Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

‘I’m Lieutenant Farrell, captain of Seaflower,’ said the officer, his voice crisp, pleasant. He surveyed the group, and consulted his paper. ‘Do we have Stirk?’ Stirk stepped forward and touched his forehead. ‘This advice is to rate you gunner’s mate, Stirk,’ Farrell said. ‘What is your experience?’

  Kydd glanced at Stirk and suppressed a grin.

  When Farrell came to Kydd he paused doubtfully. ‘Ah – quartermaster? Your experience is . . . ?’

  ‘Acting quartermaster, Artemis frigate,’ Kydd told him firmly. ‘An’ that around Cape Horn,’ he added, in case Farrell had not heard of the crack frigate and her fate.

  Farrell’s eyes widened. Kydd caught a look of incredulity on his face: Seaflower now had a core of prime hands that would not be out of place in a top fighting warship, let alone a humble cutter. Farrell turned to go, a fleeting grin acknowledging his incredible good fortune. ‘Carry on, please. Mr Jarman will assign your watch and stations.’

  The other man straightened. ‘Jarman, an’ I’m the master.’ He looked guardedly at Kydd: the quartermaster was directly answerable to the sailing master in a man-o’-war.

  ‘We now gets ter see what kinda swabs the Seaflowers are,’ Doud said, as they reached the forward companionway, and went below into a large space extending well over half the length of the vessel. ‘Well, I stan’ flummoxed!’

  With the exception of a pair of seamen at a hinged table, the space was deserted. They looked up at the newcomers. ‘’Oo are you, then?’ one asked, starting in surprise at Doggo’s ugliness.

  Stirk pushed forward. ‘Where’s yer mates?’ His iron voice braced them and they rose warily to their feet.

  ‘We ain’t got none – we’se are all there is,’ the man replied carefully. ‘Farthing, able seaman . . .’

  ‘Stirk, yer noo gunner’s mate. Well, who ’ave we got aboard, then?’

  ‘Ah, we has Merrick, th’ boatswain, an’ a hard man is he – ashore now. Jarman, the master, a merchant jack, an’ – ’oo else, Ralf?’ Farthing said, turning to the other man.

  ‘Cole, reefer, first trip an’ all––’

  ‘Only one midshipman?’ Kydd asked. Equating to a petty officer in authority, a raw midshipman could be a tiresome trial up in the tops in a blow.

  ‘Aye. Oh, yeah, Cuddy Snead as carpenter’s mate, ’n’ that’s it.’

  ‘Yer fergettin’ that scowbunkin’ cook. Nothin’ but a waste o’ space, him – couldn’t bring a salt horse alongside wi’out it climbs in the pot itself.’

  ‘I see,’ growled Stirk. All the men left aboard Seaflower were her standing officers and these two. They were not likely to get to sea very soon.

  ‘’E’s goin’ ter have t’ press men,’ said Doud gloomily. The press-gang could find men, but they would be resentful, unwilling and poor shipmates.

  Doggo shifted his feet restlessly. ‘Doesn’t ’ave ter be,’ he snapped, his grog-roughened voice an impatient rasp.

  ‘How so, mate?’ asked Stirk. It was not often that Doggo put in his oar.

  ‘Yer recollects where we are . . .’ he said mysteriously, tapping the side of his nose.

  It was well known that, if anything, it was harder to press men in the Caribbean than it was in England – alert to the wiles of the Press they would be sure to find bolt-holes at the briefest hint of a press-gang ashore. They all stared at Doggo.

  ‘Toby, I needs you ’n’ Kydd ter step ashore wi’ me.’

  ‘Er – o’ course, mate.’

  ‘Then, we sees th’ Cap’n an’ find out if b’ chance he needs a crew o’ prime hands.’

  Farrell, bewildered by an offer coming from the wicked-looking Doggo to have a full ship’s company by midnight, nevertheless agreed, and Seaflower’s longboat headed for shore.

  ‘Where we off to, cully?’ Stirk asked.

  ‘King’s Arms, o’ course,’ said Doggo, cracking a grin. In just a few salty sentences he told of his plan. Kydd laughed in appreciation.

  They entered the warm din of the tavern with a swagger. Stirk’s bull roar cut effortlessly above the tumult, ‘A gage o’ bowse fer the Seaflowers as needs it, y’ scrubs!’

  A few faces looked their way, then resumed their talk.

  ‘Get it in yer, cuffin,’ Stirk told Doggo loudly. ‘We sails afore dusk termorrow, an’ not back fer a while.’

  A big seaman sitting close by in the packed tavern turned and laughed. ‘Why, y’ lookin’ fer some fat scow t’ look after, like? An’ then orf ter find someone wants ter send a letter somewheres?’ He convulsed with drunken mirth.

  Another chimed in, ‘Seaflower – she lost all ’er hands, an’ can’t find any t’ ship out in her. She ain’t a-goin’ anywheres!’

  ‘She is now, cock!’ Stirk said.

  ‘Oh, yeah, where, then?’ said the seaman, intrigued.

  ‘Ah, can’t tell yer that,’ Stirk said, leaning back. Other faces turned their way. ‘Cos’ fer this v’y’ge – only this one – we has a hand-picked crew.’ He had attention now. ‘Tom Kydd here, quartermaster o’ the flying Artemis as was – Cape Stiff ’n’ all, taut hand-o’-the-watch is he! An’ Doggo there – best quarter gunner I seen! An’ Ned Doud, cap’n o’ the top – we got the best there is, mate!’

  ‘Yer didn’t say as t’ why!’

  There were sailors from all parts watching now, merchant seamen, foreigners and privateersmen.

  ‘Why, if yer has––’

  ‘Don’t tell ’em, Toby! It’s fer us only!’ said Doggo.

  An older seaman looked thoughtful, and turned to his friends. ‘Yair – come t’ think about it, Elias Petit gets turned out o’ Diadem an’ he’s a knowing old sod. Somethin’s in the wind, lads!’

  Interest was now awakened. A sharp-faced man suddenly became animated. ‘’Ere, Seaflower, that’s the barky th’t the Admiral’s clerk got hisself transferred inter, all of a pelt!’

  ‘Yeah!’ said another. ‘So what does ’e know that gets him off his arse in Spanish Town ’n’ a berth in a squiddy cutter?’

  The older man gave a grim smile. ‘I reckon there’s a reason all right – a thunderin’ good one!’ He waited until he had all their attention, then said in hushed tones, ‘He’s yer tie-mate, ain’t he, Kydd? An’ you has a soft berth in th’ dockyard, right? An’ both of ye decides to skin out ter sea in a hurry, not fergettin’ t’ tell all yer mates? C’n only be one meanin’ – yer has word there’s summat at sea that’s worth the takin’, somethin’ that yer knows––’

  ‘Yer too smart fer me b’ a long chalk, cully!’ Stirk said, in admiration, then grew anxious. ‘Now, I didn’t say all that, did I? An’ ain’t that the truth!’

  The man sat back, satisfied. ‘No, mate, yer didn’t – we worked it out b’ ourselves. Now, what we wants t’ know is, y’ need any hands fer this v’y’ge o’ yours?’

  Kydd looked discouraging. ‘No petty officers, just a few idlers – an’ some foremast jacks is all.’

  Grins broke out all around. ‘I’ll have a piece o’ that, then!’ the sharp-faced man said, eyes gleaming. ‘How . . .’

  ‘I’ll have a word wi’ the Cap’n, can’t promise ye a berth – but, mark you, not a word to him that y’ knows anything, on y’r life.’

  The riot that followed was only brought under some sort of order by Stirk setting up in the corner and taking names, for all the world like a farmers’ fair. Merchant seamen in hiding from the Press, even privateersmen crowded in, all anxious to take their share of the expected bounty. Well within time Seaflower’s longboat brought out a full and excited ship’s company, and a sorely puzzled young captain was making plans for sea.

  Storing ship for Seaflower was not on the vast scale of a ship-of-the-line with its tens of thousands of pounds’ weight of victuals, water and naval stores to last for six months or more at sea. A cutter was not expected to be at sea for more than days at a time.

  There was a matter that Kydd felt would make perfect his change of situation. ‘Cap’n, sir,’ he asked of Fa
rrell, at an appropriate time, ‘we now has a prime body o’ petty officers, you’ll agree?’

  Farrell gave a guarded assent.

  ‘An’ y’r steward has to make shift f’r the warrant officers too?’

  ‘He does, but what––’

  ‘Then c’d I suggest, sir, we gets a ship’s boy t’ bear a hand? I have just such a one in mind an’, besides, he knows well how t’ serve a gun . . .’

  Farrell considered. ‘We sail before dark,’ he said.

  Kydd knew that, released from temporary service as his servant, Luke was ashore glumly awaiting an unknown assignment. ‘He’ll be aboard, sir,’ Kydd said crisply.

  Readied for sea, Seaflower had still one to join her company. When in the late afternoon the windlass was cast loose and hatches secured Doud made his move.

  The boatswain touched his hat to Farrell and reported, ‘Sir, all aboard save that mumpin’ toad of a cook,’ he said.

  ‘Still ashore?’ Farrell snapped. The cook had been told to return with last-minute cabin stores for him.

  ‘If yer please, sir,’ Doud asked humbly, ‘I got a mate as is a spankin’ good cook, lookin’ f’r a berth . . .’

  ‘Get him,’ Farrell said. Doud’s friend had entertained the old cook for hours until he was dead drunk, and was now waiting with his sea-bag for the signal.

  Just as the topmen laid out on the yard to loose sail, the windlass taking up the slack of the cable and Kydd was standing at the tiller, a black face wearing an infectious smile climbed over the bulwarks and the familiar figure of Quashee stepped aboard. He of the Artemis, the legendary star-gazy pie and his ‘conweniences’ – herbs and spices. With him aboard they would not starve.

  With a fine Caribbean day promising, a fair wind for the south and as happy a ship’s company as any, Seaflower made for the open sea.

  They sailed south, threading through the islets and shoals lying off the harbour, through unruly seas kicked up by a forceful land breeze, and into the wider Caribbean. It was there that they spread full sail, letting the craft show her true breeding. Farrell had made it clear that he would not be reporting Seaflower ready for sea until they had shaken down into an effective company, worthy of trust in any mission.

  At the helm Kydd found himself working hard. A tiller had the advantage over a wheel in that it was in direct contact with the sea with all that this meant in instant response, but was without the damping and mechanical advantage of a wheel and tackle. Seaflower, under her big driving mainsail and eager foresail and jib, swooping and foaming at speed, was as skittish as a thoroughbred horse. Kydd felt the hammering rush of the sea in the tiller and leaned against the pressure of the marked weather helm – the trim of the cutter might need looking to. Going about was a dream. Unlike the minutes that even a frigate took, Seaflower shot around in a moment, sheaves squealing, seamen bringing in tacks and sheets hand over hand as if their lives depended on it – an exhilarating ballet of sea skills.

  The square sails were then set; by this a topsail cutter had sailing options not open to her bigger brethren, and Kydd felt a stirring of excitement. Seaflower leaned happily to her topsail and topgallant, hissing along at a speed that sent a wake streaming like a mill-race past the low deck edge.

  Right forward Renzi was having a busy time taking charge of the headsails, the distinctive huge sails spearing out ahead of the vessel. It was a very different situation from the stately pyramids of canvas of a square-rigger, and his cheerful wave to Kydd was just a little harassed.

  Farrell stood just forward of Kydd on the weather side of the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, feet braced against the lively movement. His voice as he set the craft about her paces was crisp and authoritative. Jarman stood to leeward; Kydd sensed some reserve between the two men. Farrell gave his orders directly. This left the master with nothing to do but observe, but perhaps this was the Captain trying the mettle of his company.

  Merrick, the burly boatswain, stomped about Seaflower, his eyes flicking aggressively this way and that. His style was hard and uncompromising. Kydd had been lucky in his previous ships, he knew; no boatswain had really used his position to the sadistic limits possible that he had heard of in other ships.

  ‘Stand down, if you please,’ said Farrell, formally, to Merrick.

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ said Merrick, turned to Stiles, his mate, who was fingering his silver call in anticipation, and snapped, ‘Hands turn to, part-o’-ship f’r cleaning––’

  ‘Belay that,’ Farrell interrupted. ‘Secure the watch below and set a sea watch, was my meaning.’ Significant looks went about: Farrell was going to stand by his men before the boatswain.

  The last vestiges of sunset were fading over the Hellshire hills as they picked their way back to Port Royal, weary but satisfied. This time they anchored close by the Fleet – Farrell was clearly going to report his ship ready for sea.

  ‘An’ take a turn ’n’ clinch at that,’ Kydd ordered Farthing. He and Stirk were going to make themselves as comfortable as possible below; the senior petty officers berthed right aft within the large space below decks. Farthing finished the knittle line with a seizing, and there they had a taut canvas ‘wall’ screening off their space. In leisure time they would paint the partition with some suitable scene – mermaids, perhaps, or a lurid battle. Kydd surveyed the little space. ‘Not as who would say over-sized,’ he murmured, head bent under the low deckhead.

  Stirk grinned at him. ‘Seaflower, she’s two hunnerd tons, makes ’er a big ’un up agin them Revenooers – near three times their size,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I say she’s snug, is all.’ At sea a full half of her company would be watch on deck, and at anchor in the balmy weather of the Caribbean many would probably sleep there.

  Kydd swarmed up the narrow ladderway to the upper deck, where a sizeable gathering was celebrating Seaflower’s prospects. Doggo was leaning on a swivel gun forward of the mast, waving his tankard, with an audience and in full flow. A slightly built man with a leathery face and bright eyes listened. Kydd guessed that this would be Snead, the carpenter’s mate, and on the other side was the lean figure of Stiles without his silver call badge of office.

  A friendly hail, and Renzi stepped on deck. ‘Tip us some words, mate,’ Petit called. Surprised muttering met this suggestion: few present knew Renzi and his odd predilections.

  Renzi stood still and thoughtful, then declaimed into the velvet night:

  ‘Majestically slow before the breeze

  The tall ship marches on the azure seas;

  In silent pomp she cleaves the watery plain

  The pride and wonder of the billowy main.’

  A respectful silence and scattering of polite appreciation followed, at which Renzi coughed apologetically. ‘If it were in me to sing a hearty chorus, I would rather – but we have the prince of ballads himself aboard. Ned, dear fellow, entertain us!’

  Doud flashed his broad white smile, and rose, handing his tankard to Farthing. He struck a noble pose and in a perfect tenor sang,

  ‘Come, come, m’ jolly lads! The winds abaft

  Brisk gales our sails shall crowd;

  The ship’s unmoor’d, all hands aboard

  The barky’s well mann’d and stor’d!’

  The Drury Lane ballad, though confected by a landman, was a great favourite, and all joined in the chorus

  ‘Then sling the flowing bowl – fond hopes arise

  The can, boys, bring; we’ll drink and sing

  While foaming billows roll.’

  Kydd sang lustily, enjoying the fellowship and good feeling. Luke brought another pot. The lad was growing, and now affected a red bandanna tied round his head like a pirate, with a smile that wouldn’t go away. At the edge of the crowd Kydd noticed the wide-eyed young midshipman, Cole, and further away, the shadowy figure of the Captain, both drawn to the singing.

  In the warm darkness something told Kydd that he would be lucky to experience an evening quite so pleasurable again.

>   Chapter 10

  Captain Farrell returned from the flagship before ten the next morning, and immediately called the sailing master to his cabin. Overheard, the word swiftly went out.

  ‘The Barbadoes wi’ despatches?’ snarled Patch, a privateersman. His shipmate, Alvarez, appeared next to him, his olive-dark face hostile.

  Doggo glared at him. ‘Stow yer gab, cully! Yer doesn’t think the Ol’ Man is a-goin’ ter let th’ world know, now, do ye?’ But Kydd caught his quick look: their tavern story might be recoiling on them, and gulled privateersmen would be hard to handle. ‘Cap’n knows what he’s doing,’ he said harshly. ‘Jus’ be sure you does.’

  ‘Haaaands to unmoor ship!’ The boatswain’s bellow reached every part of the cutter. Kydd cast off the beckets securing the tiller in harbour and tested the helm through a full sweep. It was his duty to take the vessel to sea, then when sea watches were set, he would take the conn and oversee the duty helmsman for his trick at the helm.

  Strong running backstays were needed to take the massive driving force of the enormous gaff mainsail – two linked tackles were rove for this and, unique to Kydd’s experience, the forestay had its own deadeye and lanniard secured to the stempost, both together in taut balance.

  One by one, Stirk had Doggo and his party moving about the guns – six-pounders, a respectable armament for a mere cutter, eight a side and with swivels forward as chase guns. A cry from forward showed the anchor cable ‘thick and dry for weighing’ and Farrell, in full blues, consulted his watch. The anchor was a-trip. The Captain’s arm went up, the saluting swivel forward went off with a spiteful crack and in the smoke both the foresail and mainsail rose swiftly, the steady north-east trades forcing the men at the main-sheets to sweat as they trimmed the sail to the wind at the same time as the waisters brought in the fore-sheets.

  Seaflower responded immediately with a graceful heel, falling off to leeward momentarily before surging ahead. Kydd felt the rudder firm and, under Jarman’s muttered direction, shaped course westerly to round the end of the Palisades. They slipped past the fortifications and the dockyard, then Port Royal itself, not a soul ashore apparently interested in their departure, and made a competent gybe to place themselves comfortably on track for the open sea. The jib was hoisted and conformable to the fair wind from the larboard quarter, her topsail was set. Seaflower quickly left the harbour astern. When they had cleared the hazardous cluster of cays to the south, they went about and headed along the coast for Port Morant.