Seaflower: A Kydd Novel

by Julian Stockwin

  Renzi felt that the time had come, could no longer be deferred. ‘My dear friend . . .’ His hand lay on Kydd’s arm. ‘Do you listen to what I say.’

  Kydd looked at him.

  ‘The personage we will stay with tonight is – my brother, Richard.’

  Kydd kept his silence.

  ‘He is a gentleman of some consequence in this island, I may say, and is an ornament to the family.’ Renzi stared into the distance. ‘He knows of my – resolve in the matter of my moral judgement, and respects it. Dare I ask it, it would infinitely oblige, should you feign ignorance of my true position.’

  Kydd agreed solemnly.

  ‘Then I will touch on another matter, one which is perhaps the more delicate of the two.’ Renzi glanced at him before speaking. ‘Do you not take offence, dear friend, if I point out that in the article of polite formalities, you are as yet . . . untutored, natural.’ He watched Kydd’s expression tighten. ‘But these, of course, are an accomplishment obligatory only on those with pretensions to genteel society,’ Renzi continued carefully.

  ‘Ye’re saying I’m goin’ t’ shame you to y’ brother?’ Kydd growled.

  ‘Not as who would say,’ Renzi muttered.

  The ketureen clattered on over the sandy, rutted road and Renzi thought perhaps he had gone too far. In fairness it had to be said that it was really for Kydd’s sake that he had felt it proper to bring up the subject, in order that Kydd himself would not feel uncomfortable in polite company rather than for any selfish motive of his own. Cecilia had rapidly acquired a natural affinity with the formalities of gentility, as was the way of women, but her brother, while absorbing the deep-sea mariner’s fine qualities of courage, humour and sturdy self-reliance, had also absorbed their direct speech, and impatience with soft shore ways. In many ways it would not be a kind thing to do to him . . .

  Kydd glowered, staring obstinately away. But then he recovered. ‘Y’r in the right of it, Nicholas.’ He sighed. ‘F’r you only. But what . . .’

  ‘It will be very agreeable to me if you keep station on myself, mark my motions and do the same, and you will not be so very far from success.’

  ‘Aye,’ Kydd said briefly. In the sugar field they were passing there were women with baskets on their heads, gay in red and yellow, some weeding, others scouring the stubbled ground. A snatch of singing came floating over the distance. Kydd looked out, brooding. Then he turned to Renzi and said firmly, ‘Be s’ good as t’ give me a steer on y’ manners when it’s time f’r vittles, Nicholas.’

  ‘Why, it’s not so perilous, dear fellow,’ Renzi said, with great satisfaction: he would now provide a clear and seamanlike course to follow, perfectly suited to a plain-thinking sailor.

  Their ketureen arrived at the Great House, and the two travellers were made cordially welcome.

  ‘A fine surprise, Nicholas!’ Laughton declared, his delight obvious. ‘And a distinct pleasure to make acquaintance with your friend, back from the dead,’ he said, looking at Kydd keenly.

  ‘Would it inconvenience,’ Renzi asked, with the utmost politeness, ‘were we to beg the loan of attire perhaps more in keeping with the country?’

  ‘But, of course, dear fellow.’

  The days that followed were a haze of impressions for Kydd – the vast fields of sugar-cane whose harvest would end at some point as pungent Royal Navy rum; the slow daily round of field work with the lines of slaves moving across the fields, the younger ones bringing up the rear weeding and clearing with their own ‘pickney driver’. It was utterly at odds with Kydd’s world.

  Laughton was a fine host, and at sundown always joined his visitors on the broad veranda for easy conversation. ‘Your visit is most welcome, Nicholas, but I fear not at the best of times,’ he mentioned one evening. ‘We’ve been sadly inconvenienced in our trade by these devilish predators – you’ll find the navy not popular here.’

  Renzi hastened to change the subject. ‘And of your maroons, are they as cantankerous, unsatisfied as last you spoke?’

  ‘Worse. They’re more or less in open revolt now.’ He stared out over the fields. ‘They want more land for ’emselves – which plantation is going to give it to them? They’re rambling about at night, causing general trouble. Had two cows taken and another with its throat slit. It’s unsettling my fieldworkers, who know they’re only over yonder,’ he said, gesturing towards the tumble of hills and mountains to the north-west, just visible in the dusk. ‘That’s what we call “cockpit country”, and there the maroon is untouchable. And it’s only a short ride away.’ He took a long pull at his drink. ‘Don’t forget, we’re only some thousands with an enslaved population of around a quarter-million. Concentrates the mind, don’t ye think?’

  Fortified by his courteous acceptance by Laughton, Kydd was able to face with equanimity the prospect of a social occasion, an informal dinner of the usual sort. Seated opposite Renzi, he prepared nervously to do his duty.

  ‘Th’ currant sauce, if y’ please,’ was Kydd’s first daring foray into polite society. It was passed to him without comment and, reassured, he looked around furtively at the members of the table. The olive-complexioned lawyer further down caught his look and nodded pleasantly. Taken aback, Kydd had the presence of mind to raise his glass in salute. As he placed the glass down again he became aware of the fierce glint of eyes diagonally opposite. ‘Marston,’ the man growled, and lifted his eyebrows in interrogation.

  ‘Er, Kydd,’ he said carefully, not knowing if handshakes were the thing at table, and deciding that it would be safe to do nothing.

  ‘Got th’ look o’ the sea about ye,’ said Marston, when it became obvious Kydd was not going to be more forthcoming.

  ‘Aye, y’r in the right of it, sir.’

  Marston smiled. ‘Can always tell. Which ship?’

  Renzi broke in smoothly, ‘Thomas is with me, Gilbert, come to see where sugar comes from.’

  ‘Damn fine place to see.’ He started, then twisted round in his seat to the lady on his left. ‘If you’ll pardon th’ French, m’ dear.’ She nodded shyly.

  Laughton was at the head of the table, his wife at the opposite end, near Kydd. ‘Er, Mr Kydd,’ she called decorously, ‘do y’ not feel a trifle anxious out on the sea, what with all those nasty pirates an’ French privateers?’ She helped herself to more of the succulent river shrimps in salt and pepper.

  Kydd’s own mouth was full with the spicy jerk, but he replied manfully, ‘Not wi’ the navy t’ look after––’

  ‘Pah!’ Marston’s face lowered and his eyes slitted. ‘I’ve lost three ships ’tween here ’n’ San Domingo, an’ it’s disgraceful the navy still ain’t come up on ’em! If I was their admiral, I tell you––’

  At the other end of the table Laughton frowned. Outside there was some sort of disturbance. The talking died away. High words sounded and a flustered butler entered, bowed to Laughton and whispered urgently. Laughton put down his glass quietly. ‘Gentlemen, it seems that the Trelawney maroons are abroad tonight.’ His chair scraped as he got to his feet. ‘A mill is afire.’

  The room broke into a rush of talk.

  ‘Stap me, but they’re getting damnation uppity!’

  ‘D’ye think – God preserve us! – it’s a general rising?’

  ‘Where’s the militia, the blaggards?’

  Laughton took off his jacket and carefully laid it on the back of his chair. In his evening shirt he accepted his sword and belt from the butler as calmly as he had accepted his dinner clothes earlier. ‘I won’t be long, gentlemen, but in the meantime pray do not ignore the brandy and cigars.’ Kydd sensed the assembling of men in the rising tension outside.

  Marston stood up. ‘Richard, dammit, you can’t go on y’r own, dear fellow!’

  Laughton held up his hand firmly. ‘No, Gilbert, this is my plantation. I shall deal with it.’ He turned and left.

  ‘Don’ like it – not one bit of it!’ Marston rumbled.

  ‘Nor do I,’ said the lawyer.
‘You know how they work – set an outbuilding on fire, then when all attention is on that, they fall upon the Great House!’

  The ladies stayed close together, chattering nervously, the men pacing around the room puffing cigars. Kydd looked through the open windows into the warm darkness. He glanced at Renzi, who was talking quietly with the butler. Renzi looked across at Kydd and beckoned discreetly. ‘I do believe we should stand sentry-go around the house. I have asked for weapons.’

  These turned out to be large, ugly blunderbusses, with their flared muzzles a strong deterrent to any kind of unrest. ‘I will take the north side, if you would be so good as to patrol the south,’ Renzi suggested. The rest of the room watched respectfully, and as they left there were low calls of encouragement from the other men.

  Outside, away from the bright glitter of candlelight and silver, it was impenetrably black. The darkness was the more menacing for its total anonymity and Kydd felt hairs prickle on the back of his neck. From the windows of the Great House, houseboys looked out fearfully. There was a movement behind him. Kydd wheeled around: it was Marston.

  ‘Come to keep ye company,’ he said, breathing heavily. Kydd muttered thanks, but at the same time he didn’t want to worry about having someone about him on whom he could not rely. Marston, however, fell into step next to him. ‘Get worked up, they do,’ Marston said, his cigar laying a thick fragrance on the night air. ‘Have this obeah man – kind o’ witchcraft, calls it voodoo. They does what he says under fear o’ death.’

  ‘C’n they fight?’ asked Kydd. ‘I mean, in the reg’lar way, against soldiers.’ He continued to pace slowly, looking out into the night.

  Marston nodded vigorously. ‘Damn right they can, you can depend upon it. But not as you’d say – they disguise ’emselves as trees with leaves an’ all, jumps into life in our rear, devil take ’em. Not for nothin’ they calls it “Land o’ Look Behind”.’

  Kydd thought of Juba, the driver of the King’s Negroes on Antigua – if he and his kind were to set their faces against the forces of the Crown he could not be at all certain of the outcome. He remembered the opaqueness of character, the difference in Juba’s expression of humanity – was it so hard to understand a resentment, a striving to be as other men?

  From the darkness a group of figures emerged, Laughton easily recognisable at their head. He saw Kydd and waved. ‘Thank you, Thomas. There was no need, but I honour you for it. Shall we rejoin the ladies?’

  It seemed the alarm was over. Kydd handed over his blunderbuss and he and Renzi re-entered the brightness of the big dining room to murmured words of approbation. Laughton resumed his chair at the head. ‘Gentlemen!’ He raised a glass and drank deep. The ladies could now withdraw gracefully, leaving the men to their blue haze, brandy balloons and conversation.

  ‘Somethin’ has to be done!’ Marston said forcefully. ‘They’ve broken their sworn treaty, the damned rascals. If they take it into their heads to come down from the hills all together, it’s up with us. We’d never control a general mutiny. Military is here, an’ I hear they’re even sending us a general.’ The announcement did not seem to mollify; snorts of derision were heard around the table, despite the presence further down the table of an officer in red regimentals. He didn’t comment, but a confident smile played across his face as he enjoyed his cigar.

  ‘So what’s goin’ on, eh, James?’

  The officer paused for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he drawled, ‘quite true – General Walpole is expected daily.’

  ‘An’ with how many damn soldiers?’

  The smile widened. ‘Not so many, I understand.’

  ‘What’s so funny, damn your whistle?’

  ‘It’s – he’ll be bringing much more effective reinforcements than soldiers.’

  ‘Blast m’ eyes, you’re speakin’ in riddles, man!’

  ‘This is not for public knowledge, gentlemen, so keep it under your hat. No soldiers. Instead, Cuban hunting dogs!’ A baffled quiet descended. Enjoying the effect, the officer elegantly lifted his brandy. ‘Half the size of a man, these brutes are trained up by the Spaniards for man-killing. Can pitilessly run to earth anything on two legs in the worst country, the hardest climate. A runaway slave stands no chance at all, and neither will these maroons.’

  Kydd felt for them. All their advantages of knowing the country, blending with the landscape, melting into the scrub rendered useless at a stroke.

  ‘We send the dogs in, we can smoke ’em all out from their hidey-holes, finish ’em for good at last.’ The roar of merriment that followed was heartfelt, but Kydd could not join in.

  He turned to the lawyer. ‘Is it so necessary t’ take such hard ways with th’ poor beggars?’ he asked.

  The man frowned. ‘Are you not aware that these sugar islands are the richest lands in the world? That if we lost their yield for any reason, it would of a certainty mean the collapse of the City, a run on gold, our ruination as a nation just when we are locked in battle with the greatest threat to our civilisation ever?’

  There could be no answer to that, but Kydd felt a stubborn need to have his misgivings laid to rest. ‘But slavery, where is y’r rights there?’

  The lawyer’s eyes turned stony. ‘If we had no slaves then, may I ask, where do you think that the free men to take their place – thousands, tens of thousands – will come from? No white man will come of his free will to labour in the sun. The black man is eminently suited. They would have no employment, were it not for this.’

  ‘But––’

  ‘Do you propose, sir, to abandon the islands? Sail away, leave them to the French, throw away six generations of development?’ The contempt in his voice was ill-concealed.

  Kydd knew in his heart that Renzi would sadly concur – it was a matter of simple logic; besides which, he was a guest and would not embarrass his friend with an argument. ‘Of course not, sir, that was never in question,’ he said.

  All too rapidly the remaining days of their stay passed, until the time came, on the last evening, to bring it all to a conclusion. Laughton arrived late for the sundown glass, flopping wearily into his rattan chair. There was little talk as the sangaree splashed into the glasses, each man with his own thoughts. Laughton’s wife joined them, but left discreetly at the solemn mood.

  Kydd broke the silence, saying civilly, ‘Y’r sunsets are capital in this part o’ the world.’

  Laughton looked up, a tight smile flashing briefly. ‘There are many things here which a distracted mind would find pleasing.’ He sat back and looked directly at Kydd. ‘It does not take a deal of penetration to see that you are a particular friend to Nicholas – you have shared too much of life together for it to be otherwise. Therefore I conclude that he has confided in you. In short, you know of his – decision, and the noble impulse that generated it.

  ‘I am his brother, as you are no doubt aware, and tonight I ask you very sincerely if you will intercede with him. Ask him to accept my offer of an honoured place here – indeed, to include your own good self – and see out these tumultuous times here together.’

  Kydd was surprised: he had no idea an offer had been made. He glanced across at Renzi, whose expression was as usual inscrutable. ‘I do thank ye f’r the fine offer for m’self, but must say no,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘But as f’r Nicholas . . .’

  ‘No,’ Renzi said quickly, and stared intensely at his glass. Kydd waited, but there was no further elaboration. Renzi’s face was set in stone.

  The chirr of a cricket sounded in the dusk, immediately joined in a chorus by others. A clatter and laughter sounded far-off in the chattel houses, and the breeze played softly about them. Laughton put down his glass. ‘Then I think I have my answer, Nicholas,’ he said softly. ‘But one moment.’ He rose quickly and went inside. A short time later, he emerged with a dusty bottle and crystal glasses, which he placed on the marquetry table, then set to carefully opening the bottle. ‘Let us make this last night as agreeable as we may.’ He poured the deep gold liquid in
to crystal. The dark-skinned butler arrived with a candle, and each man held his glass. ‘Armagnac – the elder Pitt was a boy when this was bottled,’ Laughton said lightly. ‘I give you Fortune – may she treat you as a lady.’

  Chapter 14

  It was good to see Seaflower at her moorings across the harbour at the Palisades, looking yacht-like at that distance. Kydd and Renzi gave a cheerful wave. Soon they would be aboard in their familiar berths and life would carry on as before.

  Kydd caught the strong, clean whiff of linseed oil and freshly tarred rigging as he swung over the side to the deck, the most obvious sign of the work the dockyard had done on his ship. He moved over to the tiller: its arm had been replaced, and in good English ash, he noted with satisfaction. It had a flexibility that absorbed the direct shock of seas coming in on the quarter, which could be a tiring thing for a helmsman.

  ‘Hey-ho, the travellers!’ Doud’s cry came from forward where he was leading the fore preventer stay to bring its upper wooden heart to the lower, right in the bows.

  Kydd wandered up, keen to hear the gossip. ‘What cheer, cuffin? An’ have ye any news, b’ chance?’

  Doud gave a knowing smile, passed the lanniard loosely through the two hearts and tied off before straightening. ‘We has a new owner,’ he announced importantly.

  ‘Does we indeed?’ Kydd said, with interest, looking around for Renzi, but he had gone below. ‘An’ what happened t’ Cap’n Farrell, may I ask?’

  ‘Been an’ got his step. You calls him “Commander” now, cock.’ He stepped aside to let his two men finish bowsing in on the lanniard and added, ‘In course he’s too grand fer this little barky, gets a sloop-o’-war or some such, I wouldn’t wonder.’ In the matter of prize money alone, Seaflower had become a valuable unit for the Admiral, and her captain had proved he was lucky in this regard. With a larger ship he could do even better.