Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  The little Frenchman was still in patriotic flow so Kydd stood up too, and said in a strong voice, ‘We never killed our king – we yet honour him. An’ we say, God save th’ King!’ He raised his glass and drained it.

  From the end of the table, the gentle voice of Louise cut in. ‘We also, M’sieur Keed – you are in ze company of royalistes, you un’erstand.’

  A rapid volley of French at Monsieur Vernou had the Frenchman starting in consternation. ‘Mais bien sûr! Que Dieu bénisse Sa Majesté Britannique! ’

  All rose. ‘Que Dieu bénisse Sa Majesté!’

  Renzi returned the compliment and the table sat down to a happy babble. ‘I pray the lunacy on the streets of Paris does not cross the seas to here,’ Renzi remarked, in a low voice to Kydd. ‘These good people will be its first victims.’

  The next few days passed in a blur of contentment for Kydd. The boatswain arrived with stores – coils of good hemp rope, six blocks to replace those weakened by tropical rot, and oakum for deck seams. The ship’s carpenter put in an appearance to tut-tut over the sprung bow strakes and left with the promise that his mates would come later.

  At the billet Kydd settled into a pleasant domestic routine. Louise mended a shirt-sleeve he had torn – it was her room that the sailors now inhabited. At family meals she had taken to sitting next to Kydd, her quaint English welcome when Renzi engaged in his long conversations in French. She would gently chide him on his manners, which Kydd found endearing if disconcerting.

  Less than a week later, when the schooner had been brought to readiness but for the stove bow strakes, they sat down to their meal – and unwelcome news. ‘The French have made their move,’ Renzi murmured to Kydd, after the first excited flurry of talk had settled.

  Kydd’s mouth was full, but he couldn’t help saying, ‘This scran is rousin’ good eatin’, Nicholas.’ The ragoût of fish had an elusive flavour of herbs – French cooking was fast persuading Kydd that the English did not have it all their own way in the culinary arts.

  ‘It could prove . . . unfortunate,’ Renzi pressed.

  ‘What’s afoot?’ Kydd asked, mouth full.

  ‘They say there are rumours that significant landings have been made to the north of the island,’ Renzi said, in a low voice.

  Louise overheard. ‘So – a few soldier land! We ’ave the protection of ze Engleeesh sheeps and soldiers too.’

  Monsieur Vernou snapped some words.

  ‘My brothair – he remind that we béké are many, and will flock to the colour of Bourbon France.’

  Renzi dabbed his mouth. ‘These are landed from a frigate. This implies that they are regular troops on a planned invasion – by the revolutionaries,’ he added, for emphasis.

  ‘But you vill always prevail,’ Louise said.

  ‘That is not altogether certain,’ Renzi said carefully.

  ‘Why do ye say that, Nicholas?’ Kydd said, with some asperity.

  ‘Consider. Trajan and the frigates are away attending to the reduction of San Domingo. They cannot come at our call immediately because they are headed by the winds and current. The garrison here in Guadeloupe is few – we have sent perhaps too many soldiers to San Domingo. The royalists are no trouble and look to seeing out the larger war under our governance, but they may prove unreliable if tested too far. If the Jacobins are energetic and well led, it could be . . .’

  Kydd turned to Louise, but her eyes were troubled so he didn’t speak.

  The following morning there was even worse news. ‘It seems that the Terror in Paris has come here at last,’ Renzi told Kydd, after listening to a fear-struck visitor as they prepared to leave for their work. There was no need to lower his voice now: there was a hubbub of frantic speculation. ‘A guillotine came with the frigate and it is doing its work out there even now.’ Renzi looked grave. ‘One hundred – maybe as many as three hundred – have perished in a night of blood. This is serious news indeed.’

  A torrent of weeping and beseeching from the women greeted the sight of Monsieur Vernou in his ensign of reserves uniform. He made an impassioned speech, then marched out, head held high. The ladies clutched one another. ‘The royalists go to preserve their very lives now,’ said Renzi quietly.

  Kydd wandered out of the house in a daze. If there was anything in what Renzi had said, the Vernous were in grave danger. He tried to suppress the image of Louise’s gentle face. His steps led him to the waterfront, and as he turned the last corner he saw soldiers.

  ‘Hey now!’ said the sergeant, coming out from behind a beached boat. ‘Jack Tar on land still.’

  ‘Still are,’ replied Kydd. ‘An’ you, Sar’nt Hotham, you on y’r way t’ stoppin’ the Frogs at th’ landing?’

  Hotham did not reply at first. He looked about, then stepped up to Kydd and spoke quietly. ‘No, mate, we’re not. Nobody is. See, we just ain’t got the numbers to face ’em, so many bein’ away in Santa Domingy, so we’re fallin’ back on the town.’

  ‘C’n you hold ’em if they attack?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t worry.’

  ‘An’ don’t ye worry y’rself,’ Kydd said stoutly. ‘Navy’ll be sendin’ their fleet soon, an’ that’ll settle their account.’ Trajan and the others would make short work of whatever ships the French had – if they were alerted and could make it back in time.

  The new day developed into its usual tropical grandeur. The royalist force marched out with English soldiers to meet the revolutionaries, and that night the Vernou family sat up late, debating events. Kydd lay awake for a long time, haunted by an image of Louise strapped to a guillotine, looking up at the blade.

  He was awoken in the dark early hours by sounds from below. There was a scuffle outside followed by a furious hammering on the door. He leaped from bed and hurried below, aware that he and Renzi were the only men in the house. Cautiously he unbarred the door.

  ‘Que Dieu nous aide, nous sommes condamnés!’ a middle-aged lady in mob cap cried as she pushed inside. Renzi, close behind Kydd, tried to pacify her. She thrust a paper at him.

  Renzi took a candle from Louise, who had just appeared, and read. The flickering light lit up his face from below. ‘The worst!’ he said, his expression as grave as Kydd had seen. ‘The political leader of these revolutionaries, whose name is Victor Hugues, has made a proclamation, which he has secretly posted throughout the town under cover of night.’

  Kydd felt his bowels tighten.

  ‘He has stated, in effect, that the glorious revolution promised liberty, equality and fraternity, which applies to the slaves of this island. All slaves are now free and owe no obedience to any béké from this moment on.’

  ‘C’est la fin de notre société telle que nous la connaissons,’ the woman moaned. Louise stood stock still, pale and staring.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Kydd said, but he knew the answer already. He had no specific feelings about slavery – he hadn’t any experience of it – but the effect of uncontrolled freedom on those who had been enslaved would have the situation spinning out of control.

  Renzi spoke quietly. ‘It means that with a single move of diabolical genius, this Victor Hugues has turned the tables on us. A large slave population now loose and in disorder is something no military commander can have in his rear. We are finished.’

  There was a horrified silence.

  ‘As far as we know––’

  From the shop came the sudden sound of splintering glass and low animal growls. Kydd pushed open the door, and in the breaking dawn saw figures clambering through the wreckage of the front window.

  ‘Get back! It’s not safe!’ Kydd called, slammed the door and shot the bolt. The terrified ladies hurried up the stairs while Renzi searched for arms.

  There were more sounds of breaking glass, then quiet. Kydd eased open the door and saw that the shopfront was in ruins. He crossed to the door and looked out into the street. It was deserted – but a plume of smoke billowed skyward a street away. Irregular, sinister sounds broke the peace.
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  ‘We’d better stay with the ladies, Nicholas,’ Kydd called.

  Renzi joined him. ‘Hark!’ he said sharply, holding up his hand.

  Kydd couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a sharp squeal against the silence. It chilled his blood. ‘I thought––’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Then, from the top of the street, came a boatswain’s call.

  ‘Hands to muster!’ exclaimed Kydd. He ran into the middle of the street and waved his arms.

  The boatswain’s mate looked him over with a lopsided smile. ‘You, Kydd, get yer men ’n’ their gear over to th’ town square. We needs ev’ry man c’n carry a musket.’

  At Kydd’s reluctance, he snapped, ‘Sharpish like! Lootenant ain’t waitin’ fer any wants ter dally.’ He glared at Kydd and left.

  Kydd looked back at the old shop, the front sad and threatening. How could he abandon the women at this time? He stole a glance at Renzi. His friend was looking steadily at him, his arms folded. He looked away. Perhaps there was time to get Louise and Madame Vernou away – but the schooner was still unfit for sea and . . . What was he thinking? Who was there to man any craft he could find? And how would it be seen by others? That he was running away from a hopeless situation to save himself ? There was no alternative: he had his duty. He stiffened. ‘What are ye waitin’ for, Nicholas? Let’s get our dunnage.’

  Their room seemed a fragile relic of gentler times, Louise’s fragrance soothing and poignant. Their sea-bags were stuffed in a trice, but the two women were at the door, the maid nowhere to be seen. At the sight of their set faces, Madame Vernou broke into weeping and Louise simply stared – neither accusing nor forgiving.

  ‘We – that’s t’ say – we have t’ go,’ Kydd said awkwardly. To his consternation Madame Vernou fell to her knees and clutched at him, sobbing. Her words had no need of translation. Gently he disengaged her. Louise stood like a statue and, on an impulse, he tore off a button from his short blue seaman’s jacket and pressed it into her hand. She took it, raised it to her lips and kissed it. Kydd saw her eyes glisten. ‘We go now, Nicholas,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Just in time – you go with Mr Jowett.’ The lieutenant was harassed and fretful, but his brow cleared at the sight of Kydd and Renzi. The square was crowded with men, milling about in anxious groups.

  Jowett turned out to be a master’s mate of uncertain temper. His men, including Kydd and Renzi, were formed up and the little band moved out. They marched swiftly, Jowett eyeing the streets warily for trouble. Only the four marines had muskets.

  ‘Where ’re we headed?’ Kydd asked the tattooed sailor next to him.

  The man shifted the tobacco quid in his mouth and said, with satisfaction, ‘Ter th’ wharf, ter get the brig t’ sea.’

  Kydd hefted his sea-bag, a dawning thought lifting his hopes. Yes, they were turning into the last street – and would pass the Vernou shop!

  ‘Mr Jowett!’ called Kydd. ‘C’n I check on m’ billet, as was, when we pass?’

  Reluctantly, Jowett halted the band. Kydd knew he would be inclined to trust that a petty officer had good reason to delay the party. Now Jowett would find he had two women passengers on the brig. Kydd called out to the family, but no one emerged. Jowett hailed him peremptorily.

  Kydd went in hastily. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark interior he noticed the charring on the steps to his room, tiny wisps of blue smoke still spiralling – then the blood, trickling over the edge of the floor above. The door darkened and Jowett’s angry face swam into his vision. ‘Well, spread some canvas an’ let’s be goin’!’

  Kydd stumbled out and, seeing his appalled expression, Renzi grabbed his arm. ‘Too late!’ Kydd muttered. He was too shaken to look Renzi in the eye. They trudged on, Kydd in a haze of grief.

  The brig had been warped a hundred yards offshore and the wharf was filling rapidly with crowds of frantic humanity, beseeching, imploring and fighting to get passage on the vessel. Jowett established a secure position at the water’s edge, the marines making free with their bayonet points. A boat was signalled ashore from the three men aboard. When it arrived it became clear that the brig was in no fit state to sail. Under refit, it had no need for sails: they had all been sent down and kept somewhere ashore.

  The strain was beginning to tell: seamen snarled at each other and snapped at the weeping, frenzied mob. Kydd found himself crudely brushing aside an old woman, feeling her withered skin and frail bones, her ancient face distorted with terror.

  The sail-loft was found, and sails quickly stowed in the boat. A flat thud sounded above the chaos, then another. Gunsmoke wreathed a ridge above the capital. ‘They’re bombarding the town,’ yelled Renzi.

  Blood appeared in the mass of hysterical bodies as the marines wielded their bayonets more brutally. The guns on the ridge spoke in chorus, but where the shot went was not obvious.

  The sailors boarded the boat in a rush, making it pitch alarmingly. The sails were taken out to the brig, some seamen swarming into the tops, others locating the halliards and lifts.

  ‘We go out under staysails an’ mizzen,’ ordered Jowett. There was a ragged hiss and a thump: a plume of water rose in the sea, the cannon ball going on to smash a beachside hut to splinters. ‘They’s shyin’ at us!’ growled Jowett. ‘Time we wasn’t here.’

  Kydd felt an overwhelming urge to be back at sea where it would be calm and sane. From the shore came distant screams and cursing – the marines were having difficulty defending themselves. Jowett seized Kydd’s arm. ‘Get ashore, send twenty of ’em out ter me. Twenty is all!’ A ball slapped through the fore topmast staysail as it rose up on the stay. ‘Now!’

  Kydd threw a glance at Renzi, who was just descending from the main-shrouds, and boarded the boat. He took the tiller and headed for the chaos ashore, swelled now by royalist deserters who had broken into grog-shops.

  The marines had fear in their eyes – the mob was near uncontrollable. The boat bumped up against the stone wharf and Kydd fought his way up to the marines. ‘Watch m’ back, you lobsterbacks,’ he yelled, and took an oar into the crowd, rotating it wildly to clear a space. It gained a minute or two: then what? To whom should he award life, to whom deny it?

  One of the men on the oars came up courageously to help him. Together they held the oar as a barrier. There, around two rows back, a mother and daughter, they should go. He pointed them out and beckoned. Under screams of rage from the others, they forced their way under the oar and to safety. Kydd’s eyes darted around. The grey-haired man with the proud but fearful expression, a royalist officer, doomed if he remained. As the man came forward, Kydd noticed he was trembling so much he could hardly steady himself. Others – the boat was filling fast. A sharp crack and rending of timber – some spar in the brig taking a ball; there was no time to lose. He made sure the oarsmen were clear – the gunwales were only six inches above the water; he would wedge himself into the stern. Kydd looked around at the crowd for the last time – and, with a shock, saw Louise on the fringes.

  Without stopping to consider the consequences, he pointed and beckoned. The mob howled and tore at her, and she fell – but rose and fought her way through. Kydd tried to think what her presence must imply – whose blood had he seen at the house? Louise paused in front of him, and he pushed her to the boat. She clambered aboard over the transom into the place Kydd had intended for himself. The boat swayed, nearly dipping the gunwales under. Its passengers screamed in fright. There was no chance for him on this trip.

  He watched the boat reach the brig as a cannon shot brought up a vicious plume of spray not five yards from it. The people scrambled for their lives up the side, and Kydd noticed the line of the morning sun lengthening down the brig’s hull. Her cables had been cut. The fore and aft sails were shaken out and, with the empty boat drifting free astern, the brig caught the wind and put to sea.

  Lieutenant Calley did not look up from his writing. The faint tap of muskets sounded – the French must be close. H
is shirt stuck to him in the close heat of the small room, and he muttered as he wrote.

  Kydd waited patiently. They had made it back to the square and found it empty of friendly soldiery – in fact, empty of most inhabitants. They had only found their way to this ‘headquarters’ after a chance encounter with a hurrying party of infantrymen.

  Calley looked up. Kydd was shocked by the dark rings around his eyes and the evidence in his posture of extreme tiredness. ‘The town is in total disorder; the French are approaching from the east. There is no help for it – we must yield the capital.’ He spoke generally, not at Kydd but into his immediate front.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he said. So much had happened since that pre-dawn awakening. The noon heat was dire in this room and he longed to be out in the steady sea breeze.

  ‘You, er, Kydd.’ Calley seemed to have difficulty with his words. ‘We – we must hold until Trajan returns, with, er, reinforcements.’

  The sweat prickled down Kydd’s back.

  ‘What I want you to try to do – is take your party to Petit Bourg, our largest remaining stronghold. I shall withdraw into the mountains of Basse Terre and yield up the capital and eastern half of the island to the enemy.’ His head lowered. ‘God knows – I have done what I can.’

  Kydd knew better than to voice his anxieties. ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ he said, the age-old response to a naval order, and made his exit.

  Outside, the marines waited. No file of men presenting arms, just a group of three in dusty tunics, bowed with fatigue, but with muskets bright and gleaming. Why they should follow his orders he had no idea, but he saw them straighten when he emerged, looking to him. In that moment he understood – they needed from him that nameless quality that drove men on regardless through adversity and battle. They were joined by five seamen.

  ‘We’re meetin’ our mates,’ Kydd said decisively, ‘at Putty Borg – over yonder,’ he added. It had been pointed out to him earlier, an anonymous huddle of buildings just visible across the bay on the rugged Basse Terre proper.