14-Caribbee: A Kydd Sea Adventure Read online

  ‘I was in service with the Duke of Rutland until I …’

  Became too big to be a pretty page-boy, thought Kydd. But then how would it have been to grow up the only black boy below stairs with the servants, and no one to look out for him? There must be depths to Tysoe’s character that he’d never suspected.

  ‘Then I was seen and taken up by a sea officer who was of a noble family and wished to have about him one of polite accomplishments, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.’

  ‘Captain Codrington?’

  ‘No, sir. That was later, when I came under his notice and he arranged to have me as his personal chamberlain in Tremendous 74, in the Mediterranean,’ he said, with quiet pride.

  It must have been a bitter blow when the aristocratic Codrington had died of a stroke in his own great cabin, leaving Tysoe in Halifax without employment to fend for himself. He must have felt he’d come down in the world when the raw Lieutenant Kydd had asked for him.

  ‘And now you’re here in L’Aurore, and with more sea service than myself, I’d wager.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, that cannot be,’ Tysoe said shyly.

  ‘Well, we’re off to west Jamaica this afternoon. Have you a thought for what you’ll give them both?’

  Leaving the feverish atmosphere of Kingston, L’Aurore spread her wings for the open sea. As always, Kydd felt a lift of the heart at the first rise and fall of a live deck responding to a grand seascape – sparkling, clear and limitless. Orders were essentially simple: to show themselves, to be seen for what she was – a powerful agent of the Crown, able to express the resolve of Britain to defend what was hers wherever it might be.

  The muted talk of Curzon and Gilbey on the other side of the quarterdeck, however, was of Napoleon Bonaparte and his war-winning strategy.

  Away from the Hellshire hills and past Portland Point, they went looking into the wide reaches of Long Bay, with the prospect of a night at anchor off the steep sides of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

  The wind dropped and they were left to enjoy the warmth and splendour of a Caribbean evening, gazing directly into the vast broadness of a spectacular tawny orange sunset. It was difficult to conceive of a wider world locked in war while sitting in wardroom chairs on the quarterdeck, watching the majestic sight with a glass of punch in hand and exotic scents wafting out from the land on the soft breeze.

  The next day saw a leisurely sail past marshes and mountains until they reached the tiny old sugar port of Savanna La Mar. Keeping well off the reef-strewn approaches, Kydd sent in a boat, which returned with no news of strange sail and they sailed on.

  Tysoe maintained a dignified manner but it was surprising how often he needed to adjust the stern-windows, be on deck to check the direction of the wind and linger as they rounded South Negril Point and glided past the lonely wilderness of the Great Morass towards the north.

  Long before their anchor plunged into the impossibly lovely sea-green transparency of Bloody Bay, Tysoe was ready on deck. He was dressed plainly but that did nothing to conceal his patrician bearing and gentle manner. The bundle by his side was not large but well tied, his face unreadable as he surveyed the unexceptional seashore.

  ‘It’s been a long time …’ Kydd said, unsure how to bridge the distance between the captain of a King’s ship and his valet – and also how to reach out to someone whose parents might still be slaves.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Um, your parents … are they still, er, slaves?’

  Tysoe tore his gaze away and said softly, ‘No, sir. The older Mr Thistlewood in his kindness manumitted them. They have a small patch to grow and sell foodstuffs and they are content.’

  Relieved, Kydd said more briskly, ‘Well, I find that the boatswain requires time to, er, rattle down the larboard main-shrouds, which will mean we must delay sailing a further day. Be sure to be back aboard by the daybreak after next. Will that be enough?’ he added, in a softer tone.

  ‘It will, I’m sure. And I’m beholden to you for your thoughtfulness, sir.’

  ‘Well, here’s something I want you to give them from me,’ he said, handing over a small package. ‘Off you go – you know the way?’

  There was a gentle smile. ‘I do.’

  He boarded the boat, and as the crew bent to their oars, he looked back once. Kydd was startled to see the glint of tears in the eyes of the man he had known for so long, and at the same time had never known.

  ‘A fine thing you did today, dear fellow,’ Renzi murmured.

  ‘A good man, it was nothing, really.’

  Collecting himself, Kydd said, ‘On another matter entirely, it seems to me a damned waste of splendid scenery were we not to do something about it. I have it in mind to call a Ropeyarn Sunday for the hands tomorrow, and shall we step ashore? I’ve a yen for a spell on land.’

  Was it the wafting breeze carrying the warm scent of sun-touched flowers or was it the sight of the lazy sweep of pristine beach beyond the crystal depths? Kydd was gripped by the sudden feeling that he and his ship were under notice – that these days of idyll and beauty couldn’t possibly last and were about to be cut short by the brutality of war. It brought to his mind the ironic name of this place of tranquillity and allure: Bloody Bay.

  ‘Nicholas, I’ve a sense we’re not long to enjoy this paradise and I mean to make the most of our situation.’

  ‘Odd. I have the same sentiment,’ Renzi murmured. ‘And the same hankering.’

  Kydd smiled. ‘Ask the boatswain to lay aft, if you please. I have plans.’

  At dawn the first boats headed inshore, over the pellucid water, to hiss to a stop in the bright sand. Laughing delightedly, barefoot sailors splashed ashore with gear and, under directions from a jovial Oakley, began setting up for the day.

  First there was the pavilion: a masterly contrivance that saw a topsail spread to vertical oars and robustly stayed, with, inside, tables of barrels and planks. Then, in deference to the officers, another was constructed at a suitable distance with the softer cotton of boat sails, and well equipped with chairs, a table and items of civilised ornamentation suspended decorously from the leech cringles of the sail.

  It was time: the signal went up and the remaining L’Aurores swarmed ashore. Wearing togs of every description, they were ferried to the beach where they broke loose, like children, running up and down, splashing each other and behaving as utterly unlike man-o’-war’s men as was possible. Some had brought their hammocks, which they tied between palm trees, while others lay in the shade, smoking their clay pipes and yarning.

  The inevitable cricket pitch was laid out and a noisy game of larboard watch against starboard began, while still others simply wandered along the near-mile length of the beach, revelling in the break with discipline.

  When Kydd arrived, Rundle the cook was in despair at the arrangements. ‘How’s I going to bring the scran alongside without I have m’ coppers?’ he groaned.

  Trooping back aboard to be fed was not to be contemplated by free spirits. ‘Toss the salt pork on a fire,’ one sailor offered.

  ‘Burgoo an’ bananas,’ came in another.

  ‘Well, what do the folks around here do for a bite, then?’ a third said in exasperation.

  Nobody seemed to have an answer – but Kydd knew someone who would. ‘Where’s Mr Buckle?’

  ‘Why, he’s officer-of-the-watch in L’Aurore, sir!’ As junior that was of course where he was, lord of a near-deserted vessel.

  ‘He’s to step ashore and report.’

  Buckle soon saw what was needed. ‘It’s a barbacoa as is used, sir. May I …?’

  ‘Certainly – you’re in charge.’

  In the centre of the beach seamen were set to excavate a pit and light a fire to which was added a number of large stones to get white hot. Others trotted respectfully behind Buckle as he approached the curious villagers, who had collected to take in the diverting sight of ‘koonermen’ rollicking ashore. In fluent native Creole, he negotiated the purchase of a pig and had
it slaughtered, dressed and wrapped in banana leaves.

  It was placed in the pit and thick maguey leaves were piled on top. By the time the morning had developed into a beautiful day, mouthwatering aromas were already drifting about the beach.

  That wasn’t the end of Mr Buckle’s talents. He endeared himself to the seamen when he fashioned a strop around his girth and used it to shin up a palm tree to cut down coconuts for all hands.

  After that it seemed churlish to Kydd to send him back to exile in the frigate, so Buckle took delight in instructing the stewards on the most delectable ingredients for a punch and how the old-time pirates had made a buccan, the wooden frame on which meats were smoked to preserve them.

  As Kydd lazed in his chair he felt that life needed little more to achieve perfection. The enveloping warmth of the sun, tempered by the breeze over the sea, worked on his body and he eased into a delightful torpor. He had only to open his eyes and there was his trim frigate no more than a couple of hundred yards before him; the thought that he was actually being paid and honoured to take the lovely vessel across the ocean, away from the rain and cold of England to this Elysium, tugged his lips into a smile.

  Renzi had a book, which he was reading with a smile of contentment, and on the table was their punch and exotic tropical fruits.

  Left alone with his thoughts Kydd drifted off to sleep as the heat increased to midday and the noisy rollicking on the beach subsided.

  As the afternoon sea-breeze began gently to blow, the pig was at last declared well and truly cooked. It was quickly surrounded by ravenous sailors, but Buckle had it well organised: following Kydd’s lead, the wardroom nobly declined their droits of the joint and took equal shares with the men. The pig’s left side was declared for the larboard watch, the right for the starboard. Further, in accordance with parts-of-ship, the fo’c’sle hands took the forward portion, the waisters the midships and the afterguard the rump end. To even things out, choicer cuts were smaller in size but could be bartered for larger but less favoured pieces.

  The entertainment this provided lasted for some time, helped by a ceremonial issue of two-water grog from a tub decorated with exotic blossoms. The beach, facing directly into the setting sun, was then treated to the majesty of another Caribbean sunset. The evening drew quickly in, a warm and sensuous tropical dusk tinged with violet. All too soon shadows deepened and it was time to return to the ship before it became too dark to see.

  As Kydd had intended, it had been a time to remember, to be put away tenderly for future times when their mortal existence itself would be under threat.

  The following morning L’Aurore readied for sea.

  Kydd was prepared to be generous in the interpretation of ‘daybreak’ but when the sun was well up, the ship gone to sea-watches and the first lieutenant pointedly checking his fob watch, it was time to take action.

  It was unlike Tysoe to be late – he, who would berate the steward for bringing up the breakfast a minute past six bells: it was incomprehensible that he would be adrift from leave.

  ‘I’ll not sail without the villain,’ Kydd swore. A quick note was written, politely requesting the plantation owner of Breadnut Island Pen to remind Tysoe of his duty to be back aboard and this was given to a midshipman to deliver.

  Hours later he had not returned. ‘This is insupportable, sir,’ Gilbey complained. ‘A King’s ship held on account of a laggardly servant and dawdling reefer! We have to get about our business – leave ’em both to cool their heels until we’re next this way.’

  ‘You’re forgetting yourself, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd retorted. ‘Mr Tysoe is ashore on a mission.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’ There was disbelief in his tone that rankled with Kydd.

  ‘Yes, he is! If there’s to be a slave revolt, who better to send in to discover it?’ This was at least half true; Kydd had conjured up the excuse for later, if any at the admiral’s office queried his resting at anchor in this distant quarter.

  Nevertheless there had to be a limit. Mentally resolved to weigh anchor at midday he was relieved to see the boat return shortly before, but it held only the dusty figure of young Searle.

  ‘I’m to give you this,’ the lad said, handing over a note.

  It was short, but to the point.

  On the matter of this Tysoe, I thank you, Captain, for your politeness in returning my property, one Quamino. Yr obedt etc. Daniel Thistlewood, owner.

  ‘What does he mean by this?’ Kydd said in astonishment. ‘Did you see Tysoe, at all?’

  ‘I did, sir. In the house only for a moment, then he was sent away, sharp like.’

  For some reason Tysoe had been mistaken for a runaway slave and had been taken up. Time was short and this needed settling quickly at the highest level. Kydd saw there was only one way to get it done: to go himself.

  ‘How far is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, at the foot o’ the mountains, ’bout four miles, sir. I had to walk,’ Searle said apologetically. ‘I didn’t have the coin to hire a horse ’n’ trap.’

  Swearing to himself, Kydd told Gilbey, ‘Stand down sea-watches. I’m going to fetch the rascal. Mr Searle will accompany me. Do you wish to come, Mr Renzi?’

  As always, even a hundred yards into the land the air changed – from the sea where at least a zephyr could nearly always be relied on to a still, enclosing heat, wreathed with the odour of dust and animal droppings. Kydd was thankful when the hired cart got under way and there was a breeze.

  He waved away the inevitable flies, reflecting sourly that making even a single mile out to the open sea they would all vanish, defeated by the cleanliness of a ship.

  But he was here because of Tysoe. It was not only the recollection of years of faithful service, but also the intolerable thought of his noble self spending the rest of his days as a plantation slave.

  Beside him, Renzi said nothing, calmly observing the scrubby landscape. Kydd was darkly amused to see Searle sitting bolt upright, keeping ‘eyes in the boat’, as if with the captain in his gig.

  The cart ground on until at last there was a hedge of sorts each side of the road, leading to the plantation Great House, a sprawling white edifice with a dark-varnished veranda and set about with blossoms.

  They descended at the entrance and a white-clad houseboy appeared. ‘Captain Kydd to see Mr Thistlewood,’ Kydd told him, but a figure emerged from the house and pushed him aside.

  ‘I’m Thistlewood,’ snapped the thick-set man in leather boots and wide hat, his face hard and deeply tanned. ‘What’s your business?’

  Kydd removed his hat politely. ‘I’m here to set right a little matter, if I may. I gave leave for my manservant to visit his parents and he’s failed to return. I wonder if you could—’

  ‘That’s this Tysoe, then. Surprises me it needs a Navy captain to come looking.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the fellow. Do tell him that we’re about to sail and—’

  ‘He’s not going back.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He’s not about to leave here, cully. He’s my property and he stays.’ The man’s eyes narrowed and he folded his arms.

  ‘I think you may have mistaken his identity. He is—’

  ‘I know who he is – there’s no confusion. He found his parents. Then they all fell about weeping and the like. He’s their son, without any kind o’ doubt.’

  Kydd shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Then if you know who he is, why can’t he return with us?’

  Thistlewood gave a hard smile. ‘Seems to me you have a strange notion of slave law, Mr Sailor. That there is known as Quamino, a piccaninny born of slaves, right here in my father’s pen. The law says therefore he’s a slave himself, property of his master. There’s no going up against the law now, is there?’

  Renzi spoke: ‘We happen to know they were manumitted years ago.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘So he’s a free man.’

  ‘We’re talking his folks, not him. They’re free ri
ght enough.’

  ‘If—’

  ‘The deed of manumission. You want to see it? There’s Phibbah and Cuffee, no mention of Quamino. He were illegally borne off to be a page-boy well before they were freed, so by any law o’ the land he’s still a bound slave.’

  It was all too clear. The casual handing over of one of the many plantation children those years ago had come back full circle to trap Tysoe. Thistlewood had seen his chance to acquire an accomplished house-boy to flaunt in planter society, and the law was on his side.

  Frustration boiled up in Kydd. ‘I’ve a King’s ship wants to sail. You’re delaying me by this tomfoolery! I demand that—’

  ‘Nothing stopping you. Sail away.’

  ‘I won’t let it rest, sir! This is nonsense and you know it!’

  ‘I think not! Why, I see I’ve a case for damages. Yes – loss of earnings in a slave unlawfully detained for … let me see … thirty years? Your admiral is going to be pleased with you, he gets a lawsuit against the Navy that carried him off …’

  It was getting nowhere. Despairing, Kydd said, ‘Well, er, I’ll buy him back.’

  ‘He’s not for sale. Now, I’m sure you’re busy chasing pirates or such, so I won’t detain you any longer.’

  Kydd threw a beseeching look at Renzi.

  ‘Ah, then we’ll make our farewells,’ Renzi said smoothly, ‘with our earnest apologies for taking up your time. Come, gentlemen.’

  Aghast, Kydd hesitated but Renzi was walking to the cart. Then he stopped and turned, with a disarming smile. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten. Just one small detail we’ll have to trouble you with. It shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘What detail? I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Why, as secretary to the ship, I can’t have loose ends to disturb my captain later, can I?’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘It’s the little matter of Tysoe’s oath.’

  ‘Oath?’

  ‘Yes,’ Renzi said, brow creased in a clerkly furrow. ‘You see, on enlisting in any ship of the Royal Navy a man has to swear to serve the King. Now, all I need is an affidavit signed by Tysoe that he no longer wishes to bear allegiance to His Majesty, this being countersigned in a release by his captain, and he will be free to take up duties with you immediately.’