Seaflower - Kydd 03 Read online

  They returned to Jacobs. Laughton strode forward. 'Sir, I find this, er, Renzi has a certain felicity in explaining the naval situation to me. I beg leave to claim his services for a few days to assist me to formulate a position. Is this possible, sir?'

  Jacobs seemed taken aback: a new clerk of such accomplishment that both the Admiral and the influential Richard Laughton were laying claim to his services, clearly indicated that it might be in his best interests .. . 'By all means, sir,' he stuttered.

  Laughton gave a polite inclination of his head and gestured to Renzi. 'This way, sir, if you please.'

  The gig ground on over the bright sandy road with Laughton himself at the reins, past endless bright-green cane-fields and black people on foot. Windmills and tropical dun-coloured buildings were the only disruptions to the monochrome green.

  'For the nonce, dear brother, I would ask that you do not claim me as kin — I will explain in due course,' Renzi said, a little too lightly.

  Richard glanced at him and nodded. 'If that is your wish, Nicholas,' he said neutrally, bringing the gig dextrously to the side of the road. They sat patiently as an ox train heavily laden with barrels of crude sugar for the coast approached in a dusty cloud, the yells and shrill whistles of the wagoners piercing the thunder of many wheels as they ground past. The overseer raised his whip respectfully in salute to Laughton; the handle was like a fishing rod and the rawhide tail all of seventy feet long.

  They resumed their journey, turning up a neat road lined with what looked like gigantic pineapples, blue, red and white convolvulus blooms entwined among them. 'Penguin hedge,' Laughton said, and when the road straightened to a line leading to a sprawling stately homestead, he added, 'and this is the Great House.'

  They approached between immaculate lawns, and Renzi saw the scale of the place, grand and dignified. A bare-legged ostler took the reins as they descended from the gig. Stone steps and an iron balustrade led to a broad veranda and the front doors.

  'Do ye wait for me a short time, Nicholas, and I shall show you the estate,' Laughton said, taking the steps two at a time. He pointed to a cane easy-chair as he strode inside, which Renzi politely accepted. Shortly afterwards Laughton emerged, now in a blue, square-cut coatee and hessian boots, and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat. They mounted the gig again and ground off.

  'Over nine hundred acres, an' four hundred to work it, quite sizeable - all sugar,' Laughton opened, with just a hint of pride. They passed a gang of field-workers trudging out to the cane-pieces: men, women, children. At Renzi's look he added, 'Each has his task, even the piccaninny — follows on behind and weeds the fields. Teaches 'em responsibility.'

  Reaching a cluster of out-houses, Renzi heard a loud rumble and creaking. Around the corner he saw the open, straw-covered busyness of a sugar mill. The rotating rollers were fed with cane stalks in a crashing, splintering chorus; the mill workers did not raise their eyes from feeding the cane into the maw of the rollers. A large axe with a glinting blade was hung on the mill frame. Laughton observed drily, 'Better a limb severed than being dragged into ...'

  It was a complex operation, a sugar estate, and Renzi's concentration wilted under a barrage of details: slaves gained skills ranging from fieldworker to muleteer, sawyer, driver, and varied in origin from 'salt-water slave' from Africa to infant born on the estate.

  The heat of the afternoon suggested they should return to the Great House, and they sank thankfully into the cane chairs on the veranda. Laughton heaved up his boots to rest them on the rail, and clapped his hands. 'Sangaree,' he ordered of the white-coated houseman.

  The breeze of the trade-winds was deliriously cool and Renzi relaxed. 'You have done well for yourself, dear Richard,' he said, looking at the rolling lands reaching to the horizon.

  'Thank you, Nicholas. It was Father gave me my step, as you know,' Laughton replied. He accepted his glass of sangaree, and glanced carefully at Renzi before he sipped the rosy liquid in wary silence. "The letter from home was scarce in details, brother,' he began softly. 'Said you had — disappeared after an argument with Papa.'

  That was paraphrasing truth indeed: the bull-headed obstinacy of Renzi's father to acknowledge any culpability in the ruination of ten families and the anguished suicide of the young hope of one was a direct contribution to his decision to take upon himself the moral obloquy of his family's act. 'Indeed so - but in truth, this is only the outworking of a decision I made .. .' He found it easier than he had feared: Richard was from the same mould as himself, strong-minded, obedient to logic, and sympathetic to firm resolve based on moral principles.

  Renzi finally ended: it had been said.

  His brother did not respond at first. Then he stood up, looking away, out over the estate. He turned, fixed Renzi with an intense look, and smiled. 'You were always one to show the rest of the world its duty,' he held out both hands, 'and I honour you for it'

  Another glass of sangaree was necessary before conversation could resume.

  Laughton's warm smile returned. 'Your name, if you will forgive the impertinence?'

  ‘Renzi? Why, nothing but an impenetrably obscure Italian of another age. He was unfashionable enough to value riches of the mind above that of the world, and I ... have grown used to it' He reached for the jug of sangaree and splashed more into his glass.

  'My dear fellow! But you have been a sailor on the bounding main all this time! You must have a tale to tell - or should that be a yam?'

  'It has been a life of some, er, variety,' agreed Renzi.

  'But the conditions! You were a common sailor and—'

  'And still am, brother.'

  A slight frown settled on Laughton's brow. 'Just so. Then how could you bear the incarceration and daily hazard? Pray tell - I'm interested.'

  Renzi smiled at Laughton's attempt to relate to his endurance. 'I bring to your recollection, brother, that this is the serving of a period of exile, and tolerability is not at question.' He paused, then stretched in his chair. 'However, I may tell you I have had adventures ashore and afloat around the world that will keep me warm in memories for ever. But, you will ask, what of the company, the common seaman, the brute beast of the field?'

  Renzi faced his brother. 'And I will answer truthfully that those who have not experienced the especial fellowship of the sea, the profound and never articulated feeling of man for his fellow, out there on the yardarm, at the cannon's mouth, deep in the ocean's realm, they cannot know mankind in all its imperfection yet heroism.' He gazed into the distance. 'There is time at sea to ease the mind, to contemplate infinite truths and consider in their intimate detail philosophies and axioms to complete satisfaction.'

  'You do not weary of the quality of your company?'

  'At times I — but I keep myself impervious, there are ways to remain apart,' Renzi said slowly, 'and I have a particular friend .. .' He tailed off, for with a rush came a vision of Kydd's face - strong and uncomplicated — which held both intelligence and humour. He continued huskily,'. .. but I regret he has met with - he is probably dead,' he finished suddenly.

  'I do sincerely mourn with you,' said Laughton softly. He busied himself with his glass and said, 'It would be an honour, brother, if you could sit at table with us tonight. We generally meet on this night, not in the formal way you understand, but to talk together, perhaps a cigar or pipe while we settle the business of the world.' His eyes flicked over Renzi's odd clerkly garb. 'And there is probably a stitch somewhere I could give you, should you feel the need to appear, er, inconspicuous,' he said lightly.

  * * *

  The cool night airs, which breezed freely through the double doors and on through the large airy rooms of the house, were agreeable to the guests as they sat down in the richly polished dining room.

  'Gilbert, might I present Mr Renzi, an acquaintance of mine from England? Nicholas, this is Gilbert Marston. He is owner of the estate that borders mine to the west.'

  Renzi inclined his head civilly at the stout gentle-man to
his left, noting the shrewd intelligence in his eyes.

  'Y'r duty,' the man said gruffly. 'In coffee, are ye?'

  'No, sir, alas, I am here to visit only,' Renzi said, leaning back to allow a vast dish to be placed on the table. 'I have my interests, er, in the country — England, that is.'

  'Ah.' Marston sniffed at the dish, strips of dried dark meat. 'Jerked hog. Y' got to hand it to the blackies, they c'n conjure a riot o' tastes.' Another vast tureen arrived. When the silver cover was removed it proved to be a mound of small, delicate fish. Yet another came: this was uncovered to loud acclamation. 'See here, Renzi,' said Marston, eyes agleam, 'this is y'r Jamaica dish royal - black crab pepperpot.'

  The conversation swelled happily. Renzi noticed his brother gazing at him down the table, thoughtful and concerned. His expression brightened when their eyes met and he called, 'You will require a quantity of wine with that pepperpot, m' friend. Allow me to prove we are not without the graces here in the Caribbean.'

  He nodded to a houseman, who in turn beckoned in a servant who pushed before him a neat cart. To his surprise Renzi saw that it seemed to be some sort of windmill, which the servant rotated carefully to catch the night zephyrs. 'A breeze-mill,' Marston confided. 'Damn useful.' Renzi saw that the mill drove a pump that kept up a continual circulation of water over bottles of wine in cotton bags, ranged together in a perforated tin trough. 'Saltpetre an' water - uncommon effective.' It was indeed: to taste chilled white wine in the tropical heat was nothing short of miraculous.

  Renzi caught a speculative look on the face of an officer in red regimentals. 'Have I seen you, sir?' the man said slowly. 'In Spanish Town, was it not?'

  Laughton put down his glass. 'That would be unlikely, sir. Renzi is heir to a particularly large estate in England. I rather fancy he would hardly have occasion to call upon the army.'

  The officer bowed, but continued to look at Renzi, sipping his wine thoughtfully.

  'I see Cuthbert has been broke,' Marston said to the table at large. 'All he had was ridin' in the Catherine brig, an' she was taken off Ocho Rios — less'n a day out.'

  A murmur of indignation went up. 'For shame! What is the navy about that it cannot keep our trade safe, not even a piddling little brig?'

  Marston bunched his fists. "There'll be many more ruined afore they stirs 'emselves,' he growled. 'Too interested in the Frenchie islands in the Antilles, all their force drawn off b' that.'

  Laughton frowned. 'Went to see the Admiral's office in Spanish Town the other day for some sort of satisfaction in the matter — but was fobbed off with some damn lickspittle clerk.'

  The conversations subsided as the table digested his words. An olive-complexioned man with curiously neat manners spoke into the quiet: 'In chambers they are saying that within the month insurance premiums will be out of reach of all but the grand estates ...'

  A heavy silence descended. To send a cargo of sugar to sea uninsured would mean instant ruination if it were taken. The turtle arrived, and Renzi nibbled at the tongue and crab patties, checking his impulse to comment on naval matters. Further down the table a grumbling voice picked up another thread. 'Trelawney maroons are getting fractious again.'

  Renzi gave a polite interrogatory look towards Marston, who took up the cue. 'Maroons, that's y'r runaway slaves up in the cockpit country, where we can't get at 'em. Damn-fool governor — about fifty odd years ago, gave in t' them, signed a treaty. They lives free in their own towns up there, doin' what they do, but that's not enough — they wants more.'

  'An infernal impertinence!' another burst out.

  'Wine with you, sir,' Marston exclaimed to Renzi. 'Your visit should not be damned by our moaning.' Renzi smiled and lifted his glass. Around the table, talk resumed: gossip, local politics, eccentricities. The barrister politely enquired of him London consol prices; fortunately, Renzi's recent devouring of the latest newspapers had left him able to comment sensibly.

  The claret gave way to Madeira, ginger sweetmeats and fruit jellies appeared, and chairs creaked as they accommodated the expansive relaxation of their occupants. The cloth was drawn and decanters placed on the table. 'Gentlemen, the King,' intoned Laughton.

  Chairs scraped as the diners scrambled unsteadily to their feet. "The King, God bless him!' The simple act of the loyal toast unexpectedly brought a constriction to Renzi's throat: it symbolised for him the warmth and good fellowship of the company to be had of his peers. A blue haze arose from several cigars and the talk grew animated; the evening proceeded to its end, and carriages were announced,

  'I wish you the sleep of the just, Nicholas!' Laughton joked as he stood with Renzi at the door of his bedroom. He hesitated a moment, then turned quietly and went.

  Renzi lay in the dark, the softness of the vast bed suffocating to one who had become accustomed to the neat severity of a sea-service hammock. He stared into the blackness, his thoughts rushing. It had caught him unawares, he had to admit, and even more, it had unbalanced him. The sight of his brother and the memories this brought of home, and above all the easy gaiety and reasoned conversation, all conspired against his high-minded resolution.

  He rolled on to his side. It was hard to sleep with the up-country night sounds - the long snore of a tree-toad outside the jalousie window, the chirr-chirr of some large insect, a non-stop humming compounded with random chirping, whistling and croaking. An insect fluttered in his hair. He swore, then remembered too late that it was usual to search the mosquito net for visitors first. A larger insect blundered around in the confines of the net and he flapped his arms to shoo it out, but felt its chitinous body squirming against his hand and threw aside the net in disgust.

  But then he recalled the usual method of dealing with giant scorpions dropping from above — hot wax from a candle: there was none lit, so he reluctantly draped the net again, and sank back into the goose down.

  There was no denying that he had enjoyed the evening — too much. And he could feel himself weakening. It would not take much for an active mind to rationalise a course of action that would release him from his self-imposed exile. Such as the fact that, with his dear friend no longer at hand to share his burden, it might be thought excessive durance; he would then be released, free even to join his brother in the plantation . ..

  Morning arrived. Renzi had slept little, but when he awoke he found that his brother was out on the estate. When he was ready he presented himself at the dining room. A tall black servant offered a chair and a small table outside on the veranda, obviously following Laughton's practice.

  A breakfast arrived — but nothing Renzi could recognise. 'Ah, dis callaloo an' green banana, sah,' he was advised by a worried buder. Renzi smiled weakly and set to. The coffee, however, was a revelation: flavoursome and strong without being bitter.

  As he was finishing, Laughton came into sight astride a stumpy but well-muscled pony. He slid to the ground and strode over to Renzi with an easy smile. 'Do I see you in good health?'

  Renzi had never shied from a decision in his life, and the moral strength to stand by its full consequence was deeply ingrained. 'Brother, may we talk?' he responded quietly.

  * * *

  It was done. Although he knew he had made the only decision possible, the resumption of his exile was hard, and time slipped by in a grey, dreary parade. The probability was that he would not visit his brother again: the contrast was so daunting.

  Day succeeded day in monotonous succession, the work not onerous, or demeaning but stultifying. While on one hand he would never need to turn out into a wild night, on the other he would not know the exhilaration of sailing on a bowline, the sudden rush of excitement at a strange sail, or touch at unknown and compelling foreign shores.

  After the morning's work there was already a respectable pile dealt with and ready for signature. He picked up the next paper: another routine report, a list of names and descriptions of new arrivals from somewhere or other available for local deployment. His eyes glazed: he would need to advise th
e appropriate departments separately for each individual, a lengthy task. Sighing, he put down the paper, then snatched it up again. It was impossible — but the evidence could not be denied. On the fifth row, in neat copperplate, was the name Thomas Paine Kydd.

  Feverishly, he scanned the line. Apparently a Thomas Paine Kydd, dockyard worker, was being transferred from the Royal Dockyard at English Harbour as surplus to requirements. The odds against two men with the same name being in the same part of the world must be colossal — but, then, this one was indisputably a dockyard worker. And probably a bad one at that. Renzi knew by now the code for offloading a useless article.

  On a mad impulse he stood up. He gathered together the pile of papers, hurried outside and found Jacobs. 'These are for signature, Mr Jacobs. I have been called away by Admiral Edgcumbe again’ he said, and hastened away. If he was quick, he could ride on the noon mail and be at the naval dockyard in an hour or two.

  Chapter 9

  The boat skimmed over the spacious harbour, on its way from Kingston town to the naval dockyard at the end of a seven-mile sandy spit of land, the Palisades. This was Port Royal, the notorious pirate lair that had been destroyed spectacularly by an earthquake a century before. But Renzi had no eyes for this curiosity. Furious with himself for his impulsive and unreasoned act, he was yet in a fever of expectation and hope that had no foundation in logic — just a single name on a piece of paper.

  He waited impatiently while the boat came alongside the wharf, then swung himself up and strode ashore. Ignoring the close-packed victualling storehouses, he followed the road through the sprawling ruins of the Polygon battery, the odd grey-flecked sand of the spit crunching loudly underfoot.

  As he passed the stinking pitch-house and the bedlam of the smith's shop he had no real idea how to find his quarry — the employment return had merely said that this man was a dockyard worker, no indication of what type. It would be useless to ask any of the dockyard men about a new arrival: no one would know him. Over there was a rickety row of negro houses — Renzi had found that, generally, sailors got on well with slaves so perhaps .. .