Seaflower: A Kydd Novel Read online

  ‘Dockyard,’ said Merrick.

  Snead looked at him and nodded.

  Jarman turned to Farrell. ‘Antego,’ he said, without hesitation.

  ‘Antigua – a couple of days only, thank the Lord,’ said Farrell, but Kydd flinched. Of all places . . .

  Chapter 11

  English Harbour shimmered under the noon-day heat: it was quite the same as Kydd remembered – the beauty, the rank effluvia, the calm solidity of spacious stone buildings. Here it was that he had nearly ended his existence on earth, here it was . . .

  Seaflower came to anchor a few hundred yards off. There were hardly any ships in harbour, only a small sloop alongside at the capstan house without her upper masts. Signal flags mounted Seaflower’s main topgallant peak. Kydd knew what they were asking and determined to be elsewhere when Caird came aboard for his survey.

  Uncaring of the still, clammy heat building below decks in the absence of a clean sea-breeze, the boatswain ordered the platforms in the crew space overlaying the hold taken up. Kydd as quartermaster had the task of re-stowing their stores – firkins of butter, barrels of salt beef, hogsheads of water – over to one side of Seaflower in order that the damaged strake could be lifted clear for repair.

  When the master shipwright made his survey, unaccountably the cutter’s quartermaster was not free to accompany him, but from his busy job shuffling the master’s charts, Kydd was able to hear through the skylight. ‘A strake ’twixt wind and water – a trifling matter,’ came Caird’s voice. ‘As we have so few to care for at this time, my party will attend on you presently.’

  Indistinct words came from Farrell, and Caird replied, ‘No, I do not believe that is necessary. Our riggers will perform the task. We have skilled hands among the King’s Negroes, you’ll find.’

  A bumping on the hull told Kydd that the dockyard boat was putting off. He waited a little before coming on deck. The shipwright’s punt would be making its way out soon, and there were some he would welcome to see again, but in no circumstances would he venture ashore.

  Farrell did not go ashore either. Curiously, Kydd saw him in the shade of the after awning, his attention seeming to be on the nondescript sloop tied up off the capstan house. Farthing said quietly, ‘Old ships! That’s Patelle, it’s fr’m her that he got his step, cap’n o’ Seaflower.’

  A distant boom sounded – Kydd looked automatically to Shirley Heights, the army post high up on the point. Smoke eddied away: strange sail had apparently been sighted far out to sea. Signal flags appeared, and were answered in the dockyard. Minutes later a boat under sail left the shore and headed directly for them. Kydd hoped that it wasn’t a French squadron out there: English Harbour was particularly helpless now with only one warship – their own – available to meet them.

  ‘Four strange sail sighted!’ hailed a seaman in the boat, ‘an’ Patelle unable ter shift!’

  Farrell stiffened. ‘Secure the vessel, Mr Merrick,’ he rapped. ‘Do you and Mr Jarman remain aboard – I am going ashore. Stirk, you and Kydd attend on me in the longboat.’

  Reappearing in full uniform, Farrell saw Kydd and Stirk in their comfortable loose shirts and snapped, ‘Jackets, at the least, please!’

  They tumbled down the hatchway and Kydd grabbed at his blue jacket with the brass buttons that marked him a petty officer. ‘What d’ye think, Toby?’ Kydd asked, slipping it on.

  ‘Dunno,’ Stirk said flatly, and they bounded up the ladderway.

  Farrell took the tiller and they rapidly pulled ashore, the bowman hooking on at the stone steps while they landed. It was close by, the Admiral’s House, but the absence of the appropriate flag showed it had no occupant. Mounting the steps in a hurry, Farrell bumped into a clerk. ‘Who is the senior officer?’

  Eyebrows lifting in astonishment, the clerk replied, ‘The commissioner is with Captain Mingley in St John’s at the moment – sir.’

  ‘Then, sir, who is in command, may I ask?’

  The clerk paused, as if to take his measure. ‘Sir, in the absence of Captain Mingley that would necessarily be the senior officer afloat.’

  ‘Is Captain Fox still with the Patelle?’

  ‘He is at St John’s at the same court-martial.’

  ‘Then who is in command?’

  ‘Patelle is under the temporary command of one of her lieutenants.’

  Farrell, followed by the clerk, entered an anteroom on the ground floor, and glanced about. ‘I shall set up headquarters here. Desire the Shirley Heights garrison to send an officer to attend me here for an immediate council-of-war.’

  The clerk looked affronted but, at Stirk’s grim look, quickly left. A sergeant of marines shortly appeared and gave a crashing salute. ‘Sah!’ With his local knowledge, Kydd helped to pull things together, and within the hour a captain of the Royal Scots Fusiliers was in respectful attendance.

  Meanwhile, Farrell had the marine messenger busy with orders: ‘To the officer commanding, Shirley Heights: “It would be of some service to me should you see fit to begin heating shot as of this moment.” ’ Guns mounted on the commanding heights above the harbour could send red-hot shot among invading ships.

  ‘My compliments to the commander of Patelle and he is to send her longboat, mounted with a swivel, to lie at grapnel in the entrance to the harbour.’

  There was a small number of marines, less the usual number of sick, but the army was in some strength in forts at Shirley Heights and Blockhouse Hill. Barracks at Monks Hill and The Ridge held an unknown number of soldiers, depending on how many had fallen victims to the yellow fever. Would it be enough?

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant?’ Farrell looked up from his desk. The man looked ill at ease. Farrell frowned. ‘What is it, man?’

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Farrell impatiently. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Sah, Lieutenant Powell o’ the Patelle says – er, L’tenant Powell tol’ me that ’e’s unable ter comply with y’r orders, sah!’

  Farrell rocked back in his chair. ‘Do I understand you to say that Lieutenant Powell is unable to send his ship’s boat out?’

  The sergeant hesitated. ‘Er, it’s like this, sah. L’tenant Powell says as ’ow he, er, don’t recognise yer orders, like.’

  Everyone in the room froze. The dockyard clock ticked heavily.

  ‘Where is the officer now?’ Farrell asked finally.

  The sergeant, still rigidly at attention, said tightly, ‘Don’t rightly know, sah.’

  Farrell opened his mouth, but Kydd broke in, ‘You mean t’ say he’s in the capstan house, do ye not?’

  The sergeant’s eyes swivelled to Kydd. ‘Could be.’

  Kydd went on carefully, ‘Sir, seems th’ l’tenant is enjoyin’ an evenin’ jug, didn’t quite understan’ y’r orders.’

  Farrell gave a wintry smile. ‘As it happens, I know Mr Powell.’ The smile vanished. ‘Send word to the master of Patelle that Lieutenant Powell is to be confined to his cabin immediately.’ The sergeant saluted and left hastily.

  Stirk looked meaningfully at Kydd but said nothing.

  Another languid sunset was on its way, but there was tension in the air. ‘Have my orders been carried out?’ Farrell demanded. The unknown four sail at last sighting were lying becalmed fifteen miles away; the focus of attention was now narrowing to this vexing insubordination.

  ‘Oi!’ Outside, the sergeant of marines beckoned furiously to Kydd. ‘Yer L’tenant Powell – y’ knows about ’im an’ Farrell?’

  ‘No?’ said Kydd guardedly.

  The sergeant pursed his lips. ‘Well, see, they was both lootenants in Patelle t’gether, but hated each other’s guts somethin’ wicked. Now, I got a bad feelin’ about this, I has, goin’ to end in no good a-tall fer anyone.’

  Kydd looked at the sergeant intently. ‘Is Powell confin’d?’

  ‘No. See – it’s the sailin’ master he’s bin drinkin’ with,’ he added, ‘an’ now, well, yer Jack Tars are gettin’ upset at t
heir cap’n being taken in charge like, an––’

  One of the dockyard men approached with a strange expression. ‘Ye’d better give this t’ yer officer, lads,’ he said, holding out a document.

  Kydd took it. It was written orders for the disposition of soldiers to the dockyard, and it was signed, ‘Powell, Lieutenant, Royal Navy, Senior Officer of ships in English Harbour for the time being’.

  ‘Sergeant!’ shouted Farrell, from inside. ‘Has Lieutenant Powell been confined in accordance with my orders?’

  Kydd entered, and touched his hat to Farrell. ‘No, sir, an’ I think you should see this.’

  Farrell read it, and stood, his face white. ‘Sir,’ he said to the army captain, ‘you will oblige me by taking a file of six soldiers and placing Lieutenant Powell under arrest.’ The captain, barely managing a salute, collected his shako and made to leave. ‘And, Kydd,’ added Farrell, ‘please to accompany him, in the event he goes aboard a ship.’

  Outside in the gathering dusk, Kydd watched while the army officer formed the men into line, then had them crashing to an ‘order arms’, then ‘shoulder arms’. The word was getting out, and figures were beginning to emerge from buildings to line the roadway.

  ‘Into file – right tuuurrn! By the right – quick maaarrrch!’

  Kydd fell in behind the officer, but felt a fool, tagging along behind the quick-stepping soldiers. The little party wound along the roadway, Kydd feeling every eye on him. Chattering died away as they approached. They turned the final corner to the flat coral-stone area between the capstan house and the ship alongside. Spectators crowded around the capstan house, but the space was left clear as though it were an arena for some future duel. Along the deckline of Patelle her ship’s company crowded and there was an ugly buzz of talk shot through with angry shouts.

  ‘Partyyyy – halt!’ The redcoats clashed to a standstill.

  There were two gangways from Patelle to the stone landing, one forward for the men, one aft for the officers. Kydd indicated the after brow to the army captain. But before he could proceed, a man who looked very like a boatswain stormed down in hot confrontation. ‘Damn y’r blood, but I know why ye’re here,’ he said, ‘and ye can’t have him!’ Behind him hostile eyes glared in the sombre gloom. Lanthorns were brought and hooked into the rigging, their light casting a theatrical glow over events.

  ‘In the name of His Majesty, I order you to yield the person––’

  Furious, but indistinct shouting sounded from inboard. It brought an immediate answering roar from the seamen on deck, and a sudden burst of activity.

  ‘Fall back on the redcoats,’ the army officer said breathlessly to Kydd, and hurried to stand next to the stolid file of soldiers. From the forward brow the ship’s company of Patelle poured forth armed with boarding weapons – naked cutlasses, boarding pikes and tomahawks.

  Kydd stood firm, but a feral terror of the pack dug into his mind as the angry seamen surged about them. Bystanders scattered, then formed a cautious semicircle around the fray. By a trick of the light, Kydd caught sight of Juba in the crowd of onlookers, motionless, arms folded. He wondered for a moment if he should appeal for help – then thought of what it might mean if he were denied.

  The seamen surrounded the party, and began jostling, thumping with the heel of their cutlasses, hoarse cries urging the soldiers to run away. One toppled forward under a blow. The army officer swung round and ordered shrilly, ‘Load with ball!’ At the cry, the crowd began to scatter in disorder. The sailors spread out and hefted their weapons. If the soldiers opened fire they would be instantly set upon. But Kydd knew that the soldiers would do their duty without question. The end was therefore inevitable, and the shouts and cries died away into a breathless silence as all waited for the final spark.

  Distantly, the sound of the measured tramp of menat-arms sounded. It swelled, and a column of marines appeared. At its head was Farrell, in full uniform. The men came to a halt and Farrell strode purposefully to the centre. ‘Where is Lieutenant Powell?’ he demanded.

  The sailors fell back, unsure.

  ‘If by that you mean your superior officer, I am here,’ came a strong, resonant voice at the head of the brow. A short but well-built man in loose shirt and breeches came down. His face was robust but lined, the marks of hard drinking on him.

  As the two men met, the others fell back.

  ‘You have your orders, sir, why do you not comply?’ Farrell snapped.

  ‘Because – because you know well enough, damn you, Charles!’

  Farrell’s tone hardened. ‘You are under arrest––’

  ‘Poppycock! You know as well as the whole world that you are junior on the lieutenants’ list to me, and therefore I am your superior officer.’ Powell squared away. ‘And now you do take my orders or . . .’

  Kydd was appalled. By the immutable rule of the navy, the lieutenant whose date of commission was even a day earlier was automatically the senior officer. It even applied to admirals, and Powell’s claim appeared to be legitimate.

  Farrell’s eyes flicked to the mass of silent seamen: Powell caught the look and snarled, ‘I have only to say the word, and these good men will sweep away your––’

  ‘You’d shed good blood in such a cause?’ Farrell exclaimed in astonishment, then stiffened. ‘I am your superior officer because I hold the King’s commission as commander of a King’s ship. You are acting commander only. Now, are you prepared to obey orders?’

  Powell folded his arms. ‘No. You are in contempt of naval law, sir.’

  Kydd tensed. All it needed was for Powell to shout an order and the stones would be drenched in blood. Farrell did not pause. ‘Your pistol, sir,’ he asked of the army officer, never taking his eyes from Powell. The captain fumbled at his slung leather pouch and handed over the heavy weapon. Farrell took the pistol and cocked it, aiming at the ground.

  ‘Do you now comply with my orders, sir?’ he asked, in an icy monotone.

  ‘If you seek to affright me, sir, you have failed.’

  The pistol came up, the dark cavity of the muzzle directly on Powell’s chest. ‘For the final time, sir. Lieutenant Powell, do you accept my authority and obey my orders – in peril of your life?’

  Both men stood rigid.

  ‘You wouldn’t fire, Charles! That would be––’

  ‘Sir?’ demanded Farrell in a steely hiss.

  ‘Since you ask. No!’

  The pistol blasted out, the ball taking Powell squarely in the chest, a sudden crash of sound in the awful stillness. It filled the air with a hanging cloud of gunsmoke, and flung Powell back in a limp huddle. Nobody moved, all held motionless by the horror of the moment.

  Farrell lowered the pistol. He turned to the army captain. ‘Sir, I surrender myself to you as senior officer and consider myself under open arrest.’

  The soldier’s hands were shaking as he tried to make deprecating gestures.

  Farrell’s face was set, controlled. ‘I do demand a court-martial on my conduct at the earliest moment.’

  Seaflower did not rate a coxswain, and Captain Farrell chose Kydd as his personal attendant in his subsequent trial in St John’s. Kydd was thus witness to the solemn spectacle of a court-martial, and was present as his captain returned to the room – to see his sword on the table, hilt towards. The court had unanimously ruled that Farrell’s conduct was justifiable in the face of Lieutenant Powell’s actions, which amounted to mutiny, and Lieutenant Farrell was most honourably acquitted.

  ‘An’ when the president o’ the court says the words, his face didn’t change one whit,’ said Kydd, to the throng in the crew space. ‘Jus’ bows ’n’ thanks ’em all, cool as you please.’ He had been impressed by Farrell’s bearing, his calm replies to barely disguised needling about his earlier relationship with Powell as lieutenants in the same ship – and, equally, his return to Seaflower. In his place Kydd thought that he would perhaps have celebrated a trifle, but that was not Farrell’s way.

  W
ithout delay, they put to sea, newly repaired and bound for Port Royal. As Kydd pulled out the charts to exercise plotting a route, Jarman smiled and said, ‘Well, how’s y’r Danish, then?’ Taken aback Kydd didn’t know what to say. Jarman tapped at the chart. ‘First island you comes to after weatherin’ St Kitts,’ he said, ‘St Croy, Danish these forty years, very peaceable, but Cap’n wants t’ call on ’em f’r some reason.’

  There was a growing friendliness between them, and Kydd benefited in the learning of his sea craft. Jarman’s plain-thinking explanations were the rock on which he was able later to elaborate the whys from the hows and give body to his knowledge. It touched Kydd’s imagination, this reduction to human understanding of the inscrutable vast restlessness that was the sea; to be able to bring a world into compass on a single chart, the legendary sights he had seen on foreign shores all rendered tactile and biddable to the will of man.

  ‘When I learned m’ figurin’ it was always the three Ls, “lead, latitude ’n’ lookout”, an’ no more,’ Jarman told him. ‘An’ that is not t’ say they should be cast aside these modern times. But now we just adds a fourth – longitude.’

  Longitude . . . The deep respect Jarman accorded the two chronometers gave Kydd a feeling for what a fearsome thing sea life must once have been. No sure knowledge of their place in the trackless wastes of ocean, a starless night, a rocky coast – and it might be sudden death in the darkness. The gleaming brass and enamel devices were a true miracle of man’s achieving. Now when it became local noon and the sun’s altitude was taken, he knew for a certainty that in Guildford, if he could transport there instantly, the big old clock overhanging the high street would be solemnly showing four o’clock in the afternoon.

  They raised the island of St Croix late in the afternoon, a low grassy seaside so much like parts of Cornwall as to be astonishing. This transformed into the usual lush rainforests further along, but the helm was put up, and they came to anchor to seaward of an island to the north-east. ‘We approach Christiansted in the full light o’ day,’ Farrell said. It was prudent: the Danes were a proud nation and touchy of their honour. They were neutral, but could throw in their lot with the Jacobins at any time.