Seaflower: A Kydd Novel Page 19

  While the worried Cole tried to commit the words, Jarman turned to Kydd. ‘Now, what we have there is a great circle. Nobody sails a great circle – we only steer straight or th’ quartermaster-o’-the-watch would be vexed. What we really does is alter course a mort the same way once in a watch or so, an’ that way we c’n approximate y’r circle.’

  There was more, and unavoidably it needed books: Renzi took an immediate interest. ‘To snatch meaning from the celestial orb – to gather intelligence of our mortal striving from heavenly bodies of unimaginable distance and splendour. Now that is in pursuit of a philosophy so sublime . . .’

  With Hispaniola to larboard, they took a south-easterly slant across the width of the Caribbean, the trade winds comfortably abeam and, in accordance with Kydd’s shaky workings shadowing the real ones, raised the island of St Lucia and its passage through to the open Atlantic ocean. The Windward Island of Barbados lay beyond.

  Kydd’s shipmates accepted his privileged treatment with respect. He was one of their own, daring to reach for the one thing that set officers apart from seamen. It was a rare but not unknown thing for a foremast hand to take part in the noon reckoning, although in the usual way all officers’ results were brought together for consensus while those of lesser beings were ignored.

  The rule-of-thumb principles used in the real world, informed by Jarman’s utilitarian merchant service experience, Kydd absorbed readily enough – it was really only the looking up of tables. What was more difficult was the bodily technique of using the heavy old octant to shoot the sun against the exuberance of Seaflower’s sea motion. A combination of tucking in the left elbow, lowering the body to make the legs a pair of damping springs and leaning into it, and Kydd soon had the sun neatly brought down to the horizon with a sure swing of the arm.

  The underpinning of mathematics was beyond him, though. Renzi had the sense to refrain from pressing the issue. There would be time and more in the lazy dog-watches to make intellectual discoveries, and Kydd would benefit by the more relaxed explorations. Besides which, it was only the hapless Cole who was under pressure: he would take his qualifying examination for lieutenant within the year.

  Off Cape Moule to the south of the island the boatswain shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun on the calm blue seas – the wind had dropped to a fluky zephyr. ‘Have ye news of St Lucia, sir?’ he asked. The island changed hands with the regularity of a clock, and the green and brown slopes could now be hostile territory, around the point an enemy cruiser lurking.

  Farrell grunted, swinging his glass in a wide sweep over the hummocky island, across the glittering sea of the passage to the massive dark grey island of St Vincent just fifteen miles to the south. ‘I don’t think it signifies,’ he said finally. ‘We will be past and gone shortly.’

  In the light airs, Seaflower rippled ahead towards an offshore island and then the open sea. Kydd watched the course carefully: the tiny breeze was dropping and their progress slowed. The big foresail shivered and flapped, and the bow began to fall away. ‘Watch y’ head!’ he growled to the man at the tiller.

  ‘Can’t ’old ’er,’ the pigtailed seaman grunted, his thigh stolidly pressuring the tiller hard over.

  ‘We lost steerage way, sir,’ Kydd told Farrell. With the wind so light the heat clamped in, a clammy, all-pervasive breathlessness. Seaflower’s sails hung lifeless, idle movements in the odd cat’s-paw of breeze. Blocks clacked against the mast aimlessly and running rigging sagged. Kydd looked over the side. Without a wake the sea was glassy clear, and he could see deep down into the blue-green immensity, sunlight shafting down in cathedral-like coruscations.

  Jarman broke the dull silence. ‘We have a contrary current hereabouts, sir,’ he said heavily. Seaflower lay motionless in the calm – but the whole body of water was pressing inexorably into the Caribbean, carrying the vessel slowly but surely back whence she came. ‘’T would be one ’n’ a half, two knots.’ That was the speed of a man walking, and even within the short time they had lain becalmed they had slid back significantly against the land. A bare hour later they were back at the point where they had begun their passage.

  A few welcome puffs shook out the sails, died, then picked up again. A tiny chuckle of water at her forefoot and Seaflower resumed her course, heading once more for the offshore islet. Once more the fluky wind betrayed them, and they were carried back again. ‘T’ the south?’ asked the boatswain.

  ‘No,’ said Jarman, moodily watching the coast slip back. ‘Can’t beat to weather in this, an’ if we goes south we have t’ claw back t’ Barbados after.’ Unspoken was the knowledge that a French lookout post might be telegraphing their presence even now to Port Castries and any man-o’-war that lay there; any improvement in the wind later could bring a voracious enemy with it.

  A darkling shadow moving on the sea’s surface reached Seaflower, and the welcome coolness of a breeze touched Kydd’s face – and stayed constant. Again, the cutter moved into the passage but this time the land slipped by until they had made the open ocean and were set to pass the little islet. ‘I believe we may now bear away for Barbados,’ Farrell said, with satisfaction, but his words were overlaid by an urgent shout from the crosstrees.

  ‘Saaail hoooo!’ There was no need for a bearing. By chance occluded by the islet at the same rate as their advance, the sails of a square-rigger slid into view, heading to cross their path.

  ‘Brig-o’-war!’ snarled Merrick. There would be little chance against such a vessel and, with the wind gathering, the further they made the open sea, it favoured the larger craft.

  Farrell’s telescope went up and steadied. ‘I think not, Mr Merrick – to quarters this minute.’

  But the merchant brig was not ready for a fight and struck immediately – to the savage delight of Seaflower’s company. They entered Bridgetown with a prize in tow, sweet medicine indeed.

  To muted grumbles Seaflower was ordered to sea immediately: the niceties of adjudicating shares in prize money between the Admiral whose flag Seaflower wore and the Admiral in whose waters the capture took place would have to be resolved before the sailors saw any, and in any case the Vice Admiralty Court would have to sit first.

  As they put to sea again after storing, busy calculations were taking place in a hypothetical but blissful review of personal wealth. ‘Merchantmen – so we don’ see head money,’ Petit grumbled.

  Farthing pulled up a cask to sit on. ‘An’ gun money neither.’

  Kydd arrived down the hatchway and joined in. ‘Ye’re forgettin’ that a merchant packet has cargo – that’s t’ be included, y’ loobies.’ Gun money and head money were inducements to take on an enemy man-o’-war but the value of a merchant-ship cargo would normally far exceed it.

  He paused for effect. ‘D’ye know, we return to Port Royal, but if we fall in wi’ the Corbeau privateer, we’re t’ take her?’ As a privateer counted as neither a merchant ship nor a man-o’-war, there was no real profit in an action; and even if they did encounter her, a privateer was crammed with men and would make a fierce opponent. ‘Could never meet up wi’ her, y’ never knows,’ Kydd said cheerfully, collecting his rain slick and going back on deck. It was a maddening combination of sun and sheeting rain, and Farrell would be on deck shortly to set the course.

  Seaflower now sported a pair of chase guns in her bow – and carriage guns at that instead of the swivels of before. Admittedly they were four-pounders only, but a three-inch ball slamming in across the quarterdeck could cause real discomfiture in a quarry. Stirk was eager to try them, but they were crammed in the triangle of bow forward of the windlass and the bowsprit beside. His gun crews could not rely on the usual recoil to bring the gun inboard for loading; they must reload by leaning outside, exposing themselves to enemy sharp-shooters.

  ‘Know anythin’ about this Corbeau?’ Kydd asked Stirk.

  He straightened from his gun and wiped his mouth. ‘Patch says as how she’s a schooner – not yer squiddy trader, but a big basta
rd, eight ports a side. Guess at least six-pounders, hunnerd men – who knows?’

  Farrell, appearing on deck, put an end to the speculation. ‘Mr Jarman. Be so good as to shape course north-about St Lucia.’

  ‘North-about, sir?’ repeated Jarman in puzzlement.

  ‘Please,’ said Farrell, with some asperity.

  ‘He’s chasin’ the privateer ’cos he’s worried she won’t find us,’ croaked the helmsman, out of the side of his mouth; north-about would place them between St Lucia and the large island of Martinique, a favourite stalking ground for the more lawless afloat.

  They reached the southern end of Martinique in the midst of another rain squall, curtains of white advancing over the sea under low grey skies, the wind suddenly blustery and fitful while it passed.

  Afterwards there were the usual wet and shining decks as they emerged into bright sunlight – but crossing their path directly ahead was a schooner. A big vessel, one that could well mount sixteen guns and carry a hundred men. She instantly put up her helm and went about, slashing directly towards Seaflower as if expecting her presence, her fore-and-aft rig robbing the navy craft of the best advantage, her superior manoeuvrability.

  ‘Hard a’ larb’d!’ Farrell cracked out; they were sheering off not to retreat, but to gain time. The schooner followed downwind in their wake, her two lofty masts allowing nearly twice the sail of Seaflower.

  There would be no stately prelude to war, no pretence at false colours: the two antagonists would throw themselves at each other without pause or pity. Aboard Seaflower there was no fife and drummer sounding ‘Hearts of Oak’, no hammocks in the nettings, no marines drawn up on the poop. Instead there were men running to whip off the lead aprons from gunlocks, and gun equipment was rushed up from below: rammers, handspikes, crows, match tubs. Tompions protecting the bore of the cannon were snatched away and Seaflower’s full deck of six-pounders were run out.

  Farrell waited, then turned Seaflower on her pursuer. Right around she swung – her broadside crashed out into the teeth of her foe, the smoke swiftly carried away downwind, leaving a clear field of fire for her chase guns, which cracked out viciously in a double fire.

  First blood to Seaflower, thought Kydd exultantly, as he centred the tiller. It was, however, a new and unpleasant experience, standing unmoving at the helm, knowing that he was certainly a target for unknown marksmen on the schooner. He glanced at the vessel: there were now holes in her sails, but no lasting damage that he could see.

  Seaflower completed her turn, her other side of guns coming to bear, but the schooner was already surging round to bring her own guns on target – the two ships opened up almost simultaneously. Kydd heard the savage, tearing passage of cannon balls and was momentarily staggered by the displaced wind of a near miss. Through his feet he felt the bodily thud of a shot in the hull, the sound of its strike a crunch as of a giant axe in wood.

  The smoke cleared. The schooner, certainly the Corbeau, was racing along on the opposite tack to Seaflower, her outer jib flapping free where the sheets must have been shot away. Her decks were crowded with men.

  Farrell reacted instantly. ‘Hard a’-starb’d!’ he ordered. They would stay about and parallel the schooner – but Corbeau was there out to windward, she had the weather gauge, she could dictate the terms of the fight. Firing was now general, guns banging up and down the deck, smothering gunsmoke blown down on them, obscuring points of aim. Seaflower’s own guns were served with a manic ferocity.

  ‘It’s a poundin’ match,’ shouted the boatswain to Farrell.

  ‘Better that than let those murdering knaves board us,’ Farrell replied coolly, lifting his telescope once more.

  Kydd could see little of Corbeau a few hundred yards to weather, but could feel the injury she was doing to Seaflower. He worried about Renzi, gun-captain of one of the forward six-pounders. If it came to repelling boarders he would be with the first of the defenders, probably going down under the weight of greater numbers. But if––

  A sudden shudder and simultaneous twanging from close by made Kydd grip the tiller convulsively. The cause was ahead of him – there, the weather running backstay had taken a ball and was now unstranding in a frenzied whirl. Kydd instantly threw the helm hard over, sending Seaflower down before the wind.

  Farrell saw what had happened and rapped out orders to ease away sheets to conform to the change in direction. The running backstays were vital sinews in taking the prodigious strain of Seaflower’s oversize mainsail without which the mainmast would certainly carry away with the asymmetric forces playing on it. The stay now had some relief – but for how long? ‘Mr Merrick––’ But the boatswain was already calling for a rigging stopper, shading his eyes and gazing up to where the final strand was giving way. The lower part of the stay fell, its blocks clattering to the deck, leaving the upper length to stream freely to leeward.

  Corbeau had been caught unawares, but now fell in astern in pursuit, the sudden silence of the guns from her bow-on angle allowing the victorious yelling of the enemy seamen to come clearly across the water.

  The fighting stopper, a tackle with two tails, would be applied to each side of Seaflower’s wound, drawing the stay together again to be tautened by heaving on the tackle, but so high was the wound that someone would have to climb to the ratlines in the face of the storm of shot and musketry. Merrick took the hank of rope and blocks, the lengths of seizing, and without pausing draped them around his neck and swung up into the shrouds.

  ‘Sir.’ Jarman was pointing to the little islet not a quarter of a mile ahead: he seemed to be suggesting some sort of hide-and-seek around the island.

  Farrell stroked his chin. ‘One hand forward,’ he said, common prudence with coral about, ‘and we’ll keep in with the island until we are to leeward, then . . .’

  Kydd eased the tiller, snatching a glance astern. The schooner thankfully had no chase guns, but she was clapping on every stitch of sail and was gradually closing on Seaflower.

  Jarman went forward with the lookout, staring intently into the water ahead, and indicated to Kydd with his arm where they should go. Musket balls occasionally hissed past, and one slapped into the transom, but the real danger would be when Corbeau reached and overhauled them. With the size of her crew, aroused to an ugly pitch, the privateer would be merciless.

  Kydd clamped his eyes on Jarman. They were up to the island, and now began to round its undistinguished tip.

  The schooner must have sensed their desperation, for she continued to crowd on sail, her crew clearly visible on her fo’c’sle, the glitter of edged weapons catching the sun as they waved them triumphantly.

  ‘She’s slowing!’ Farrell’s incredulous gasp came. ‘She’s – she’s taken the ground! Corbeau’s ashore!’

  Kydd snatched a look over his shoulder. Corbeau was untouched, motionless on the course she had taken. She had misjudged the offshore reefs and her deeper keel had become firmly wedged among the coral heads.

  Seaflower curved round, but Corbeau lay unmoving.

  ‘God be praised – we get t’ live another day!’ muttered a voice.

  An angry shout sounded from above. Merrick had passed the seizing on the upper length of the stay, and was demanding the rest to be hauled up to him. They had the luxury of dowsing sail while the operation was completed, Corbeau a diminishing image in the distance. The jury stay rigged, they could then beat a dignified retreat.

  ‘Ready about,’ ordered Farrell. ‘We finish the job,’ he said firmly. They carefully returned on a track that kept the bow of the schooner towards them. He hailed Stirk. ‘Grape.’

  Seaflower shortened sail to glide in within a hundred yards, then put up the helm and let go the stream anchor forward and kedge anchor aft. They came to a standstill, but were now in a position to adjust cables to aim her entire broadside to bear on the unprotected length of the big schooner.

  With terrible deliberation Stirk went from one gun to the next, sighting carefully and touching off
an unstoppable blast of man-killing grape-shot into the hapless vessel. It took until the third gun before activity was seen in the Corbeau – they were launching their longboat.

  ‘That will do, Stirk,’ Farrell called. Kydd was struck with Farrell’s humanity in allowing the enemy to abandon ship without unnecessary killing, and felt ashamed of his own blood-lust.

  ‘Give y’ joy on y’r prize, sir!’ Jarman said, with considerable respect.

  ‘Renzi!’ Seaflower’s captain ordered. ‘The longboat – do ye take possession of our prize.’

  Grinning, Kydd watched Renzi climb into the longboat with his crew, but they were only half-way across when the first wisps of smoke arose. The boat’s crew lay on their oars and watched blue smoke bursting into flame as tarry ropes caught, spreading the consuming blaze to the upper rigging. A crackling, bursting firestorm turned the schooner into an inferno, the shape of her hull only just perceptible in the flames. The climax came when first her foremast and then her main crashed down in a gout of sparks and the rapidly charring ruin forlornly settled to the reef. Corbeau’s crew watched silently, lined along the shoreline. They were still there when Seaflower brought her longboat aboard and sailed away.

  ‘Barbados?’ asked Jarman. They had been cut about; it stood to reason they refit.

  The beady eyes of Snead, the carpenter’s mate, announced his presence on deck. ‘Sir,’ he said, touching his shapeless felt hat, ‘we’ve taken a ball in midships, an’ takin’ in water.’ The clinker build of Seaflower’s hull was proving its worth – the strake where the ball had entered would need replacing but the rest were sound.

  ‘How bad?’ Farrell asked.

  ‘Can swim a-whiles,’ said Snead, ‘but she can’t take a blow.’