Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  The softness of a Caribbean evening was stealing over the waters when Kydd was finally able to return to the dockyard.

  The replacement foremast had needed work. Awkwardly placed along the deck of the frigate it had had to be held securely on trestles while shipwrights went to work with adze and angled mast axe. As the chips flew, the craftsmen held Kydd in awe at their skill with such awkward tools. He now knew a good deal more than he had at break of day, and he felt happier than he had at any time since he had left Trajan: this was better than being a spare hand to whatever ship would claim him.

  Closer in to the dockyard, he could hear the cries and laughter of the ship’s company of Avenger, a ship-sloop whose bulbous, naked hull was heaved right over for careening on the other side of the water. These men would be accommodated ashore while their ship was in such a condition, and were making the most of the relaxing of discipline, taking their evening grog around the shore galley near the capstan house with raucous frivolity. Kydd eased into a grin at the familiar antics.

  The injured mast could wait in the water off the mast-house for the morning and he could now dismiss his crew and get some supper. ‘Well done, m’ lads,’ he said, unconsciously regarding them in the same way as a party of seamen after a hard day. Too late the thought came that possibly he should treat slaves in some other way, more at a distance, perhaps. However, they did not respond, and padded off silently together, he couldn’t help wondering where.

  The shore galley manned, Luke was able to get a hearty platter for him, complete with leaves of some mysterious local vegetable, and he tucked in with a will. It was hard to eat alone, though, with nothing but a candle and circling moths for company.

  The conviviality flowing from the capstan house was hard to resist, and Kydd found himself strolling in the warm dark of the evening towards the sounds of merriment. The open frontage of the low building, with its three great capstans, was a favourite place to gather in the growing soft darkness. The lanthorns hung along the beams welcomed him in with splashes of golden light. Men lolled about, taking a clay pipe of tobacco or drinking deep from their pots, in time-honoured sailor fashion outdoing each other in sea yarns and remembrances.

  Kydd knew none of them, but could recognise the types even though they were of another ship: the hard, confident petty officers in short blue jackets with brass buttons that glittered in the light of the lanthorns; young seamen bred to the sea, with an easy laugh and a tarry queue unclubbed so its plaited length hung a foot or more down their backs; the lined old shellbacks, whose sea wisdom it would be folly to question.

  A man hauled himself up to sit on one of the capstan heads and his fiddle was passed up to him. After a few flourishes he nodded to a handsome seaman with side-whiskers next to him. The man stepped forward and sang in a resonant tenor:

  ‘Oh! Life is the Ocean, and Man is the Boat

  That over its surface is destin’d to float;

  And joy is a cargo so easily stor’d

  That he is a fool who takes sorrow on board!’

  The well-known chorus drowned the singer, who affected vexation, stumping around the capstan in high dudgeon. Kydd laughed heartily with the rest, and raised his wooden tankard in salute.

  Sensing the mood, the singer stalked to the front of the capstan, and stood akimbo, arms folded, glaring at his audience. The chatter died away expectantly.

  A movement on the opposite side caught Kydd’s eye. One of the seamen had a woman under his arm, a black woman. Kydd shifted his gaze back to the singer, who leaned forward as though in confidence, and there launched into the racy, driving strains of ‘The Saucy Arethusa’:

  ‘Come all ye jolly sailors bold

  Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould

  While English glory I unfold

  On board of the Arethusa!!’

  The sailors burst into song, and Kydd felt his cheeks glow with pleasure. The singer bowed and accepted a dripping tankard. Kydd looked about him with a grin.

  ‘Clinkin’ good singer, is our Dansey!’ A seasoned petty officer grinned back at Kydd.

  ‘Rattlin’ fine voice!’ agreed Kydd. ‘Are ye Avengers, then?’

  ‘Aye – Ben Kittoe, gunner’s mate,’ the man replied, taking a pull from his blackjack, a dark tarred leather tankard.

  ‘Kydd, Tom Kydd, quartermaster’s mate o’ Trajan as was,’ he said.

  ‘D’ye mean . . .?’

  ‘T’ be knackered, poor ol’ lady,’ Kydd said, and finished his pot.

  ‘Bad cess. So where are yez now?’

  ‘Got m’self a berth as master.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Master o’ the King’s Negroes, that is.’ Kydd laughed. At the other’s curiosity he continued, ‘Seem well enough at th’ work, but wouldn’t trust ’em on their own.’

  The numbers at the capstan house had diminished, the galley had closed its hatches, but Kydd felt in no mind to break the mood. Kittoe stood up and waved his blackjack expansively. ‘Come wi’ us fer a quick noggin, mate.’

  The two walked back along the stone quay and into the copper and lumber house. Kydd remembered that it was here that the crews of ships being careened were quartered. Above the locked and darkened store-rooms was the loft where copper plating for the underwater hull was pricked out to shape. ‘We got a good sort as Owner,’ Kittoe grunted, as they mounted the exterior iron stairs. ‘Sees us right in the article of grog an’ such.’ They entered: one end of the loft was agreeably illuminated with lanthorns, the light rapidly falling off into darkness at the other end of the broad expanse.

  ‘Here, mate, take a muzzler o’ this.’ He reached for a dark green bottle from his sea-chest and upended it in Kydd’s pot. The cloying aroma of prime West Indian rum eddied up.

  ‘To Trajan – but f’r our hurricanoe, she’d be out crestin’ the briny b’ now,’ Kydd said.

  Harsh laughter bayed from a group of sailors at their end of the loft. They were seated around an upended tub, playing cards and swigging hard from bottles. Kittoe allowed his face to go grave. ‘Yeah, to a barky as any haul-bowlings c’n feel proud ter own to!’ They drank together. Kydd let the rum just burn his lips: the evening might develop.

  ‘Ye come fr’m England?’ Kydd asked.

  ‘Nah. Avenger is taken fr’m the Crapauds at Martinico,’ Kittoe said briefly. It was the way of it – some clash at arms in these seas . . .

  A tall woman appeared, dressed loosely in colourful red. She moved behind Kittoe and slid her arms down his chest. ‘Come, Kittoe man, youse an’ me make jig-a-jig,’ she purred, but her eyes were on Kydd, wide and lambent.

  ‘Away wi’ ye, Sukey,’ said Kittoe, but with a smile. ‘We’re talkin’ together, yer silly biddy!’

  The woman’s hair was drawn back and had a hard sheen in the light. A large, polished mahogany-coloured jungle seed hung around her neck. She fingered it, regarding Kydd speculatively. Grunts and cries from the darkness beyond left little doubt about what was going on, and Kydd’s senses prickled. ‘Hey, youse kooner-man!’ she said, her voice low and throaty.

  Kittoe took up the bottle again and went to top up Kydd’s tankard, but only a few drops of rum emerged. He snorted. ‘Pot-boy! Look sharp, we’re a-thirst!’ A figure hurried over from the other side to attend them and came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Luke!’ Kydd cried. ‘What’re y’ doing here?’ It was not hard to guess – here he could earn a few coppers. The boy dropped his head as Kydd laid into him. ‘You little rascal, this’s not the place t’ find a fine young gennelman, damn me if it is!’

  Obstinately, Luke raised his eyes and said, ‘Then what ’re you here for, Mr Kydd?’

  There was a chortling from Kittoe, but Kydd stood up, face burning. ‘None o’ y’r business! Now you get y’self back aboard – I mean, return t’ our lodgings – this instant, y’ swab!’

  At the stubborn look on Luke’s face Kydd knew there was no other course. ‘We return now, y’ blaggard! I’ll have no servant o’ min
e corruptin’ himself with drink ’n’ carnality!’ Kydd pushed him out into the darkness and followed. He cursed and swore under his breath. He had had no intention of being saddled with the moral responsibility for another, but in Luke’s case he felt a certain obligation.

  ‘Show more canvas, younker!’ Kydd growled. An idea took shape – he shied from it at first, but it would meet the case splendidly. He sighed. He’d thought he’d left all of that behind in another life . . .

  As they opened the little gate he rounded on Luke: ‘Have y’ made up m’ accounts yet?’

  Luke’s face dropped. ‘Mr Kydd, y’ know I haven’t m’ letters.’

  ‘Damme! I f’got,’ said Kydd, with heat. ‘This means I have t’ spend my valuable time a-copyin’ and figurin’ – may have t’ get a proper servant, me havin’ such responsibility now.’ Kydd turned his gaze from Luke’s pitiable expression, and frowned grimly. ‘An’ that ain’t going to be easy hereabouts.’

  They went up the stairs. Then Kydd stopped, as though struck with a sudden thought. ‘There maybe is a way. . .’

  ‘Mr Kydd?’ said Luke eagerly.

  ‘Perhaps not. You’re a lazy rascal, an’ won’t––’

  ‘I will so, I swear.’

  ‘Right, me hearty! We starts tomorrow. Y’ hoists aboard yer letters at last.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Kydd,’ Luke said meekly.

  Just before noon, a rain squall stopped all work. Kydd and his crew hurried into the shelter of the boat-house while the downpour hammered into the ground and set a thousand rivulets starting towards the brown waters of the harbour.

  ‘I have been hearing good reports of you, Thomas,’ said Caird.

  Kydd looked around in surprise. ‘Mr Caird?’

  ‘You have been teaching your servant his letters.’

  Kydd’s face eased into a smile. ‘Aye, keeps him out o’ trouble betimes, the scamp.’

  Caird’s voice softened. ‘That is what I thought. It is the Lord’s work you are doing, Thomas, never forget it.’

  Embarrassed, Kydd mumbled something, but was interrupted. ‘If you are at leisure, perhaps you may wish to dine this evening at my house – we eat at six promptly.’ Noting Kydd’s hesitation he went on, ‘I can well comprehend the godless depravity you are sparing the boy, and confess from the start, I had my hopes of your conduct.’

  ‘The salt, if you please, my dear,’ Caird said to the arid lady at the other end of the table, who, Kydd now knew, was his sister Isadore. She nodded graciously, with something suspiciously like a simper.

  It was hard on Kydd; bad enough the enervating warmth, but worse the starched tablecloth, precise manners and formidable air of rectitude. He searched for some conversation. ‘Luke’s not a shab, really, it’s just that––’

  Isadore broke in unctuously, ‘And as a sapling is trained, so does the tree grow.’ She helped herself liberally to the cream sauce.

  Opposite Kydd sat the delicate, timid Beatrice. Each time he looked at her she averted her eyes quickly, disconcerting him. She was a slight figure in filmy grey, which added to her air of unworldliness. She had been introduced as Caird’s daughter, her mother long departed for a better world.

  ‘Another akee, Beatrice,’ Caird said, his voice tender.

  ‘Thank you, no more, Father,’ came her small voice. Caird nodded to the hovering servant who gracefully removed her plates.

  ‘I see Rose has her foremast a-taunt now,’ ventured Kydd.

  Caird’s eyebrows lowered. ‘In deference to the ladies, Thomas, I make it a practice never to discuss at table matters they cannot be expected to know.’

  ‘Oh – er, I mean––’

  ‘It is Friday, my friend. On the Sabbath, Beatrice and I go about the good Lord’s business in this country, ministering to his children. Do you not feel that it would lift your heart to accompany us?’

  Struck dumb by the assumption of his godliness, he noticed Beatrice beaming across at him. ‘Please do, Mr Kydd,’ she said, meeting his eyes for the first time.

  ‘Splendid!’ said Caird. ‘We shall call for you – and your servant, of course – at six on Sunday.’

  When he returned to his little house, the lower part showed the light of candles: the occupant was at home. He started to climb the steps to his room, but a throaty hail stopped him. ‘Avast there, cock! Come ’n’ show yerself!’ It was the chief caulker, his beefy frame seeming to fill the room. He was slumped in a chair holding a bottle. A black woman flitted about with a bowl.

  ‘Has th’ mullygrubs,’ he said, burping. ‘What’s yer name, mate?’

  ‘Thomas Kydd, Master o’ the King’s Negroes.’

  ‘Savin’ y’r presence, yez a young one fer a master. How’d yer come by it?’

  ‘I had th’ rate o’ petty officer in Trajan, ’n’ when she was let go––’

  ‘A cryin’ shame,’ rumbled the man.

  ‘––I was taken up b’ Mr Caird,’ he finished.

  ‘Are ye a goddammed blue-light sailor, then?’ demanded the chief caulker.

  ‘I never take th’ Lord’s Name in vain, brother,’ Kydd said, holding his hands in a prayerful attitude and hoping that his humble tone passed muster.

  ‘B’ gob, I never said – God rest ye, mate, an’ all that!’

  Kydd smiled beatifically, and made his exit, pleased at his escape from future bibulous demands. Then he remembered his mother’s firm and steely Methodism, the hours of boredom in church – and winced.

  Sunday morning saw them both in best attire – Luke with hair slicked back and shirt painfully buttoned up, Kydd in his best step-ashore rig, feeling utterly out of place. They waited outside the master shipwright’s house. Broad, square, imposing, built of stone, the house reflected the importance of its chief inhabitant.

  The Misses Caird emerged into the early sunlight, closely followed by Caird, forbidding in black – entirely black, from old-fashioned three-corner hat to severe black breeches and stockings, the whole relieved only by a plain white cravat.

  Kydd doffed his hat to the ladies, returned by the unsmiling Caird. Luke’s hesitant touching of his forelock was ignored. A dray rumbled grittily round the corner, its load of what appeared to be furniture covered with an old sail. The grey-haired old woman at the reins bobbed her head in glee at the sight of Caird. ‘Hallelujah! Glory be, oh, yest, Lord!’

  ‘Amen to that, Hepzibah,’ Caird said, in a strong voice. ‘We have today, joining with us in joyful prayer, Master Thomas Kydd and his servant.’ Hepzibah beamed at Kydd.

  ‘Then shall we proceed. This day we pass by the plantation of Mr Blackstone, beyond Falmouth town.’ Caird handed up the ladies to the single front seat and climbed up, himself taking the reins. ‘I would wish we had more commodious transport, Thomas. You will have to shift for yourself in the back, I fear.’

  Kydd pulled Luke in after him and the dray moved off. As they clopped serenely through the dockyard Kydd was glad of the early start – there was nobody abroad to see him. He looked at the swaying backs of the Cairds and wondered at the wild contrasts in his life since he had taken to sailoring.

  They wound out of the dockyard and were almost immediately in scrub and rocks over the higher ground behind. The dray ground along, Hepzibah breaking into joyful hymns that, of course, it would be unseemly to join. Scattered houses merged into a township, but the houses were mean – wattle and daub, small and mud-dusty. ‘Falmouth,’ said Caird, ‘a negro village.’ Past the town, the sea sparkling to their left, they wound up into cane-field country. The heat was noticeably stronger. As they topped the rise, the sound of singing floated to them on the hot breeze. Finally they stopped at a crossroads in the shade of a wild tamarind tree of considerable size and age, where people of every variety, free and slave, had gathered.

  ‘Please to assist me, Thomas, in rigging the assembly,’ Caird asked Kydd courteously.

  Kydd complied, lifting down chairs and an ingenious portable pulpit, under the shy direction of Beatrice. These w
ere set out under the tamarind tree. When he had finished, she turned to him with a timid smile and laid her hand on his arm. ‘Thank you, Thomas. Shall we sit?’ She guided him to the row of chairs in the front, which Kydd was uncomfortable to see was the only seating. Behind them the blacks squatted in the dust.

  Caird took his position in the pulpit, looking stern and majestic. His voice boomed out. ‘Psalm eighty-four, the eleventh verse: “The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord God will give the grace and glory; no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.”’ A warm roar of approbation and shrill cries of ‘Hallelujah, Lord!’ resounded, and the first hymn was announced: ‘And Are We Yet Alive!’. It was sung with true feeling, in joyous counter-harmony.

  As she sang, Beatrice’s pale face under the muslin bonnet was pink with animation, her grey eyes sparkling as she glanced at Kydd. The hymn, despite the outlandish setting, brought back memories of Sundays in Guildford. His mother in her best clothes, he in his once-a-week coat and breeches next to his father. Kydd recalled staring dully at dust-motes held unstirring in shafts of sunlight coming from the freedom of the outside world into the utterly still church.

  ‘That was well, Thomas. It is our pleasure to invite you to our Sunday dinner, should you be at leisure.’ Caird had preached powerfully: his sermon was strong on duty, obedience, law and sin but sparing in the matter of joy.

  The Sunday roast would not have shamed his mother’s table, even if the potatoes had a subtly alien bitterness, the beef a certain dark sweetness. Once again opposite Beatrice, he tried to engage her in conversation. ‘Thumpin’ good singing, th’ negroes,’ he said hesitantly. Beatrice flicked a glance at him, but quickly lowered her eyes.