Seaflower (2 page)

'We
sighted breakers next to loo'ard, an' because L'tenant Rowley had come off the
wind, they were fast coming in under our lee an' no time to stay about.'

There
was a breathy silence. Gardiner's face hardened.

'You
are alleging that the loss of
Artemis
was directly attributable to this officer's
actions?'

There
was now no avoiding the issue. He must stand by his words, which he must repeat
at length in court, or abjectly deny them. 'Yes, sir!' he said firmly.

Gardiner
leaned back slowly, fixing Kydd with his hard eyes. Unexpectedly, he sighed.
'Very well, we will take your deposition.'

There
was a meaningful cough from the clerk. Gardiner turned slightly and something
passed between them that Kydd was unable to catch. Resuming his gaze Gardiner
added, 'And in your own words, if you please.'

Concentrating
with all his might Kydd told the simple story of the destruction of the crack
frigate, from the first chilling sight of breakers in mid-Atlantic to her
inevitable wrecking on an outer ledge of rock on one of the islands of the
Azores.

But
he said nothing of the personal heartbreak he felt at the death of the first
ship he had really loved, the ship that had borne him round the world to so
many adventures, that had turned him from tentative sailor to first-class
seaman and petty officer. He also omitted the story of the nightmare of the
break-up of the wreck during the night and his desperate swim for his life
among the relentless breakers, the joy at finally finding himself alive. Those
details would not interest these legal gentlemen.

'Thank
you,' said Gardiner, and glanced at the clerk, whose hand flew across the paper
as he transcribed Kydd's words. 'It seems complete enough.' His detachment was
a mystery after the savage inquisition of before.

The
clerk finished, sanded the sheet and shuffled it in together with the rest
'Yell need to put y'r mark on each page/ he said offhandedly.

Kydd
bristled. He had debated Diderot and Rousseau in the Great South Sea with Renzi,
and never felt himself an unlettered foremast hand. He dashed off a
distinguished signature on each page.

'You
may return to your ship,' said Gardiner neutrally, standing. Kydd rose also,
satisfied with the catharsis of at last telling his tale. 'We will call upon
your testimony as the court decides,' Gardiner added. Kydd nodded politely and
left.

Renzi
sat on the sea-chest he shared with Kydd. They had lost everything in the
shipwreck, nothing to show for their great voyage around the world. His friend
was fashioning a trinket box from shipwright's offcuts and bone inlay to
present to his adoring sister when he finally made his way up the London road
to the rural peace of Guildford.

'Nicholas,
you'll be right welcome at home, m' friend, y' know, but have ye given thought
t' your folks?'

Renzi
looked up from his book, his eyes opaque. 'I rather fancy my presence will not
be as altogether a blessed joy as yours will be to your own family, dear
fellow.' He did not elaborate and Kydd did not pursue it. The sensibilities
that had led to Renzi's act of self-exile from his family were not to be
discussed, but Kydd was aware that in becoming a common sailor Renzi could only
be regarded as a wanton disgrace by his well-placed family.

Renzi
added casually, 'If it does not disoblige, it would give me particular joy to
bide awhile
chez  
Kydd.'
He didn't find it necessary to say that this would renew his acquaintance of
Cecilia, Kydd's handsome sister.

Kydd
sighed happily. 'I told 'em everything Nicholas — I say my piece afore the
court, an' we're on our way home!' His keen knife shaved a thin sliver from the
lid, rounding the edge.

Renzi
looked at his friend. Kydd's account of his questioning was disturbing. In his
bones he felt unease.

'Yes,
indeed, and we shall—' He broke off. Above the comfortable patter of shipboard
noises a faint thud had sounded, as of a light-calibre cannon in the distance.
Activity ceased on the lower deck as men strained to hear. Another thud. Eyes
met - random gunfire in a naval anchorage was unusual to the point of
incredible. Some got to their feet, faces hardening. A move to the hatchway
turned into a rush as a third shot was heard.

On
deck all attention was on the harbour entrance. Officers on the quarterdeck had
telescopes trained and tense chatter spread. Some men leaped for the
foreshrouds to get a better view.

It
was a naval cutter under a full press of sail, flying through the narrow
entrance of the harbour, an enormous ensign streaming and some sort of signal on
both shrouds. A white puff appeared on her fo'c'sle, the thump arriving seconds
later.

'Despatches
- she's a packet boat,' Stirk growled. 'An' goin' rapful - she's got some noos
fer us, mates!' he said, with unnecessary emphasis.

The
cutter raced along, and made a neat tack about opposite the signal tower.
Backing her single topsail she subsided to a stop and hove to, her boat
launched almost immediately. It passed close to the receiving ship, the single
officer ignoring the shouted pleas for news echoing over the water. It made the
landing place, and the officer hurried up the stone stairs. He disappeared
among the buildings while the boat shoved off again, to lie off.

It
was galling to know that something of deep importance was taking place within
a stone's throw, and speculation flew about, opinions ranging wildly from the
French at sea on their way to invade to the death of the sovereign.

They
had not long to wait. A deeper-throated great gun, probably from the fort more
inland, sullenly boomed out and a line of soldiers emerged, trotting in a
single line along the waterfront On deck the excited chatter died away. Another
gun boomed, but then Renzi cocked his head. 'The church bells are ringing. It
seems we must celebrate a victory!'

More
bells joined in, and more. From the halliards of the signal tower burst hoists
of flags, and the water became alive with craft furiously criss-crossing the
harbour. In exasperation men hung from the rigging, watching the growing
excitement ashore. A receiving ship's main purpose was as a floating barracks
for the victims of the press-gang before they were sent out to their ship, and
had well-tested means of keeping men aboard; they would have to contain their
frustration for now.

Happily,
it soon became clear that boats were putting off to spread the news. A pinnace
sped towards them, a midshipman standing perilously in the sternsheets waving
madly. Indistinct shouting tantalised, but soon it was close enough for the
shrill words of the excited youngster to come through: it was a great victory
by Admiral Howe, out in the stormy seas of the Atlantic not three days before.
In a rush the boat was alongside and the midshipman flew up the side, pelting
aft to the quarterdeck to report.

The
seamen lost no time in hanging over the side and getting their story from the
boat's crew, the tale disjointed and wild but plain in its essentials. Admiral
Howe had been at sea for weeks, knowing that a desperately needed convoy of
grain was coming from America to relieve revolution-racked France, heavily
guarded, of course. The two fleets met at sea and a running battle over three
days had culminated in a titanic clash on 1
June and a crushing defeat for the French.

Willing
hands hauled on lines of flags as the receiving ship dressed overall, her token
four-pounders banging out to add to the bedlam all around, a delirious show
from a nation at the news of a great victory in a major Fleet action at sea.

Ashore,
the dockyard and the town were filling with people, their shouts carrying
faintly to the frustrated men who knew full well what was developing in the
taverns and pot-houses of the town.

But
to their unspeakable mortification, the
Artemis
survivors were not allowed to join in the
merry-making — and it was so easy to remember their own wild reception after
their victory in a sea duel with a French frigate, the first fight among equals
of the war, and they wanted to relive the euphoria. There was nothing to do but
stare longingly at the shore and endure, a hard and bitter thing for men who
had suffered as they.

The
court-martial flag remained at the masthead, but Kydd was not called. Neither
was he the next day, and when the flag was hauled down on the third day he
shrugged and made ready to leave for home.

It
was also the day that Earl Howe and his victorious fleet arrived at Spithead.
The town erupted for the second time, and enviously the
Artemis
seamen watched as the liberty boats swarmed ashore
at Portsmouth Point. Incredibly, they were still being kept aboard.

Renzi's
disquiet turned to unease. This was neither humane nor sensible treatment for
shipwrecked souls, and did not make sense. The loss of
Artemis
would be overlooked in the delirium of the victory
of the Glorious First of June, so there was no point in keeping the men from
their families.

A
boatswain's mate appeared at the hatchway and pealed a call. ‘Artemis hands! Haaaaands
to muster! Aaaaaall the Artemis haaaands — muster in th' waist with yer dunnage!'

'Well,
bugger me days!' said Stirk. 'An' the bastards 'ave remembered we're 'ere!'
There was a scramble for their pitifully few possessions, Kydd's own fitting
into one small bundle. With lifting heart he tugged on his hat, and hastened on
deck into the evening sun. Hooked on below was a big launch, manned by a
subdued set of seamen he did not recognise. An older-looking lieutenant was
standing at the tiller, his mouth a thin line.

'Hey-ho,
mates — and it's bad luck t' any who ain't chirpin' merry in one hour!' said
one Artemis, his eyes shining.

'Got
th' gormy ruddles sittin' in this hooker!' said another, hefting his bag, 'an'
the only thing'll cure it 's me comin' alongside some willin' piece who'll show
a sailor the way home!'

Kydd
grinned, and after their names were marked off in the muster book, he went down
with the others into the boat, Renzi close behind. They settled all along the
centre, between the rowers. But there was no answer to their jocular barbs. The
crew of the launch were mute and serious and they kept their eyes in the boat
facing aft. Slowly the happy chatter of the Artemis hands died away under a
sense of apprehension. The boat shoved off, the men at the oars pulling slowly
but economically, as if they had a long stretch ahead.

Kydd
looked at Renzi in appeal — he only shook his head. Suddenly a cutter shot out
from the other side of the ship. With a shock Kydd saw that it carried a party
of marines, complete with muskets and accoutrements. It curved toward them and
fell in close astern, the officer not glancing at it as the launch shaped
course to parallel the shore.

'The
poxy shabs!' roared Stirk in disbelief. 'We're bein' turned over!' He stood up
and grasped the gunwale.

'Try
it, 'n' you'll get a ball in the guts!' growled the lieutenant. Stirk stood
rigid as a storm of protest broke around him. It was not uncommon for ships
returning from a distant commission for docking and refit to transfer their
company bodily to another ship, without the chance of liberty ashore. But
survivors of a shipwreck?

'Silence!'
bellowed the officer. 'You're under discipline, you damned rascals, and I'll
see the backbone of any who doesn't agree!'