The watch was set to exercise – loose and furl. Kydd noted the marked stability the ship showed on the helm even when the big foresail was dowsed and furled, unbalancing the forces of propulsion, then let free and sheeted in to take up again in the brisk easterly. This was a sea-kindly ship.
A single bell sounded from forward, sharp and clear. Instantly Auberon rounded on the mate-of-the-watch. ‘Pass the word for the master-at-arms!’ he ordered.
In a short while the master-at-arms appeared. He touched his hat to the first lieutenant. ‘Sir?’
‘To wait, if you please, Mr Quinn,’ said Auberon coldly.
Kydd handed over the helm to his relief, and went across to report to the captain of the maintop for his duties for the rest of the watch. Clearly the man did not want to miss anything and set Kydd to rehanking the falls around the forebrace bitts nearby.
It was unfortunate for the absent man that the first lieutenant was on deck. This was the officer next after the Captain in authority, and who, more importantly, had the responsibility for the watch and station bill detailing every man’s place of duty.
A face appeared at the main-hatch, wary and hesitant. Coltard came on deck as though treading on eggshells, darting looks about him. The rest of the deck watch busied themselves, but made sure they were within earshot.
‘You, sir!’ snapped Auberon. His cocked hat was jammed on at an aggressive angle, his arms thrust down behind him. There was no question of what was to follow.
Coltard touched his forehead. ‘Aye, sir?’ His face was pale and set; his hat passed nervously from hand to hand.
‘You are adrift, sir!’ As if to lend point to his words, the bell forward sounded a sharp double-strike. ‘An hour!’
Trajan rose playfully to a sea on the bow, sending Coltard staggering a few paces. ‘Got gripin’ in the guts, sir – feel right qualmish, if y’ please sir.’ His voice was weak and thick.
Auberon’s expression did not change. ‘You have attended the doctor,’ he stated, in hard tones. There could be no answer. If he had, Auberon would have had the surgeon’s morning report; if he had not, it would be assumed he was fit for duty. ‘This is the third complaint I have had of you, sir. What have you to say to that, you rascal?’
‘Me belly, it––’
‘You have been taken in drink, I believe. And at this hour. You shall dance pedro pee, upon my honour!’
Coltard straightened, but his eyes showed fear. ‘Sir! I’m a petty officer, not––’
‘Master-at-arms!’
This was harsh treatment for a petty officer: they had privileges that stood them above the common sailor, yet Coltard could no longer count on them. Discipline was above all. Quinn moved eight paces away, then turned and faced Coltard. His foot tapped a black caulked seam in the decking.
There was no pretence at work now: everyone turned inboard to watch. Coltard stared down at the black line of tar. ‘Get a move on!’ Auberon snapped. As though it were a high wire, Coltard stepped forward, and within three paces had lost his footing. ‘Again!’ said Auberon.
Within seconds it was over, and Coltard stood dull but defiant.
‘Mr Quinn, this man is fuddled with grog. He is to be triced up in the weather foreshrouds to dry. Then he is to explain himself before the Captain at six bells.’
‘Haaaaands to muster! Haaands lay aft to witness punishment!’
Reluctantly seamen ceased work to make their way aft. Emerging up from the gundecks, dropping to the deck from the rigging, they crowded on to the quarterdeck. The officers stood above on the poop-deck, looking down with grave expressions on the little party below.
Coltard stood flanked by the master-at-arms and the ship’s corporal. His eyes darted among the mass of sailors; if he was looking for sympathy, it was hard to tell. Kydd caught his eyes and he responded with a sneer. Kydd started in surprise.
The awful words of the Articles of War sounded out, clear and final. Judgement was given: Coltard’s head fell as he heard his captain disrate him. He was now a common sailor, turned before the mast. There was more, inevitably. Coltard made no protest as he was stripped to the waist and seized to the grating by his thumbs with rope yarns.
Kydd turned away his eyes as the marine drummer opened up on the poop. A sudden stop and sweeping down and the boatswain’s mate’s cat-o’-nine-tails mercilessly slammed into the paleness of Coltard’s back. It brought only a grunt into the appalled quiet. The second and succeeding lash brought no sound either – Coltard was going to take it all without giving his audience the satisfaction of a cry. Kydd stared at the deck and felt the skin on his back creep.
Making his way below afterwards, Kydd could join in the general hum of jollity at the humbling of a petty officer. It was clear that the man was so much in the thrall of drink that he had risked the lash to indulge his need. It did not take much to surmise that his shipmates had tired of covering for him and, that morning, had left him to his fate.
Before he had reached his mess a small midshipman tugged his arm. ‘Able Seaman Kydd?’ he squeaked, breathless.
‘Aye?’
‘Lay aft and attend the Captain,’ the reefer said importantly. Kydd stared at him. ‘This instant, you dog!’ the youngster shrilled.
Kydd padded aft, and made himself known to the sentry. Dare he hope?
Inside the Great Cabin the Captain sat at his desk, the first lieutenant standing near him with papers. ‘Ah, Kydd?’ It was the first time that Captain Bomford had addressed Kydd directly.
‘Sir.’
‘I understand you are one of the volunteers from Artemis.’ Bomford had a pleasant, urbane manner. Kydd’s heart leaped.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘You rounded the Horn, I believe.’
‘Sir.’
‘And you were quartermaster’s mate at the time.’
‘Acting quartermaster, sir.’ He would never forget that exhilarating but terrifying time in the great Southern Ocean, the massive seas and sudden squalls slamming in from nowhere . . .
‘And Duke William before that?’ The first lieutenant exchanged looks with Bomford.
‘Yes, sir.’ The big 98-gun ship-of-the-line and its memories were well behind him now. No need to add that he had been on her books as a lowly landman and then ordinary seaman.
‘Then I am sure that you will do well in Trajan,’ Bomford said smoothly. ‘It is in my mind to rate you petty officer – what do you think of that?’
Yes! He had been right to hope! A cooler voice intervened: Auberon would have primed Bomford about the presence aboard of a suitable replacement well before the events of the morning; Kydd had no illusions about his good fortune. Nevertheless . . .
‘I’d like it well, if ye please, sir.’ There was no suppressing the smile. ‘In what rate, sir?’
The captain’s eyebrows rose as he studied a paper. ‘Quartermaster’s mate.’ He met Kydd’s eyes again. ‘If you do your duty strictly and diligently I see no reason why you should not rely on further advancement, if the opportunity arises.’
‘Thank ye, sir.’ It was a priceless step.
‘Then you are so rated. The first lieutenant will arrange your watch and station. Carry on, please.’
Kydd strode back down to the fo’c’sle with his news clutched to his heart, and stopped suddenly. He was now a petty officer: he did not belong with the others. His excitement fell away as he realised that all his messmates were now subordinate to him, every one – even Renzi, his particular friend.
He continued down to the gundeck, but kept his announcement until after the noon meal when he quietly made his goodbyes. He left Renzi to the end. His friend had taken the news with annoying equanimity, hanging back with a slight smile while the others slapped his back and showed gratifying envy. It was time. Awkwardly he held out his hand. Renzi took it with a firm handshake, but said nothing. Kydd mumbled something, and left.
Right aft on the larboard side of the gundeck were the petty officers’ messes. Each was
screened off with canvas, a little world within a world. Kydd scratched on the entrance of his new home; he was answered by Toby Stirk.
‘Knoo you’d waste no time a-gettin’ yerself a petty officer’s berth!’ The hard-featured seaman grinned – with his experience he had been quickly entered as a quarter gunner – and pulled him inside. It was snug and well appointed with pewter mess-traps, and the inside of the screens were splendidly decorated with colourful painted nautical scenes.
‘This ’ere is Thomas Kydd – shipmates wi’ me in Artemis, he was. Right taut hand o’ the watch is Tom,’ Stirk said smugly, his dark eyes glittering. There was no one Kydd would have preferred to serve the compliments: Stirk’s courage in battle and skill at the long guns was fabled.
He thumped his gear down on the table, looked around at his new messmates and glowed with happiness.
Chapter 3
‘Laaaand hoooo!’ The masthead lookout’s powerful hail stopped all work on deck. ‘Land ahoy – one point t’ loo’ard!’
In the van of the convoy, Trajan’s lofty masts gave the best height of eye and they sighted Barbados first. A string of flags jerked up her signal halliards and news of her landfall spread fast around the eighty ships of the convoy. It had been five weeks since they had left England, with only a brief stop in Madeira. The men in the maintop, engaged in the endless task of tarring down the standing rigging, broke into excited chatter. Kydd listened from his position at the aft rail.
‘Where’s this’n?’ demanded Larcomb, his face animated.
‘The Barbadoes, in course!’ said Carby, an older hand. ‘This ’ere is the first port o’ call fer the Caribbean – ev’ry other o’ the islands are t’ looard. Includin’ the Frenchie ones,’ he added.
Kydd watched the grey blur on the horizon grow in definition and broaden, eager white horses hurrying towards the land. ‘What’s ashore, mate?’ he asked Carby. He was unsure quite what to expect. Renzi had elaborated on the strategic importance of the sugar islands, but that didn’t seem to square with the hazy tales he had heard of pirates, the Spanish Main and the infamous Port Royal. Especially the pirates – were they still at large?
‘Yair, well. Nothin’ much, ’ceptin cane-fields and blackamoors,’ grunted Carby. ‘Yez c’n get a good time at the punch shops, an’ the ladies are obligin’, I’ll grant yer.’ His lined eyes crinkled. ‘But don’ expect ter be steppin’ ashore like in Portsmouth town, cully.’
Within the hour Barbados had transformed from an anonymous blue-grey sprawling land to a substantial island, curiously weathered into small ridges and valleys, all looking rather brown. As they rounded the south-west tip, Kydd saw many windmills and tiny huts on the hillsides in a sea of bright green sugar-cane.
One after another the convoy tacked around the point, an endless swarm of sail that filled the sea. As Kydd stood by in the maintop for the evolution of mooring ship, he made sure that Carby was near to give a commentary.
‘There, mates, that’s the lobsterbacks’ barracks, an’ up there, big place near th’ open bit, you has th’ hospital. Yer goes in there wi’ the yellow jack ’n’ it’s a shillin’ to a guinea yer comes out feet first.’
Kydd gazed at the detail of the land resolving in front of him. A wide bay was opening up past a large fort on the point, and a small town nestled in the arm of the bay. ‘Carlisle Bay an’ Bridgetown,’ said Carby.
In common with the other vessels, they would not be entering the harbour; their anchor splashed down noisily into the innocent blue-green of the wide bay. As cable was veered Kydd worked at furling the big main course to its yard. This furl would be concluded with a fine harbour stow, and he was in place of honour at the bunt in the middle, not at the yard-arm. It was some satisfaction for Kydd to be recognised as a good seaman. ‘A yard-arm furler and bunt reefer’ was what a mediocre sailor was called: the best men always went to the outer ends of the yard for deep-sea reefing and the complex centre of the sail for harbour furling.
Kydd on one side and Carby on the other clapped on the bunt jigger, and brought the clews over each side of the mast in a neat ‘pig’s-ear’. Then they passed plaited bunt gaskets to finish the beautifully even stow. The captain of the maintop let them work on without orders – Kydd’s fine seamanship was now instinctive.
Finally at rest, Trajan slowly turned to her anchor to face the warm, gentle breeze, which was all that remained of the ceaseless trade-winds of the open sea they had enjoyed over nearly the whole breadth of the Atlantic. Here, the waves were tiny, only enough to sparkle the sea, but a swell drove in to the beach in huge, indolent waves, a potent memento of a faraway storm.
A lazy heat descended on the motionless vessel. The boats were swayed out from their sea-stowed position on the skid-beams in the waist, and one by one they were placed in the water. An indefinable warm fragrance came on the winds from the shore – dusty earth, unfamiliar vegetation and a tropical sweetness.
The first away was the Captain’s barge with Captain Bomford and the first lieutenant looking uncomfortable in their dress uniforms. The next was the longboat, its sturdy bluff bow pushing the water aside as it made its way shoreward. It would be returning with naval stores too valuable to be left to the local lighters even now putting off from the inner harbour.
Moodily, Kydd watched the boats lose themselves among the throng of other watercraft beetling among the many anchored vessels and the shore. He could see enough of the land’s details to feel frustrated: he wanted to know what a Caribbean island looked like.
Trajan creaked in sequence as a swell passed down her length, accompanied by a lethargic rhythm of clacks and slatting from aloft as blocks and ropes rattled against the masts with the movement.
‘Haaands to store ship!’ Kydd’s duty as quartermaster’s mate required his presence. He took one last reluctant look at the shore. Already lighters were putting off from the distant quay with water, big leaguer casks in rows. He watched, astonished, as just two men fended off, then began manipulating mighty pole-like oars – all of fifty feet long – to bring out one of the heavy lighters.
To get at the hold, it was necessary to open the main-hatch on each deck, one under the other. At the orlop the decking was taken up, revealing the noisome darkness of the hold, now made light by the strengthening sun coming down through the hatches. Kydd dropped down to the top of the stores. The empty casks had to be cleared away to allow the full ones to lower down into the ground tier, safely nestled ‘bung-up and bilge free’ in shingle ballast. The stench was thick and potent – the shingle had absorbed bilge water and the stink roiled up as it was disturbed. In the heat it was hard to take, and Kydd felt a guilty pang as he scrambled above. Clear of the hold, he wrote his reckoning on his slate.
‘All the haaaands! Clear lower deck ahoooy! Hands lay aft!’ The boatswain’s mates sounded distantly above.
Kydd cursed – this was not the time to be stopping work. ‘Secure!’ he growled, at the questioning faces of his work party below.
The Captain had returned unexpectedly and now waited patiently at the break of the poop, flanked by his officers.
‘Still!’ roared the master-at-arms. Conversations faded and the sound of shuffling feet quickly died away.
Captain Bomford stepped forward to the rail. ‘Trajans, I have asked you here to tell you the news.’ There was silence at his words. ‘Our duty to the convoy is done.’ This was met with stony looks – the slow progress of the convoy across the Atlantic had been tedious.
‘Now we are released for our true work.’ He let the words sink into the silence. ‘We shall now sail for the French island of Guadeloupe. You will be happy to hear that His Majesty’s arms have met with great success in the West Indies. We are taking the French islands from them, one by one, Martinique, St Lucia, and now Guadeloupe. We sail immediately. On arrival, all hands should be prepared for shore service. However, I do not anticipate much opposition.’
Trajan and the 32-gun frigate Wessex sailed unopposed into the
sheltered arms of Grande Baie, Guadeloupe. The sleepy island was oddly shaped: to larboard a bulking, rounded beast of land, to starboard a low, rumpled coastline stretching away, the two forming an inward curve. Where they met, the land dipped to a flat joining place.
Sun-splashed and deeply green, the land seemed all that Kydd expected of an isle in the Caribbean. There were no wharves and shanty towns that he could see, just verdancy and, here and there, the golden lines of beaches. The heady scent of land on the brisk wind entered his nostrils, immediate and exciting.
The anchor dropped and cable rumbled out. Motion ceased on the Trajan, but Wessex continued on. Inshore, from a small, squat coral-stone fort, Kydd saw white puffs appear close to the water’s edge. The puny guns seemed to have no effect on the ship, which glided on. Kydd wondered how he would feel if positions were reversed. Here was the equivalent of an entire artillery battery of the heaviest guns of the army coming to punish the little fort.
There was no more gunsmoke from the fort. Kydd guessed that the gunners were fleeing the menace closing in. But there was no time to watch. He was in charge of one party of fifteen seamen under Lieutenant Calley and a master’s mate he didn’t know, and they would shortly board one of the boats for the shore.
The sudden crash of a broadside echoed around the bay – Wessex had opened fire. The smoke blew down on them quickly in the lively breeze, hiding the frigate, but the effects of the tempest of shot on the silent fort were clear. Heavy balls had torn up the ground, sending huge clods of earth and rock fragments skyward. Tropical trees had fallen as if slapped down, and a haze of dust had materialised.
A storm of cheering went up, and the men tumbled willingly into the boats. Kydd and his party were assigned the forward part of the longboat, and he pushed between the rowers to the bow, his cutlass scabbard catching awkwardly. He saw Renzi board at the last minute; he could not catch his eye at this distance, and wondered what he was doing – he was not a member of Kydd’s party.
Seaflower: A Kydd Novel Page 3
