Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  Sea watches were set, and Kydd yielded the tiller to the helmsman. He took up the slate hanging on the side of the tiny binnacle and checked the course and details that the sailing master had scrawled. In this small ship he would have to maintain the conn himself – nobody to peg the traverse board, no marine to turn the sand-glass at the end of a watch.

  He stepped back, and saw Patch finish coiling the fall of the topsail sheet. With a careless thump the privateers-man cast the coil on the deck against the bulwark and made to leave. Incensed, Kydd shouted and pointed at the untidy twists. Patch saw him, but deliberately turned away. Kydd moved fast, knocking aside another sailor as he confronted Patch. ‘Take that lubberly shittle and belay it right,’ he said, in a hard voice. Tangling coils were a hazard on any deck but, besides that, Kydd’s seaman’s pride was offended at the slovenly sight.

  Patch stared at him, contempt in his dark eyes. ‘King’s ship ways on a fuckin’ cutter? Ye must be––’

  ‘Now!’

  Patch paused. Kydd was not getting angry: his voice was iron, his control icy. Drawn by the raised voices, the boatswain approached from behind Patch, who failed to notice him. Merrick watched and waited with a slight smile.

  Kydd did not lower his gaze before the case-hardened bigger man. ‘Do ye take a bight and belay that fall,’ he repeated.

  Patch looked again in Kydd’s face. Something passed between them – and Patch moved. He bent and picked up the rope, his eyes never leaving Kydd’s as he obeyed grudgingly. Kydd paused, then walked back to his watch position.

  In just a few hours they hove to off Port Morant and collected a satchel of despatches, then resumed course. They would reach the eastward tip of Jamaica in only an hour or so, then would keep clear of the offshore banks before shaping course for the Leeward Islands.

  With no sign of an eager combing of the sea for an expected prey, there was a definite edge to the mess-deck chatter at dinner. Kydd and Renzi kept the deck to avoid questions. Stirk and Doggo found something to do with the six-pounders, but it was clear there would be an accounting soon.

  Gun practice was piped immediately after the noon meal, the hard-bitten seamen making child’s play of their weapons. Farrell kept them at it, and just as Morant Point drew abeam he ordered that live firing would take place. Seaflower’s decks were cleared, and the pieces manned. Kydd took his place at the helm and silence fell as all eyes turned to Farrell.

  At that precise moment the quiet was split by an urgent hail from the lookout on the crosstree. ‘Sail hooooo!’ Above the low-lying point could be seen first the topgallants and then the topsails of a square-rigged vessel, and shortly after, the barque slid into view. At least twice their size and a sinister black, she quickly spotted Seaflower and her length foreshortened as she turned to intercept.

  ‘Ready about!’ Farrell snapped, his telescope up searching her masts for a flag. They slewed round and closed the distance, Farrell seeming to have no hesitation about closing the larger vessel.

  There was an apprehensive quiet about Seaflower’s decks. ‘She’s a twenty-eight at least, lads,’ Doud murmured. ‘Saw her ports.’ Several faces popped out of the fore-hatch and gazed over the blue seas to the black-hulled vessel. The barque altered her heading to a broader angle. It served to show her gunports opening all along her hull, cannon rumbling into place at each. Still there were no colours aloft. A cold trepidation came over Kydd – the worst situation, with the banks to seaward and the unknown craft closing in to weather.

  ‘Give her a gun, Stirk,’ Farrell said quietly. A six-pounder crashed out forward, sounding toy-like after a frigate’s 24s. There was a minute or two’s delay, as if the stranger was amused at the small ship’s presumption, before a flutter of colour at her mizzen peak appeared, shaking out into the stripes and stars of the United States.

  ‘Thank Gawd!’ laughed Farthing. ‘I thought we wuz in fer a hazin’.’ The barque’s sheets eased, and she braced around slowly to diverge, clearly not deigning to dally with an Englisher. Relieved chatter broke out along Seaflower’s deck.

  ‘Sir, if y’ please . . .’ Jarman had not joined in the general relief, and took Farrell’s Dollond glass. ‘Ah! As I thought. There’s no Yankee I know of wears a red cap ’n’ petticoat breeches. Sir, she’s a Frenchie!’

  Farrell snatched back the telescope and swept the barque’s decks – only Jarman’s suspicions and a careless French sailor had given the game away. ‘Brail topsails!’ he snapped. Under fore-and-aft sail only, Seaflower sped towards the enemy. She fell off the wind a little and her intention became clear – to pass close astern of the other vessel to send her puny balls smashing through the unprotected stern and down the length of her enemy.

  Stirk raced from gun to gun. Fortunate to be at quarters, they were at the ready, but Farrell roared, ‘Larboard – firing to larboard!’

  This was away from the enemy. Kydd was baffled by the order. Then the barque responded. The United States flag whipped down and the French flag rose to replace it in jerky movement. At the same time the vessel came around sharply into the wind, to stay about. Well before Seaflower could come up to deliver her blow, the bluff sides of her antagonist were swinging around on the other tack to parallel the little cutter and present her full broadside.

  Kydd’s throat constricted – a crushing weight of metal would be slamming into them in seconds. He glanced at Farrell who, to his astonishment, wore an expression of ferocious glee.

  ‘We have you now, Mr Frenchman!’ he roared triumphantly. The barque’s swing had been a mistake. Farrell snapped, ‘Ready about! Lee, oh!’ and Seaflower pirouetted prettily to leave her with her larboard guns laid faithfully on the barque’s stern. They passed close enough to see pale faces over the taffrail and sails slatting in confusion as, no doubt, orders were being angrily countermanded.

  There was nothing to miss. The line of windows at the stern gallery dissolved as gun after gun on Seaflower’s deck crashed out, the balls’ brutal impact causing ruin along the length of the enemy. Kydd felt a furious exaltation – it was the first smoke of battle he had smelt since the great frigate struggle between Artemis and Citoyenne.

  The last gun banged out and Seaflower was past. With her crew cheering madly, the guns were served, but there was a new peril – a square-rigged vessel would back topsails and stay where she was, battering the helpless victim into submission, but with her fore-and-aft rig there was no way Seaflower could do the same. She continued on her course, her only hope to get out of range before the enemy could recover, but the black hull was already turning. Seaflower lay over under her press of sail, but there was no escape. Kydd’s hands sweated at the helm – but he was tied to his place of duty and must stand and take whatever fate had in store for him.

  The enemy broadside came. But in ones and twos. Paltry puffs of powder smoke, the thin crack of four-pounders. And a whole gundeck of cannon staring silently at them. ‘Caught ’em on the hop goin’ about!’ growled Stirk in disgust.

  ‘They got the yeller fever an’ can’t man the guns!’ someone shouted. Kydd’s mind raced: this was no explanation for small-calibre guns.

  Jarman smiled. ‘She’s a Mongseer merchant jack, puttin’ on a show,’ he said, with satisfaction. It was a pretence: the open gunports sported only quakers, wooden imitation guns that could not fire. Her bluff was called. The tiny Seaflower had not run for her life as intended, and had dared to attack. Incredulous shouts and cheers broke out while the trim cutter closed in exultantly on her prey.

  ‘Damme f’r a chuckle-headed ninny, but that was rare done!’ Patch said, lowering his cutlass to finger the quality of the cordage on the deck of their prize. ‘Knoo the exac’ time she’d weather th’ point, and was there a-waitin’,’ he continued admiringly. ‘Keeps it to ’imself, he does, an’ four hours out we has a fat prize.’ The French sailors sat morosely on the main-hatch while Farrell and the sailing master inspected below decks.

  It was a matter of small hours to escort t
he prize back to Port Morant; the talk was all on the astonishing intelligence their sagacious captain must have had, and happy anticipation of prize money to claim later.

  Farrell did not appear affected by his fortune. He appeared punctiliously on deck at appropriate times in the ship’s routine, courteous but firm in his dealings with his ship’s company, and considerate and businesslike with Jarman and Merrick, who stood watches opposite each other. Seaflower seemed to respond with spirit. Square sails set abroad and her prodigious fore-andaft canvas bowsed well taut, she slashed purposefully through the royal-blue seas at a gallop, her deck alive with eager movement.

  By the last dog-watch, deep into the Caribbean, Kydd joined Renzi at his customary pipe of tobacco on the foredeck, ignoring the occasional spatter of spray. They sat against the weather cathead, the better to see the gathering sunset astern. Renzi drew an appreciative puff at his clay pipe and sighed. ‘This prime Virginia is as pleasing to the senses as any I have yet tried.’

  Kydd was knotting a hammock clew. His nimble fingers plied the ivory fid he used for close work, the intricate net of radiating knittles woven into a pattern that ostensibly gave a more comfortable spread of tensions, but in reality were a fine display of sea skills. He had never caught the habit of tobacco, but knew that it gave Renzi satisfaction, and murmured something appropriate. ‘We’re right lucky t’ take the barque,’ he said. Patch had been considerably mollified and was now warily respectful of Kydd.

  ‘Just so,’ said Renzi, gazing at the spreading red display astern, ‘yet I believe our captain must be much relieved.’

  ‘Aye, we could not have taken a real pepperin’ from such a one.’ Kydd raised his voice against a sudden burst of laughter from the others enjoying the evening on deck.

  Renzi smiled. ‘A captain of a vessel charged with despatches endangers his vessel at his peril – but his bold actions may be accounted necessary with shoals under his lee and the enemy to weather.’

  ‘Doud says as he’s a hellfire jack, an’ sent into Seaflower for the gettin’ of prizes f’r the Admiral,’ Kydd said.

  ‘Possibly – but a humble cutter? Maid-of-all-work? But did not David prevail over the disdainful Goliath?’

  Kydd grinned.

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself, my friend. Who would have thought it? A quartermaster – and so quick!’

  ‘Only a cutter, is all,’ Kydd said, but his voice was warm. To direct the conn of a ship of war was a real achievement for any seaman.

  Letting the fragrance of his tobacco wreathe about him, Renzi mused, ‘Tom, have you given thought to your future?’

  Kydd looked up, surprised. ‘Future? Why, it’s here in Seaflower, o’ course.’ He stopped work and stared at the horizon, then turned to Renzi. ‘If you mean, t’ better myself, then y’ understand, I’m now a quartermaster an’ as high as I c’n go. Any higher needs an Admiralty warrant, an’ I don’t have the interest t’ get me one.’ He had spoken without bitterness. ‘Next ship’ll be bigger, an’ after that, who knows? Quartermaster o’ some ship-o’-the-line will do me right well.’ His broad smile lit up his face as he added, ‘Y’ can’t work to wind’ard o’ fate, so my feelin’ is, be happy with what I have.’

  Renzi persisted, ‘Captain Cook was an able seaman to begin with, my friend – and Admiral Benbow.’

  Kydd’s voice softened in respect. ‘Aye, but they’re great men, an’ I . . .’

  ‘You sees, Mr Cole, the boatswain is a mason,’ Doggo whispered, looking around fearfully.

  The midshipman opened his eyes wide and leaned forward the better to hear. It was hard on young Cole, the only midshipman aboard and no high-spirited friends to share his lot, but he was a serious-minded lad who wanted to excel in the King’s Service. ‘I have a great-uncle a freemason, too,’ he said, in a slightly awed voice.

  ‘Do yez good ter get the bo’sun an’ you like this,’ Doggo held two fingers together, ‘an’ he’ll put in a powerful good word fer you t’ the Captain.’

  Cole nodded gravely. ‘I see that, but how . . .’

  ‘Well, the masons have this secret sign, wot they use to signal ter each other.’ Doggo looked furtively around the sunlit deck. ‘Like this,’ he said, and held up his open hand to his face, thumb to nose, and the fingers all spread out.

  Awkwardly, Cole imitated him. Doggo pulled his hand down roughly. ‘Not now! Someone’ll see. Now, mark what I say, it’s terrible important yez do it the right way, or ’e’ll think yer mockin’ the masons.’

  Blinking in concentration, Cole listened.

  ‘Yez waggles yer fingers, like so. An’ then yer waits, f’r it’s the proper thing fer masons to then pr’tend ter be in a rage – just so’s nobody c’n accuse ’em of being partial to their own kind.’ Doggo paused to allow it to be digested. ‘An’ then – mark me well, if y’ please – yer waits fer the show ter blow over, an’ that’s when y’ makes yer salute, both hands, all yer fingers at once.’

  Later in the watch, Cole had his chance.

  ‘Where’s that idle jackanapes?’ roared the boatswain, from the group of men aft preparing to send up a fair-weather topgallant sail. ‘Lay aft this instant, y’ lubberly sod.’

  Cole sauntered aft with a confident smile. Merrick drew breath for a terrible blast – but Cole boldly looked him in the eye and made the first sign.

  The boatswain staggered as if struck. ‘God rot m’ bones – you bloody dog! Damn your impertinence! So help me, I . . .’ Merrick paused for control, the enormity of it all robbing him of breath.

  In the appalled silence the seamen looked at each other with horror and mirth in equal proportion. Cole saw that this was time for the salute, and bravely brought up both hands and waggled smartly. The boatswain’s eyes bulged and his hands clawed the empty air. When the explosion came it was very terrible.

  Jarman looked at Kydd speculatively. His cabin was tiny, there was not really room for two people, but there was nowhere else to speak in private.

  ‘Kydd,’ he said, and paused, as if reluctant to go on. Kydd waited patiently. ‘Kydd, I’m the sailing master ’n’ you’re m’ quartermaster.’ This did not need an answer. Jarman levelled his gaze. ‘What I’m a-sayin’ is not f’r other ears. D’ye know what I mean?’

  Kydd shifted uncomfortably. If Jarman was sounding him out over some spat with another, he wanted no part of it.

  Seeming to sense his unease Jarman hastened to explain: ‘Jus’ a precaution, y’ understands, nothin’ t’ worry of,’ he said. ‘No harm keepin’ an eye t’ weather, like.’ Kydd maintained a wary silence.

  The master picked up a book of navigation tables. ‘I been to sea since I was a kitling, an’ ended up mate in an Indiaman. I know the sea, ye unnerstands – t’ get to be master o’ Seaflower I has to be examined by th’ Brothers of Trinity House f’r this rate o’ vessel, a tough haul.’

  Kydd wondered where it was all leading. He had no problem with the master’s competence, but then remembered the reserve between him and the Captain. Was he feeling insecure, needing Kydd’s approval? Surely not.

  Jarman’s voice dropped. Kydd strained to hear against the hiss of sea against the outside of the hull. ‘It’s like this – an’ please hear me out. Th’ Cap’n – an’ please t’ know I mean no disrespect – is a young man, an’ did all his time in a vessel o’ size, never in a small ’un. Y’ knows that in a big ship ye can make all the blunders y’ like an’ there’s always someone to bring y’ up with a round turn, but a small hooker . . .’

  Kydd kept his face blank. This might be the first step on the way to a court-martial for mutiny.

  ‘As I said, you’re my quartermaster, an’ directly responsible t’ me.’

  This looked grave: was Jarman trying to secure loyalty to himself ?

  ‘Consider, if y’ please. The Cap’n an’ me are the only ones aboard that c’n figure our position, th’ bo’sun never learned. Now, I could say as how I’m a mort disturbed about we bein’ carried off b’ the fever, b
ut I’d be lying. See, this is m’ first ship as master, an’ anything goes awry, then it’ll be me t’ blame – I don’t see as how I should give best if it comes t’ an argyment over the workings.’

  Farrell, as captain, had a duty to seek the sailing master’s advice only, and could entirely overrule him. Jarman wanted a witness – but what possible use was Kydd?

  ‘So, I’d take it kindly if ye could jus’ think about if you’d like to learn how to do the figurin’ y’rself.’

  Kydd sat back in disbelief. But he quickly responded: it was a great opportunity, not the slightest use in his position, but . . . ‘I’d like it main well, Mr Jarman,’ he said, ‘but how will I learn?’

  Jarman eased into a smile. ‘Don’t ye worry – in the merchant service we has no truck wi’ pie-arse-squared an’ all that, no time!’ He tapped the book of tables. ‘It’s all there – ye just takes y’r sights an’ looks it up. I learned it all in a short whiles only.’

  Farrell nodded approval when Jarman brought it up at seven bells. ‘If you think it proper, Mr Jarman.’ Therefore at noon, on the quarterdeck of Seaflower could be seen the amazing sight of the Captain, the master, the midshipman and Kydd preparing to take the noon altitude. Midshipman Cole as usual borrowed Farrell’s gleaming black and brass sextant, while Kydd gingerly took the worn octant wielded respectfully by Jarman.

  Afterwards, the master, as was his duty, took Cole aside to examine his reckoning and drill him in the essentials. Kydd hovered to listen. ‘Now, every point of half th’ surface of the earth is projected fr’m the centre on to a tangent plane at some point, call’d its point o’ contact – but th’ plane o’ the equator when projected fr’m the centre on to a tangent plane itself becomes a straight line . . .’