long time ago.’ What was riding the man? Of a certainty he was not in the fleet at the time.

  ‘Y-you know, then! I thought, after all these years … Who was it blabbed his mouth?’

  To his horror, Kydd could see he was near to tears so answered softly, ‘The gunner’s mate – as swore me to secrecy, Rufus.’

  ‘Ah. It had t’ be, o’ course.’ He stared away. Kydd was about to take his leave, but then Tyrell downed his brandy in a savage gulp and slopped in more.

  ‘You wan’ t’ know why I did it,’ he challenged.

  ‘Why, er—’

  ‘Wouldn’t unnerstan’ anyway, you swell coves born wi’ a silver spoon in your mouth. Get your place through family, y’r step through interest! Never know what it’s like to be a common jack looking aft, clemmed in a fo’c’sle with wharf rats ’n’ priggers, no hope for it ever.’ He drank again, heavily, then swayed, his head drooping.

  Appalled but fascinated, Kydd had to find out what was driving him. ‘So tell me why, Rufus,’ he urged.

  ‘Wha’? Oh, nothing t’ tell, really. Always wanted to go t’ sea, call o’ the deep wha’ever. M’ father was a doctor, didn’t want me to waste m’ life on the briny, so I up an’ ran away to sea. Fetched up in a three-decker as landman, then t’ Medusa as ordinary seaman.’

  So that was what it was! Tyrell had misheard Arethusa as Medusa and thought Kydd was bringing up his guilty secret, whatever it was. And, ironically, it seemed that not only was he from before the mast, as Kydd was, but thought that Kydd was not.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Ah. That was our Cap’n Belkin.’ His thoughts wandered again but when they returned it was with a cruel smile. ‘A depraved brute an’ no one knew it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘See, I knew what was going on, couldn’t fool me.’

  ‘Er, what—’

  ‘He shipped his fancy boy as a volunteer, the villain, an’ I hatched a plan. I broke in on them while he’s a-tupping. Ha! Should’ve seen ’em!’

  He cackled, then went on, ‘So in course he has a choice. Public court-martial – or he sets me on his quarterdeck as midshipman.’

  The carriage returned through deserted late-night streets, giving Kydd time to come to terms with what had happened. He’d left Tyrell when he’d passed out, going out of his way to reassure his flustered wife.

  It was all so plain now: the doctor’s son of some education and standing had been smitten by the sea and had answered the call. He’d found life as a fore-mast jack a hard one and probably made it no easier by putting on airs, antagonising his shipmates. Then a chance had come to claw his way above them. In his later career as an officer, having claim to being a midshipman, he would not need to admit to earlier service before the mast any more than others would, including Nelson himself.

  Kydd’s thoughts raced. Did he sympathise? If not, who was he to judge? And how far did what he had learned explain Tyrell’s brutal attitude to the common seamen, his prickly relations with fellow officers and misanthropic social behaviour? Guilt must play a part in his character, as would the need to prove himself, but Kydd could not see how such things could poison a soul so absolutely. Was there something else?

  One thing he was sure of: Tyrell was an incomparable fighting seaman and for that, at least, he would give the man the benefit of the doubt.

  Chapter 4

  Their orders were delayed; in their place Kydd received a summons to a distracted Cochrane, who wasted no time in informing him of L’Aurore’s fate.

  ‘You’ll victual and store immediately. L’Aurore is to be attached to the Jamaica Squadron in exchange for Nereide. Clear?’

  Kydd felt a pang of disappointment: he was doing well on the station – but the needs of the service …

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘You’ll convey my dispatches to Admiral Dacres and I expect you to sail without delay.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Oh, and I’ll relieve you of your junior lieutenant. I have a vacancy through sickness I must fill.’

  Bowden.

  It would be a wrench, for he’d known the young man since he’d come aboard the old Tenacious as a stuttering midshipman. They’d seen a lot together and he’d become a fine lieutenant who would be a credit to any ship. Now was not the time to object, though.

  ‘I’ve appointed another, whom you may have as he recovers, fit to serve.’

  ‘Then he’s in hospital, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t spare officers in my pocket, damn it!’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Then I’ll not trouble you further. Good day to you, sir.’ Cochrane returned to his papers.

  ‘Sorry, sir, he’s already gone, like,’ the quartermaster said, as Kydd returned aboard, his regret clearly sincere. Bowden was well liked by the hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kydd said heavily, but it was the way of the sea service. ‘Any word from the shore, let me know directly.’

  They were to sail within the hour but without a third lieutenant, and all that that implied for redistribution of men at quarters and divisions, as well as the obligation now of the first lieutenant to stand watches. Their replacement was still apparently in hospital, and when they reached Jamaica it was most unlikely that a spare lieutenant could be found.

  ‘Hands to unmoor ship, if you please,’ Kydd ordered.

  The move to Jamaica would be welcomed by the seamen: the rambunctious buccaneering reputation of the last century’s Port Royal had not entirely disappeared, and Kydd brought to mind some famous times in the past had by seamen flush in the fob with prize-money.

  ‘Fo’c’slemen mustered correct, sir.’ They were last to report – with the capstan manned they were ready to depart.

  Kydd looked at his watch. ‘No sense in delaying. Weigh anchor, if you please. Cast to starb’d, Mr Kendall?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Topmen swarmed aloft to stand by to loose sail to take the wind on the starboard side when the anchor had been won, and the age-old quickening of the heart of an outward-bound ship touched them all.

  ‘Thick an’ dry!’ came the yell from forward. The cable was taut up and down and with the ‘heavy heave’ that broke the anchor’s grip on the seabed they would be free of the land, their voyage begun.

  ‘Gunfire, sir!’

  Kydd had heard it as well, the distinct crack of a small gun. Someone pointed: a low-built cutter of the kind that swarmed by the score in Carlisle Bay was crowding on sail directly towards them, the smoke of the shot dissipating as they watched.

  It was inconceivable that they were under attack but unauthorised gunfire in a naval anchorage was forbidden. A civil advice-boat with news or dispatches?

  ‘Avast at the capstan!’ Kydd snapped, but he was too late: a shout from the fo’c’sle and a simultaneous sliding of the bows downwind showed they were under way.

  He thought furiously. ‘Belay the last – get that anchor in!’

  It could not have come at a worse moment. With the unusual on-shore south-westerly there was no time to take the turns of cable off the capstan, releasing the anchor to plunge down again, and therefore their only course was to get sufficient way on the ship to claw off.

  ‘Make sail!’

  Canvas dropped and the topmen raced in as the yards were braced around to catch the wind, but instead of an orderly and relaxed departure L’Aurore was sent close-hauled across the busy roadstead to clear anchored ships.

  Another shot came from the cutter.

  ‘See if we can heave to, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said tightly, eyeing the shore. There was less than a mile of usable water for any kind of manoeuvre – there had better be a very good reason for the boat’s antics.

  L’Aurore passed through the cutter’s wind, obliging the little craft to tack about, making a sad showing that left Kydd fuming. He was on the point of ordering the frigate to bear away and make for the
open sea when it finally closed with them. A figure in flamboyant dress on its foredeck shouted up indistinctly.

  Gilbey made impatient signs to come alongside and hailed irritably: ‘What’s your business?’ With its small local crew and shabby look, it was obviously not a government vessel.

  ‘L’tenant Buckle, y’r third, come to join.’

  Kydd swore. ‘Get him on board,’ he snarled to Gilbey. ‘As quick as you may.’ As he stumped back to the wheel he could hear some sort of altercation concerning baggage and ground his teeth.

  They were perilously close to drifting down on a brig-sloop at anchor – he had to take action. But as he was about to give orders to bear away, an inbound merchantman altered course to pass them to seaward, cutting off their track out.

  ‘Get that looby inboard this instant!’ Kydd bellowed furiously.

  It was going to be tricky indeed: how could he—

  ‘Flat out the headsails, douse the driver!’ he roared. With sternway beginning to make itself felt, they had to move now. He swivelled to glare at the quartermaster. If he forgot to reverse all helm orders—

  ‘Um, L’tenant Buckle, sir?’

  Kydd ignored him. ‘Stand by at the braces!’ he bawled down the deck. It would need faultless timing if they were not to be caught aback.

  ‘Come aboard t’ join, sir.’ The man seemed to have no idea of the situation and was dressed in a green morning coat and pantaloons tucked into tasselled boots.

  Kydd turned to stare at him. ‘Get out of my way, you infernal lubber! Can’t you see—’

  Kendall broke in: ‘We has a chance, sir. See the sugar barge, done loading, and she’ll clear the merchant jack in a brace o’ shakes.’

  He was right – as long as they had sufficient way on to ensure tight steering. But it would mean committing to the single course of action and if that failed …

  ‘We’ll do it,’ Kydd responded decisively. Thank the Lord he had a tried and trusty crew. ‘Brace around!’

  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.