Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  As they opened up the forward hold in the orlop, Kydd noticed by the light of their lanthorn that Capple’s eyes were red, his face lined. He wondered whether he himself looked as bad as he pulled aside the grating and dropped on to the casks immediately below. He reached up for the lanthorn and held it while Capple joined him. The dim gold light reached out into the stinking gloom, the noise of the hull working in the storm a deafening chorus of shattering cracks and deep-throated creaking. As far as could be seen, the stowage was unbroken. Kydd leaned over the side of the mound of casks to the ground tier in their bed of shingle, and saw the sheen of water in the shadows, then heard the hiss of water movement, much like a pebble beach.

  ‘Takin’ in a lot o’ water,’ Kydd called back. ‘Hope Chips’s got a weather eye on’t.’ The pumps had been at work for an hour every watch, he knew, but that would be the seawater flooding the decks making its way to the bilges. The red pinprick flash of eyes caught his attention at the periphery of his vision. ‘Rats’re gettin’ restless,’ he muttered. In a heavy blow at sea, rats usually found somewhere quiet to sit it out; these were on the move. Kydd didn’t know why, but felt the beginning of fear.

  ‘I’m gettin’ another lanthorn, Tom, mate,’ Capple said. ‘We’re goin’ to take a good look.’

  It was dangerous work: the massive barrels over which they clambered moved at every violent roll, opening a vicious cleft between them that would certainly mean crushed fingers or worse if they were trapped. They worked their way down the ancient, blackened timbers of the ship’s side, noting the weeping of seams, the visible working of frames and planking. There was nothing.

  Up the other side. There did not appear to be anything they could report, but Kydd felt that all was not well in the old ship’s bowels. They returned to anchor watch on the foredeck, feeling as much as seeing the catenary curve of the thick cable into the white-streaked dark ahead, and were soaked each time the thump of a breaker against the bows signalled another deluge.

  At six bells, an hour before the end of Kydd’s watch, they heard that the chain-pump, capable of moving tons of water an hour, was now being manned continuously. This was serious. There must be a near disastrous ingress of water somewhere, but the ship’s company was numb after hours of hanging by their sole anchor, and the news had little impact. All hopes were centred on the morning.

  Kydd could not go below. At the end of his watch he crouched below the bulwarks again, straining against the darkness to catch the first hint of light. The anchor was holding – that was all that counted. At any moment it might silently give way and then, after a few despairing minutes, it would all be over for every soul aboard. At any moment! But the thought gradually lost its reality and therefore the power to terrorise him.

  Cold, aching, stupefied by the hammering wind, Kydd slowly realised that he could see as far aft as the hulking shapes of the boats on their skids. He stood stiffly and looked out to sea.

  ‘What is it, mate?’ Stirk said. He had shared Kydd’s vigil on the foredeck.

  Kydd turned to him. ‘Dawn,’ he said. A smile transformed his face. They gripped a rope and gazed out, waiting for the wan daylight to spread. Across the wind-torn seascape the land finally emerged – but implausibly it ranged away at an angle.

  ‘We got a chance now, me ol’ griff,’ said Stirk, his eyes dark-shadowed, his face hollow.

  ‘Show some canvas, why, we’ll claw off in a brace o’ shakes,’ agreed Kydd. During the night the wind had backed. Now no longer a dead muzzler, there was a fighting chance that they could use the shift in wind to sail themselves out close-hauled. And in this way, they would no longer be reliant on the single anchor – they would be once more in the open sea.

  The light of day spread. It was now possible to see a jagged horizon, which had been invisible the previous day, and Kydd knew that the weather was moderating.

  ‘All haaands . . .’ The rest was impossible to make out. But it was clear what was required. Hands to stations to set sail; Kydd went aft to the helm to await his orders.

  Bomford spoke briefly to his first lieutenant. From all parts-of-ship came the officers and petty officers in charge of their stations, from the fighting tops, the fo’c’sle, the mainmast. They were the ones who would hear what must be done – and make it so.

  The Captain stood in the centre of the deck, his officers straining to hear, the petty officers about them. ‘You will know of the peril in which we stand – I will not refer to it again,’ Bomford said. His voice had a hard, resolute edge that cut through the buffeting roar of the wind.

  ‘We will cast to larb’d and proceed under close-reefed main, double-reefed storm jib and driver.’ He looked keenly at the group. ‘You will see that this is very like a club-haul, the latter part – and by this you will know that there is no going back, there is but one chance . . .’

  Kydd had never seen a club-haul, a manoeuvre reserved for the most desperate situations, but he had heard of it. A vessel caught on a lee coast would let go her anchor, then continue to be blown ashore only to pivot around her anchor to face out to sea again. It was a brutal manoeuvre but the sting was in what Bomford was saying: there was only one chance, because when the vessel found herself headed back out to sea, she had no choice – the anchor cable had to be cut to enable the escape.

  ‘I will crowd on her all sail she will take,’ Bomford said, ‘by my sign to each in turn . . .’ he specified which signal would apply to which sail for shouted orders were useless ‘. . . and I apprehend the chief peril to be if the main course is taken aback.’

  The Captain finished, and looked gravely at each man. He then spoke gently but firmly: ‘I do believe before we go to put our lives at hazard, it will not go amiss if we put our hopes and trust before He who disposes of all things.’ A scatter of shapeless tarpaulin head coverings disappeared and, bare-headed, the men of HMS Trajan came together in prayer. For a long moment, there was silence as every man’s thoughts soared to his loved ones, and the chance of ever seeing them again.

  Kydd’s eyes lifted from the deck. ‘To your stations, if you please,’ said Bomford quietly. The light had strengthened: it was possible to see well ahead to the open sea, the yearned-for goal, but the line of coast was growing in clarity.

  Capple stood at the wheel, his arms folded, ready. His was without doubt the single most vital task. Kydd snatched a glance. If Capple felt the pressure on him he gave no sign of it, his eyes slitted against the wind, watching the sails bent on, gaskets loosened, men gathering to hoist – or dowse.

  It was time. One by one the stations waved an acknowledgement, the men standing by in fearful anticipation. Out of sight on the deck below the boatswain would be standing with his foot on the cable as it left the hawse – he would feel its live thrumming, the tension in a direct line to the sea-bed. When the ship had sail on, had speed sufficient not only to meet the seas and beat them but to make real way, then the boatswain would feel the vibration die away, the cable deaden, relaxed at last as the ship came up on the anchor. Then would be the time for the carpenter to step forward with his razor-sharp mast axe and cut the cable.

  ‘Helm!’ the Captain warned. Capple gripped the wheel. Kydd would follow every movement at the lee side, his eyes fixed on the quartermaster. The Captain moved to the forward end of the quarterdeck and gave one last glance aloft. Then he acted: the signal went out. It was the storm jib to hoist, and forward a tiny triangle of sail inched up hesitantly, the white faces of the fo’c’sle party clearly visible as they looked back at the Captain, ready for an immediate countermand. The wheel spun as the helm was put hard over. They would use the effect of the seas seething past to help achieve a cast to larb’d.

  Higher it rose, flapping and beating with the wind dead ahead. Suddenly it took the wind, board taut: the strong sail in an instant had the bows dipping and the ship shying like a nervous horse. This was the time of greatest danger, before any speed through the water was achieved, sheering across the wind and putting
intolerable strain on their anchor.

  Another signal, this time aft: the driver, a fore and aft sail on the mizzen, makeshift reefing to show the smallest possible area. Kydd held his breath – the sail flapped and banged, then caught.

  Braced right around, the main-yard was slung low in its jeers, but the lee clew of the course appeared. It grew, and the first square sail was set, a tiny corner on one side of the yard, but yet a driving force.

  Nervously Kydd snatched a glimpse at the white seas raging past. The ship began to rear: there was an uneasy screwing motion. The Captain was as rigid as a statue, gripping a stay and staring fiercely ahead. Bomford gestured – more sail showed at the main. Kydd could not be sure, but felt that the motion was growing less jerky. Could it be that they were advancing on their anchor?

  Raising his arm, Bomford looked all about him. Then, the signal to cut the cable, to launch themselves into eternity – or sweet safety.

  Kydd tensed, and in the time it took the carpenter to hack through the great cable Bomford strode quickly back to the helm. Suddenly the ship’s bow fell away from the wind. No longer tethered she dropped away to leeward. A massive roll sent men skittering across the deck. A cross sea intervened and the ship lurched sickeningly. Kydd snatched a look astern – they were drifting down on the land. His hands gripped the wheel convulsively. A growl from Capple brought his attention to it. They fought the wheel round together, hard over to try to bring the bows back up to the wind.

  The Captain stood unmoving and Kydd felt a pressure on the helm, a strengthening, glorious force that told of power and movement through the water. He determined not to look behind at the land, but couldn’t help a prickling in his neck as he remembered the fringing reef, which must be close now.

  The bowsprit reared and plunged but it sawed a path in the sky that was unmistakable: Trajan was answering her helm. Kydd dared to hope. A little more of the goosewinged main and the old ship heeled obediently in response, the seas meeting her bow with energy and purpose. Minute by agonising minute, yard by yard, Trajan clawed her way out to sea, until at last there could be no more doubt. They had won through.

  All eyes were on the thick-set carpenter as he emerged on deck to report. The pumps had been at work for some time, but it seemed that he had not found any specific leakage.

  ‘Sir, the barky is strained in her foreparts, on account o’ the anchorin’ pulling and tearin’ at the riding bitts and clinches. I can’t say as I c’n be sure how long afore she opens up aroun’ the cant frames, she bein’ so mouldy deep in an’ all.’

  It would be the cruellest fortune to founder just as they had found life. Kydd felt resentment flare and wondered bitterly what Renzi would make of it, what philosophical edge might make it palatable. There was talk of frapping, putting turns of rope right round the hull and bowsing tight, but this was impossible while the hurricane lasted. The wind had backed further and as the hours wore on there was a discernible lessening of the violence, a descent into merely a fresh gale, but not enough.

  Just before Kydd’s watch finished, lookouts on the foreyard sighted sail, far off and storm-tossed, but it quickly resolved into a frigate, an English one as far as anyone could tell, scudding before the outer edge of the hurricane.

  ‘Show ’em our colours,’ snapped Auberon. In reply a blue ensign jerked up the mast in the frigate, proving her one of Admiral Jervis’s Leeward Islands Squadron.

  Bomford wasted no time. ‘Signal her to lie to, and attend on us when the storm abates,’ he ordered, and went below.

  ‘All the haaaands! All haaands on deck – lay aft!’

  Shafts of sun glittered on the grey seas, the wind nearly back in the north-east, warmth beginning to spread, the insanity of the past slipping away. The men mustered on the upper deck to hear the Captain again.

  ‘I will be brief,’ Bomford began. It was clear he had much on his mind, and he spoke curtly. ‘I am proud of this ship – I am proud of you all, that you have done your duty so nobly. If you stand as valiantly against the enemy as you did against the might of the hurricane then we have no fear of any foe.’ Bomford seemed to have difficulty in choosing his words. ‘Trajan will proceed now to Antigua for survey and repair at the dockyard, a bare day or two’s sail away.’ He waited for the indistinct murmuring to die away. ‘But I have to tell you that we as a ship’s company will be transported in the frigate back to Barbados while this is done.’ This time there were mutters of appreciation – the small island of Antigua could not bear the effort of keeping hundreds of seamen idle ashore for an extended period, and therefore they would return to the main base with all its lures. ‘Yet I would ask for volunteers to form a skeleton crew to sail Trajan to her well-earned rest. May the first lieutenant see the hands of those volunteering?’

  A tiny scatter of hands rose. It was no contest: Antigua had nothing to offer that compared with the punch shops and entertainments of Bridgetown. Anger rose in Kydd: Trajan was now to be deserted by those she had borne so uncomplainingly through her time of trial. He glanced about. Stony faces met his: they were not going to give up their chance of a frolic. Kydd threw up his hand – he at least would remember the old lady.

  The volunteers were mustered on the quarterdeck. His eyes resentfully on the deserting seamen, Kydd didn’t notice Bomford approach.

  ‘Kydd, it did not escape me, the contribution you made to this ship and her preservation.’ Bomford had piercing eyes and Kydd stiffened. ‘This was in the very best traditions of the Service, and show you to be an exceptional seaman. I look forward to when we renew our acquaintance as a ship’s company – and while I cannot promise in the particulars, I have it in mind to recognise your worth with an advancement. Good luck, and thank you.’

  Chapter 6

  Trajan ghosted over a shimmering sea, her sail reduced so that without an anchor she could back topsails and heave to in plenty of time. The low, pretty island of Antigua lay ahead, basking in tropical sunshine, a long sandy beach visible between two rocky points. The dark stone of a fort stood at a height to the right, and another one extended low down along a point to the left, dashes of red along a crenellated wall obviously soldiers. The sea was a deep royal blue, so calm that only a slight swell marred its flat, glittering expanse.

  A boat under sail emerged round the point and turned towards them, her bow-wave white and sparkling. On taking in the last of her sails, Trajan ceased her live motion and drifted. The boat arrived and a deeply sun-tanned officer clambered up the side. It took little time for the essence of the matter to be conveyed: the ship would be prepared to enter English Harbour.

  It was out of the question to sail into the confines of the harbour: the compact space that made it a first-class hurricane haven made it impossible for a large ship to manoeuvre. Trajan would be warped in. Ropes were taken ashore by boat and secured to strong moorings embedded at strategic points, and all hands of the skeleton crew manned the capstan.

  The land came in on both sides, but around the point it opened up. At a prominence further down in the long harbour a cluster of buildings announced the location of a naval dockyard. Trajan was not alone. The bulbous hull of a vessel careening dominated the other side, and everywhere there were brigs, schooners, packets and a swarm of small fry. But the 74-gun Trajan was easily the biggest vessel, her grim sides towering above them all.

  They hauled themselves further into the harbour. The dockyard was to larboard, and on a flat area to the fore a lofty mast bore a Union Flag that streamed gaily to the breeze. As her commissioning pennant was not in evidence, there were no naval ceremonies and within the hour Trajan was alongside a dusky brown coral-stone wharf.

  Kydd looked ashore. The little dockyard town boasted imposing, veranda-clad two-storey edifices along well-made roads. At the root of the tiny peninsula was a long pillared structure with open sides topped with a wide roof – a boat being floated inside revealed it as a shipwright’s boat-house.

  Springs and breast-ropes applied, Trajan had o
fficially arrived. It was hot and dusty, but the north-east trade winds resumed their cool streaming from over the surrounding hills. All the same, Kydd felt grateful to be wearing a thin working shirt rather than the soldiers’ heavy clothing. From Trajan’s upper deck, he could see into the busy dockyard. Black men considerably outnumbered others, plodding along economically with their burdens. A number of ducks and geese were fluttering and strutting about.

  ‘Ain’t much,’ Stirk said, mopping his brow with his red kerchief. ‘We goin’ rollickin’ ashore, ’n’ not a sight of a regular-goin’ pothouse anywheres.’ The close-packed dockyard buildings quickly fell away along what could be seen of the road meandering into the interior. The cane-fields over the surrounding hills, apart from the occasional windmill, were innocent of anything man-made.

  ‘Heard tell th’t what y’ sees is all there is,’ Kydd said, remembering the derisive talk in Trajan when he had volunteered. ‘Seems the Navy is all in th’ north o’ the island, an’ here just y’r dockyard an’ the redcoats.’ Stirk gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and Kydd hoped that they would not be long delayed. A week or two to refit, enough to cross the Atlantic for a full docking in England – then, at last, he would be able to go home.

  There was a coming and going of officers and dockyard functionaries up the side-steps from the quay, but nothing to say what their future would be. The young lieutenant in temporary command was not going to risk his situation by letting his men leave the ship. They stayed aboard, moodily watching the shore.

  At four in the afternoon, as the midday heat lessened, a small party approached. It was led by a man in austere black, and as he stepped down on the upper deck Kydd was struck by the nobility in his bearing, the calm certainty in his features. The party disappeared below.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Kydd asked.