Seaflower k-3

by Julian Stockwin

  'Has a sea anchor over th' stern . ..'

  'Yair - keeps 'er poop inter the wind, flames don't reach 'em.'

  'See it blaze at th' main-hatch! Give 'er less'n a dog-watch afore she goes up altogether .. .'

  Kydd took a telescope and trained it on the smoky ruin. The flame-shot vessel leaped into sharp focus. He could almost hear the devilish roar of the fire, the sharp banging and crackling of timbers in hopeless conflagration. There were dark figures against the flames, jerking and moving, but the main body were massed on the as yet untouched after end of the vessel. Kydd swept the telescope along — it was impossible to say which nationality the ship was, or even what species it was.

  'Get th' longboat overside,' urged some. Seaflower was now only a mile off but the wind was so soft and light

  that the cutter only made a walking pace through the calm waters.

  'Longboat, stand by for launching,' warned Farrell, ‘but avast lowering, we have to be closer.' Seaflower was still just faster than men could row. The towering pillar of smoke darkened the whole area, tongues of flame an angry wild orange against the smoke.

  As Kydd stared at the ruin, the stern fell off the wind — the line to the sea-anchor had given way. He whipped up the telescope. In sharp detail he saw the after end of the vessel sag away to leeward and the fire leap up triumphantly. Dark figures fell into the sea as the flames advanced on the poop.

  The calm seas around the stern became agitated. Flickers of white in dark flurries puzzled him for a moment until he understood — survivors in the water were being taken by sharks. His hands shook as he held the telescope. With a sick horror he saw the remaining figures on the poop hesitating between being burned to death or eaten alive by sharks. One by one they toppled into the water or danced insanely before crumpling into a briefly seen dark mass in the flames.

  Seaflowr curved smoothly into the wind and her longboat splashed into the water. Kydd watched as it pulled towards the hulk, now no more than a blackened wreck, a dying ember. The hideous twitching around the stern was now irregular and the desolate stink of the fire drifted down on them. The boat reached the still smoking hull and circled around. It returned with a pitiably burned corpse. 'Weren't none made it, sir,' the bowman said sofdy. 'We c'n give 'em a Christian burial, like.'

  'No - they stay with their ship. They go together.'

  'Tom, mate!' whispered the carpenter's mate, plucking Kydd's sleeve. 'Come an' 'ave a squiz 'tween-decks.' Wondering at Snead's peculiar air of anxiety, Kydd followed him down the fore-hatch below.

  Chasing aside seamen at the galley, Snead lifted the access grating to the forward hold and dropped inside, listening intently in the musty gloom. Satisfied, he hauled himself out. 'Tell me what y' hears,' he said, his lined grey eyes serious.

  Kydd let himself down. As quartermaster he had the stowage of the hold, but that was in port or calm waters. Now, in this increasingly boisterous sea, wasn't the time to be rummaging among the big water barrels or tightly tommed-down stores. He hunkered down in the cramped space and listened carefully, bracing himself against the cutter's roll. Nothing at first, but then he heard over the swish of sea on the outside of the hull an intermittent sibilance as quiet and deadly as a snake. In time with the roll came a sudden rushing hiss which for a seaman had only one meaning: 'We've sprung a plank somewhere on th' waterline — takin' in water fast!'

  Snead looked at him peculiarly. 'Yair, but when I sounds the bilges, ain't any water!'

  'What? None?' Kydd asked. It was peculiar to a degree — the rushing hiss returned with every roll, and at this rate the water should be at least a foot deep in the lower hold.

  'Don't like it, cully,' Snead grumbled. 'What say you 'n' I 'as a word wi' the Cap'n?'

  'Heard o' this happenin' to a cargo o' rice - swells when it's wet, it does,' Merrick said.

  Jarman stroked his jaw. 'Nothin' stowed below that I knows of like that,' he said slowly. 'But there's some kind o' - something — that's soaking it up fast...'

  'No chances. We heave down and get at it from the outside,' Farrell said with finality. 'I believe Islas Engano will answer.'

  Kydd was relieved. A small cutter like Seaflower could easily find an island to beach between tides and get at the hull planking from the outside, and in this case the sooner the better. They raised the island late in the afternoon. Because the leak was getting no worse — in fact, the vessel was still mysteriously dry — they anchored in its lee to wait out the night. A passing rain-squall spattered and then deluged the decks. Only the disconsolate lookouts fore and aft remained, the rest were snug below.

  In the free discipline of a cutter, there would be no 'pipe down hammocks' or other big-ship ways. And now at anchor was a time when a sailor could relax, no fear of an 'All the haaands!’ to send him on deck, no sudden course-change requiring the vessel to tack about — instead the sewing 'housewife', the gleefulness of dice play, the scrimshaw, the endless letter ...

  Lanthorns spread a warm golden glow in the crew spaces and the hum of his shipmates' conversation was a reassuring backdrop to Kydd's thoughts. Renzi's musings about his future had awakened possibilities that were unsettling. It seemed that Renzi believed he was destined for something beyond quartermaster - that could only be master's mate, which required an Admiralty warrant . ..

  He watched Stirk throw a double trey at the dice with a roar of satisfaction - did he concern himself with times unknown? Unforeseeable circumstances? Himself in twenty years? Of course not! Kydd setded back in his hammock and listened to the drumming of rain on the deck above, grateful to be dry and warm. The rain eased, then stopped. Kydd slipped into drowsiness, unperturbed by the noises of his shipmates' pastimes and merriment, sure of himself and the world he had made his own.

  A soft dawn revealed their island to have a long sandy beach, suitable to heave down Seaflower and get at the leak. Kydd had tried to localise the sound of inrushing water but, bafflingly, it had died away as they anchored.

  The cutter gently grounded on the sand of the beach and was brought broadside to in the gentle waves. Snead waited in the longboat while lines were secured to her mast, taken to a tackle on a sizeable palm ashore and back to the windlass. Snead only needed to see the waterline region and it took little effort to achieve the required cant to one side. "Tain't this side,' he called from the boat, after going the length of the cutter. Seaflower was laboriously refloated and rotated for a survey of the other side — with the same result. A perfectly sound hull.

  'Only one thing left t' do,' Kydd muttered. They would have to rouse out the entire contents of the hold to put paid to the mystery, a long and tedious process. Starting from forward the first of the stores were brought out and laid against the after end of the crew space. Kydd saw that the men were well positioned in chain to pass up the provisions, and turned to go.

  He was stopped by an incredulous shout. 'God rot me! Come 'ere, Mr Kydd!' Hurrying over to the fore hold, Kydd looked down. A seaman was standing and pointing to what he had found in the close stowage of the hold. It was a substantial-sized cask with its head knocked in, and in it was the remains of what it had contained — peas, dried for stowing, a sea of seven hundredweight of hard peas. And as the ship rolled, the peas had swished from side to side in the smooth barrel, sounding exactly like the hiss of inrushing water.

  They made good sailing in clear conditions and secured a morning landfall on the odd-looking island of Alto Velo, off the southernmost point of Hispaniola. 'We will take the inside passage, I believe, Mr Jarman,' said Farrell, inspecting the stretches of low, flat land to the north and the peaked dome of Alto Velo to the south.

  The swell increased as they approached, a peculiar, angled swell that felt uneasy. Over to the north-west a serried rank of sharp-peaked mountains appeared out of the bright haze, white-topped and distant. Kydd growled at the helmsman when the Seaflower's topsail fluttered, his eyes flicking astern to check her wake. It was straight — the ever-reliable trade winds were slo
wly but surely backing; it was not the fault of the helmsman. 'Wind's backing,' he called to Jarman.

  'Just so,' said the sailing master. 'Those mountains, t' weather.' His mouth clamped tight and he glared generally to windward.

  'We have the current in our favour, Mr Jarman,' Farrell said mildly. 'Sir.'

  The swell angled more and met a south-going counterpart that had Seaflower wallowing in confused jerking in the cross seas. Unfriendly green waves slopped and bullied on to her decks, sluicing aft to wet Farrell's shoes. They passed through the passage, the wind backing so far that Seaflower had to strike her square sails entirely. Once through, the predominant westerly current and north-easterly winds reasserted themselves and the way was clear for the final run to Jamaica. But for one thing. A brig-of-war. Five miles ahead across their path, her two masts foreshortening as she altered course purposefully towards them.

  Chapter 12

  'Be damned,' said Merrick, as he came up from below and saw the vessel. The meeting was most unfortunate: having emerged from the island passage Seaflower was prevented from going to windward by the lie of the land, and to bear away to leeward would favour the bigger canvas a brig-sloop could show.

  'We put about an' return, sir?' Jarman asked immediately. There was no dishonour to fly before a vessel probably carrying half as many guns again as they.

  Farrell turned on him angrily. 'What do you conceive is our duty, sir? To run at the sight of every strange sail?'

  Jarman grunted. 'Well, we—'

  'Clear for action, Mr Merrick,' Farrell ordered. Seaflower kept on her course westward towards the brig and girded for war. All eyes were on their opponent. The brig seemed nonplussed at Seaflower's aggression and fell off the wind somewhat.

  Kydd took the tiller, feeling the willing restlessness of the craft, and even through his own anxieties he felt for the lovely cutter and what she must suffer soon. The enemy brig was longer than they and therefore could array a greater broadside; being square-rigged with the ability to back sails she was more manoeuvrable in a clinch. Seaflower's chance lay in her speed and nimble handling — much would depend on Kydd's steadiness at the helm.

  A gun thudded on the brig and a large battle flag unfurled at her mizzen peak. There would be no preliminaries, they would grapple and fight and the contest could well be over within the hour. The brig yawed to starboard. This brought her broadside to bear. It thundered out, but at more than a mile it was a ragged display, balls skipping wide on each side.

  Merrick grinned. 'Too eager b' half - a green-hide cap'n, I shouldn't wonder.'

  'They's sixes and fours, 'n' we has all sixes!' Stirk said, with satisfaction. Kydd did not share his confidence: they had six-pounders, but only eight to a side. The brig resumed an easy close haul, knowing that Seaflowr must close and endure their wrath before she could swing about and bring her. guns on target.

  'Stirk, be so good as to set your pretty ones to work,' Farrell said, with a grim smile.

  Clambering over gear to the eyes of the ship, Stirk hunkered down and sighted along the black iron of his four-pounder chase guns. They were an older pattern and were not fitted with gunlocks; over the priming he held clear a glowing piece of match and, when satisfied with his quoin and at the right point in the pitching motion, his hand went down and they spoke with a ringing crack.

  Kydd stared intently at the brig, but Stirk scrambled over the heel of the bowsprit to the other chase gun to repeat the exercise while the first was reloaded. Again the sharp report: gunsmoke temporarily obscured her, but when it cleared the brig showed in some confusion.

  'Don' know what they wants ter do,' Farthing observed. He was behind Kydd standing ready if Kydd fell in battle. The brig's square yards were at odds with each other -it looked like someone had shied away from the balls slamming across her decks, and had tried to bear away, but then a more experienced hand had intervened to send her back. It was hard for Seaflower to have to wait to come up before they could reply with their own guns.

  'Told yer, it's a right green hand there,' Merrick said, and looked at Farrell.

  'Ease sheets, no need to rush at things,' the Captain said smoothly. Seaflower slowed, and Stirk kept up his gunplay. The brig yawed and let go another broadside, but the little cutter's head on profile was much too narrow a target, and all it achieved was to give Stirk a broader aiming point.

  Seaflower tacked about to open the range once more. Her own broadside crashed out as she spun about, a French one not eventuating, as they were in the process of reloading. Stirk resumed his punishment, taking time to lay his weapon. 'If'n she had chase guns th' same as we ...' Merrick reflected.

  Abrupdy, the brig loosed a broadside, then turned away before the wind and retired. Derisive yells erupted in Seaflower — the brig's plain stern presented itself as she turned in retreat, the shouts became an urging to close and finish the vessel with close raking fire.

  Kydd glanced at Farrell, who was studying the brig through his Dollond glass. He seemed not to hear the crew's jubilation, but then spoke to Jarman. 'She wishes us to close. She is much the bigger — we keep our distance.' As if to add point to his words, the brig flew up into the wind and her guns fired, some of the balls coming uncomfortably close. Seaflower took immediate opportunity to slew round and return the compliment in kind.

  'If y' please, sir,' Jarman had the chart, 'I believe she means t' round Cabo Falso an' head f'r French waters.'

  "The nearest port he can find there?'

  'Ah - that'd be, er, Port des Galions. Small, but has a mole f'r the sugar trade.'

  'Any fortifications, do you think?'

  'Always some kind o' unpleasantness at th' end o' the mole,' Jarman ventured, looking at Merrick.

  'Aye, sir, if she gets inshore o' the mole, we 'ave ter give it away, I fear,' Merrick said.

  Farrell remained pensive. The brig was too big to take on directly, they were being drawn away from their proper route to Jamaica and there was a possibility that a French man-o'-war was lying in Port des Galions that really did know his business. Straightening, he made up his mind. 'We let Stirk have his amusement for a little longer — if he brings down a spar we reconsider, but if the brig makes port we let her go.'

  The rest of the afternoon was spent with periodic banging from the bow in a wash of powder smoke.

  Kydd and others spelled the grey-grimed and red-eyed Stirk in his task. The considerable swell angled across and Seaflower's motion became a complex combination of pitch and roll. Behind the breech the sighting picture was jerky and swooping, and having to use a port-fire, instead of the instant response of a gunlock and lanyard, made the job nearly impossible. 'Makin' it a mort uncomfortable for 'em,' Stirk said hoarsely. He gulped thirstily at a pannikin of vinegar and water.

  Beyond Cabo Falso the land trended north-west and within less than thirty miles they entered the French waters of San Domingo. The brig's course then shaped unmistakably for Port des Galions, a far-off thin scatter of buildings amid palm trees and verdure.

  There was no result yet from the chase guns, which were now uncomfortably hot and radiated a sullen heat, but Stirk's crews worked on. The mole could be made out, a low arm extending out to enclose a tiny bay with a sandy spit on the opposite side, and no sign of any other vessel within. 'Give 'er best, mate,' said Farthing, as the brig prepared to enter the little harbour and safety and Farrell prepared reluctantly to tack about and retire.

  'We'll give 'em a salute as we go,' Farrell grunted.

  Seaflower stood on for a space, then put her helm up, turning for a farewell broadside. But it was what the vengeful brig had been waiting for - she yawed quickly and at last had the whole length of the cutter in her sights. Her guns crashed out: a storm of shot whistled about Seaflower, splintering, crashing, slapping through sails — and ending the life of Seaflower's only midshipman. Cole had cheered with the best of them when the brig had turned tail, and his fist had been upraised when a ball took his arm off at the shoulder, flinging h
im across the deck. Stupefied, he tried to raise himself on all fours, but failed, rolling to one side in his own blood.

  Farrell, himself winded by the passage of the ball, lunged across to the mortally wounded lad and held him gently as the life left him. He remained still as Seaflower's own guns answered. His head fell, and when he looked up there was a murderous expression as his eyes followed the brig past the end of the mole to the inner harbour and safety.

  Obedient to his last command, Seaflower headed for the open sea, but Farrell slowly got to his feet and breathed heavily. 'Do you mark my words, we'll make them pay for this day.'

  For half a day Seaflower sped out to sea, Farrell pacing thoughtfully, at times disappearing below with the sailing master. Towards evening a plan had been hatched that Farrell laid before Seaflower’s company that afternoon around the main-hatch. 'The port consists of a narrow point of land, with a mole on the other side like an arm enclosing a harbour. The brig will undoubtedly be alongside the inner face of the mole. Now, it were vain to think of carrying her in a direct assault in the open — the longboat can bear but fourteen men, this is not sufficient.'

  He paused, then smiled. 'But we have a chance. I mean to "borrow" a sugar lighter from further up the coast. This is how the joggaree — the raw lump sugar — is carried to the port to be shipped out. These are mean and unworthy craft, having but one masterly quality: they may carry concealed as many stout men as we choose. This lighter will approach the entrance, but it will be a sad parcel of lubberly rogues who try to bring her in. I have no doubt she will run a-foul of whatever unfortunate vessel is lying alongside . . .'

  A restless murmuring and then grins broke out, followed by hearty chuckles. Farrell held up his hands for silence. 'We still have a use for the longboat. With her fourteen men, it is landed before dawn on the far side of the point. The boat is dragged over the sandy point and therefore launched inside the harbour, where it may fall upon the enemy from a quite unexpected direction.'