Seaflower (17 page)

Caird
took his position in the pulpit, looking stern and majestic. His voice boomed
out 'Psalm eighty-four, the eleventh verse: "The Lord God is a sun and
shield; the Lord God will give the grace and glory; no good thing will he
withhold from them that walk uprightly."' A warm roar of approbation and
shrill cries of 'Hallelujah, Lord!' resounded, and the first hymn was announced:
'And Are We Yet Alive!'. It was sung with true feeling, in joyous
counter-harmony.

As
she sang, Beatrice's pale face under the muslin bonnet was pink with animation,
her grey eyes sparkling as she glanced at Kydd. The hymn, despite the
outlandish setting, brought back memories of Sundays in Guildford. His mother
in her best clothes, he in his once-a-week coat and breeches next to his
father. Kydd recalled staring dully at dust-motes held unstirring in shafts of
sunlight coming from the freedom of the outside world into the utterly still
church.

"That
was well, Thomas. It is our pleasure to invite you to our Sunday dinner, should
you be at leisure.' Caird had preached powerfully: his sermon was strong on
duty, obedience, law and sin but sparing in the matter of joy.

The
Sunday roast would not have shamed his mother's table, even if the potatoes had
a subtly alien bitterness, the beef a certain dark sweetness. Once again
opposite Beatrice, he tried to engage her in conversation. 'Thumpin' good
singing, th' negroes,' he said hesitantly. Beatrice flicked a glance at him,
but quickly lowered her eyes.

Caird
interjected. 'They do so take joy in entering into the House of the Lord,' he said.
'Should an assembly in England take such a joy it would be gratifying.'

Kydd
had been impressed with their spirit: his King's Negroes in comparison to those
he had seen today were morose. Should he not be perceiving their better parts,
appeal to their spirit? 'Y'r pardon, but I can't sort of
...
can't get close to 'em, if you know what I say
..
.'

'Your
concern does you credit, sir, and therefore I will speak directly.' Caird
dabbed his lips and put down his napkin. 'It is easy for us to feel sorry for
the negro, his condition, his lot in life, but we must not believe that in this
way we are helping him.'

Kydd
nodded, not really understanding.

'You
will nevertheless find that I am the sworn enemy of any who ill-abuse their
black people, who grind them to the dust and then discard them.' He fixed Kydd
with a look of such fire that Kydd was forced to look down meekly at the
tablecloth.

'But,
Thomas, in my heart I cannot pretend that they are of the same blood as you or
I — they are not!'

Kydd
looked up in puzzlement.

'The
Good Book itself tells us that they are an accursed people. Genesis, chapter
the ninth, tells how Noah placed a curse on his son Ham and all his seed. From
that day to this the black man is placed into subjection.

'And
scientifical studies do show this: Edward Long, a vile, ranting fellow,
nevertheless forces us to confront the fact that they are really another
species of man, lacking vital parts that give us judgement and moral
sensibility. Merely look upon them - they are not of our kind.'

Kydd
sat silent.

'Therefore,
my friend, you really should not look to their natures for the finer feelings.
They are not possessed of any.' Caird looked down, then raised his face with a
gentle, noble expression. 'For this it is my life's work to minister to them,
to help them understand and be content in their duty and place in the world, to
bear their burdens in patience and through God's Grace to aspire to His
Kingdom.'

'Amen!'
breathed Beatrice.

It
made things much clearer. If they were a debased form of mankind, of course he
was wrong to expect much in the way of feelings. But something still niggled.
'An' is slavery right?' Kydd asked stubbornly.

Caird
looked at him fondly. 'It does seem hard, but you must understand that they
need direction, discipline, to control the brutality that lies beneath. Slavery
is a mercy. It provides a strong framework in which they may learn to curb
their natures.' He paused and looked at Kydd directly. 'It is not the slavery
which is evil, it is the manner in which some do enforce it.'

There
was time to spare the following forenoon. The Blanche frigate was due in for
repair, following a spectacular action against a heavier French frigate off
Guadeloupe. Rumours flew about that her captain had been killed. Kydd was keen
to hear the full story, remembering his own desperate battle in Artemis.

Blanche
was delayed, so Kydd stood down his
crew. Over at the boat-house, with Caird away in his office, he had nothing to
do but watch the shipwrights at work. The craftsmen in the boat-house filled
the space with the sound of their labour: the oddly musical thonk of a maul,
the regular hiss of the try plane, the clatter of dropped planks. Steam
billowed suddenly from a long chest, and a shipwright gingerly extracted a steaming
plank, carrying it to a half-clad boat. Another took one end and they eased it
around the tight curve of the bow, faying it to the plank below. Kydd could see
that they were fitting it to at least three curves simultaneously — by eye
alone.

All
along the open side of the boat-house a spar rested on trestles, and Kydd
marvelled at the mystery of mast-making: how was it possible to create a
perfectly straight, perfectly round spar from a rough-hewn length of timber? It
was all done by eye alone again, he noted. A straight-edged batten was nailed
horizontally to one end; a pair of shipwrights worked together, and another
batten was fixed the other end, sighted by eye to exactly the same level. Then
mast-axe and adze were plied skilfully to produce a flat surface the whole
length. Another pair of battens produced a flat opposite. By the time they
progressed to the octagonal they had a true, workable approximation to a round.
Kydd shook his head in wonder.

A
sudden shout came from outside. Kydd ducked out and saw pointing arms. The
Blanche
had arrived. All work ceased, and men poured out to
see the spectacle.

'See
there, mates!' one man said, pointing out of the harbour to Freeman's Bay,
where the broken masts of a substantial ship showed above the low-lying point
of land. 'She has a thunderin' good prize!'

As
Blanche
came to anchor opposite, Kydd could
see that she was sorely battered - a stump of mizzen, not much more of her
mainmast. As she slowly swung to her anchor the stern came into view, blasted
into gaping holes. The excited shouting died away at the sight, particularly at
her huge battle ensign still floating from her foremast, but only half-way up.

Caird
strode down from the direction of his office. 'Where is your crew, Kydd? And
I'll need you two
..
.' he pointed to
two shipwrights working in the boat-house
'..
. and the blue cutter in the water directly.'

With
a chest of tools and the men, the cutter was crowded, but Kydd relished his
luck in being able to see things at first-hand. He squinted under the
loose-footed mainsail as
Blanche
grew nearer, and saw the frightful wounds of war:
her sails were torn with holes, her sides pocked and battered by shot.

Caird
led the way up the side of the frigate to the upper deck where they took in the
results of a harrowing long-drawn-out grappling, a trial of fire that had tried
her ship's company to the very limit. Subdued murmuring conveyed the
essentials: indeed the Captain had been killed; there was a prize lying to
seaward, which was in fact their opponent, a French frigate, a third bigger
than themselves.

They
clattered down the main-hatch. Caird needed to get a sight of the damage to the
stern and any cannon-ball strikes between wind and water that might prove an
immediate threat. Returning on deck they saw moaning wounded being swayed down
into a boat, wrecked equipment dropped into another, and weary-eyed men staring
at the shore. 'She comes alongside by sunset,' Caird said, to an officer with a
bandaged head. 'I shall see the master attendant directly.'

'Yer
has the right of it, mates, Cap'n Faulknor, an' a right true sort 'e was, Gawd
bless 'is memory,' said Kennet, a gunner's mate from the
Blanche.
Kydd dragged his upturned tub closer, the better to
hear him over the din in the capstan house.

'We
wuz openin' Gron' Bay in Gwaddyloop, a-ready ter spy in the harbour in th'
mornin' when we sees this thumpin' big French frigate a-comin' round the
point.' He paused: a sea-professional audience could be relied on to get the
picture. 'Now I asks yer, this can't be much after midnight, larbowlines 'as
watch below 'n' in their 'ammocks, all peaceful like, an' then it's quarters,
shipmates, 'n' as quick as yer like!'

Kydd
could visualise the scene all too clearly: drowsy watch on deck swapping yarns,
easy in the mind at the prospect of a spree ashore at the end of the cruise,
and then in a flash the reality of war and death in the balmy night.

'Cap'n
don't lose a minute — we goes at 'em, clearin' fer action as we go, an' it's all
goin't' be in th' dark.' Kennet looked about to see if he had their attention
before he went on. 'We pass the Frenchie - she's called
Pique
we finds later — on the opposite tack, an' we has a
broadside at each other.' His voice lowered. 'An' that's when m' mate lost the
number of 'is mess.'

He
stared into his grog. 'Sam Jones, second cap'n o' the foretop
...'

Kydd
stood up and gestured with his tankard. 'Here's t' Sam Jones, then, mates, an'
if we don' remember him, he won't have anyone else will.' In the willing roar
that this brought, Kydd drank deeply, remembering the emotions battering at him
after his own battle experience, the faces that suddenly weren't there any
more, the world's indifference that they had ever existed — but they would
continue to live in men's memories just as long as they were brought to
remembrance like this. He took another gulp.

Kennet
looked up at him, his grim face softening at Kydd's empathy, then continued,
'But then, we tacks about, but
Pique,
she's t' weather, an' wears ready to give us a
rakin' broadside, but Cap'n Faulknor, he's wise to 'em, an' we continues on t'
wear ourselves. So there we was, mates, broadside t' broadside fer two an' a
half hours, thumpin' it inter each other.' The cruel smashing match in the darkness,
dim battle-lanthorns inboard, leaping gun-flashes outboard, unseen horrors in
the blackness — it held the circle of rough seamen spellbound.

'But
then we shoots ahead.
Pique
'as taken a drubbin' and's at our mercy! We turn ter
rake her an' finish it — when our mizzen an' mainmast both go by th' board. In
a trice we runs afoul of her, an' she rakes us, then she goes f board, but
we're ready an' send 'em screamin' inter the sea.'

Kydd
noticed that Kennet's eyes had gone glassy and his hand had a tremor: these
terrible events could only have taken place less than a single day ago. 'Pot!'
he shouted, against the hubbub, and personally topped up Kennet's can then
added to his own. The rum had a potent fragrance.

'So
it's a stalemate, lads. We drifts, then runs aboard her agen by the bow — but
Cap'n himself rushes for'ard an' puts a lashin' on our bowsprit t' hold on ter
the Frenchman. But - an' it grieves me t' tell it - he takes a ball fr'm a
musket, an' falls
..
.'

There
was murmuring all round. Kennet waited for it to settle, then offered a toast
to his captain, which Kydd could see was being repeated in other groups of
seamen around him. He raised his tankard in salute, tears pricking at the
bravery he had learned about that night.

'Lashin'
gives way, we drift off, firin' all the time, o' course. B' now it's comin' on
daylight 'n' we're dog tired — bugger m' days but we was knackered!'

Around
him Kydd saw bodies topple in the capstan house, but whether from hard drinking
or exhaustion he didn't know.

'Wind
drops, we fin' ourselves stern to, an' no guns what'll bear, 'cos we got no
stern chasers, no gunports, even. So what does we do then?' Kydd couldn't think
what — the rum was deepening his emotions but doing nothing for his
concentration.

'Well,
lads, we heaves some twelve-pounders around in th' Great Cabin t' face astern,
then after we puts men wi' firebuckets on ea' side
..
.' he paused dramatically, holding their eyes one by one '.
..
an' then we blasts our own gunports
through the stern timbers!'