Seaflower (26 page)

Doud
flashed his broad white smile, and rose, handing his tankard to Farthing. He
struck a noble pose and in a perfect tenor sang,

'Come,
come,
m'
jolly
lads!

The
winds
abaft

Brisk
gales
our
sails
shall
crowd;

The
ship's
unmoor'd,
all
hands
aboard

The
barky's
well
mann'd
and
stor'd!'

The
Drury Lane ballad, though confected by a landman, was a great favourite, and all
joined in the chorus

'Then
sling
the
flowing
bowl
—
fond
hopes
arise

The
can,
boys,
bring;
we'll
drink
and
sing

While
foaming
billows
roll'

Kydd
sang lustily, enjoying the fellowship and good feeling. Luke brought another
pot. The lad was growing, and now affected a red bandanna tied round his head
like a pirate, with a smile that wouldn't go away. At the edge of the crowd
Kydd noticed the wide-eyed young midshipman, Cole, and further away, the
shadowy figure of the Captain, both drawn to the singing.

In
the warm darkness something told Kydd that he would be lucky to experience an
evening quite so pleasurable again.

Chapter
10

Captain
Farrell returned from the flagship before ten the next morning, and immediately
called the sailing master to his cabin. Overheard, the word swiftly went out.

"The
Barbadoes wi' despatches?' snarled Patch, a privateersman. His shipmate,
Alvarez, appeared next to him, his olive-dark face hostile.

Doggo
glared at him. 'Stow yer gab, cully! Yer doesn't think the Ol’ Man is a-goin'
ter let th' world know, now, do ye?' But Kydd caught his quick look: their
tavern story might be recoiling on them, and gulled privateersmen would be hard
to handle. 'Cap'n knows what he's doing,' he said harshly. 'Jus' be sure you
does.'

'Haaaands
to unmoor ship!' The boatswain's bellow reached
every part of the cutter. Kydd cast off the beckets securing the tiller in
harbour and tested the helm through a full sweep. It was his duty to take the
vessel to sea, then when sea watches were set, he would take
the conn and oversee the duty helmsman for his trick
at the helm.

Strong
running backstays were needed to take the massive driving force of the enormous
gaff mainsail — two linked tackles were rove for this and, unique to Kydd's
experience, the forestay had its own deadeye and lanniard secured to the
stempost, both together in taut balance.

One
by one, Stirk had Doggo and his party moving about the guns — six-pounders, a
respectable armament for a mere cutter, eight a side and with swivels forward
as chase guns. A cry from forward showed the anchor cable 'thick and dry for
weighing' and Farrell, in full blues, consulted his watch. The anchor was
a-trip. The Captain's arm went up, the saluting swivel forward went off with a
spiteful crack and in the smoke both the foresail and mainsail rose swiftly,
the steady north-east trades forcing the men at the main-sheets to sweat as
they trimmed the sail to the wind at the same time as the waisters brought in
the fore-sheets.

Seaflower
responded immediately with a graceful heel, falling
off to leeward momentarily before surging ahead. Kydd felt the rudder firm and,
under Jarman's muttered direction, shaped course westerly to round the end of
the Palisades. They slipped past the fortifications and the dockyard, then Port
Royal itself, not a soul ashore apparently interested in their departure, and
made a competent gybe to place themselves comfortably on track for the open
sea. The jib was hoisted and conformable to the fair wind from the larboard
quarter, her topsail was set.
Seaflower
quickly left the harbour astern. When they had
cleared the hazardous cluster of cays to the south, they went about and headed
along the coast for Port Morant.

Sea
watches were set, and Kydd yielded the tiller to the helmsman. He took up the
slate hanging on the side of the tiny binnacle and checked the course and
details that the sailing master had scrawled. In this small ship he would have
to maintain the conn himself — nobody to peg the traverse board, no marine to
turn the sand-glass at the end of a watch.

He
stepped back, and saw Patch finish coiling the fall of the topsail sheet. With
a careless thump the privateers-man cast the coil on the deck against the
bulwark and made to leave. Incensed, Kydd shouted and pointed at the untidy
twists. Patch saw him, but deliberately turned away. Kydd moved fast, knocking
aside another sailor as he confronted Patch. 'Take that lubberly shittle and
belay it right,' he said, in a hard voice. Tangling coils were a hazard on any
deck but, besides that, Kydd's seaman's pride was offended at the slovenly
sight.

Patch
stared at him, contempt in his dark eyes. 'King's ship ways on a fuckin'
cutter? Ye must be—' 'Now!'

Patch
paused. Kydd was not getting angry: his voice was iron, his control icy. Drawn
by the raised voices, the boatswain approached from behind Patch, who failed to
notice him. Merrick watched and waited with a slight smile.

Kydd
did not lower his gaze before the case-hardened bigger man. 'Do ye take a bight
and belay that fall,' he repeated.

Patch
looked again in Kydd's face. Something passed between them - and Patch moved.
He bent and picked up the rope, his eyes never leaving Kydd's as he obeyed
grudgingly. Kydd paused, then walked back to his watch position.

In
just a few hours they hove to off Port Morant and collected a satchel of
despatches, then resumed course. They would reach the eastward tip of Jamaica
in only an hour or so, then would keep clear of the offshore banks before
shaping course for the Leeward Islands.

With
no sign of an eager combing of the sea for an expected prey, there was a
definite edge to the mess-deck chatter at dinner. Kydd and Renzi kept the deck
to avoid questions. Stirk and Doggo found something to do with the six-pounders,
but it was clear there would be an accounting soon.

Gun
practice was piped immediately after the noon meal, the hard-bitten seamen
making child's play of their weapons. Farrell kept them at it, and just as
Morant Point drew abeam he ordered that live firing would take place.
Seaflower's
decks
were cleared, and the pieces manned. Kydd took his place at the helm and
silence fell as all eyes turned to Farrell.

At
that precise moment the quiet was split by an urgent hail from the lookout on the
crosstree. 'Sail
hooooo!’
Above the low-lying point could be seen first the
topgallants and then the topsails of a square-rigged vessel, and shortly after,
the barque slid into view. At least twice their size and a sinister black, she
quickly spotted
Seaflower
and her length foreshortened as she turned to
intercept.

'Ready
about!' Farrell snapped, his telescope up searching her masts for a flag. They
slewed round and closed the distance, Farrell seeming to have no hesitation
about closing the larger vessel.

There
was an apprehensive quiet about
Seaflower
's decks. 'She's a twenty-eight at least, lads,'
Doud murmured. 'Saw her ports.' Several faces popped out of the fore-hatch and
gazed over the blue seas to the black-hulled vessel. The barque altered her
heading to a broader angle. It served to show her gunports opening all along
her hull, cannon rumbling into place at each. Still there were no colours
aloft. A cold trepidation came over Kydd — the worst situation, with the banks
to seaward and the unknown craft closing in to weather.

'Give
her a gun, Stirk,' Farrell said quietly. A six-pounder crashed out forward,
sounding toy-like after a frigate's 24s. There was a minute or two's delay, as
if the stranger was amused at the small ship's presumption, before a flutter
of colour at her mizzen peak appeared, shaking out into the stripes and stars
of the United States.

'Thank
Gawd!' laughed Farthing. 'I thought we wuz in fer a hazin'.' The barque's
sheets eased, and she braced around slowly to diverge, clearly not deigning to
dally with an Englisher. Relieved chatter broke out along
Seaflower's
deck.

'Sir,
if y' please
...'
Jarman had not
joined in the general relief, and took Farrell's Dollond glass. 'Ah! As I
thought. There's no Yankee I know of wears a red cap 'n' petticoat breeches.
Sir, she's a Frenchie!'

Farrell
snatched back the telescope and swept the barque's decks — only Jarman's
suspicions and a careless French sailor had given the game away. 'Brail
topsails!' he snapped. Under fore-and-aft sail only,
Seaflower
sped
towards the enemy. She fell off the wind a little and her intention became
clear — to pass close astern of the other vessel to send her puny balls
smashing through the unprotected stern and down the length of her enemy.

Stirk
raced from gun to gun. Fortunate to be at quarters, they were at the ready, but
Farrell roared, 'Larboard — firing to larboard!'

This
was away from the enemy. Kydd was baffled by the order. Then the barque
responded. The United States flag whipped down arid the French flag rose to
replace it in jerky movement.
At
the
same time the vessel came around sharply into the wind, to stay about. Well
before
Seaflower
could come up to deliver her blow, the bluff sides
of her antagonist were swinging around on the other tack to parallel the little
cutter and present her full broadside.

Kydd's
throat constricted — a crushing weight of metal would be slamming into them in
seconds. He glanced at Farrell who, to his astonishment, wore an expression of
ferocious glee.

'We
have you now, Mr Frenchman!' he roared triumphantly. The barque's swing had
been a mistake. Farrell snapped, 'Ready about! Lee, oh!' and
Seaflower
pirouetted
prettily to leave her with her larboard guns laid faithfully on the barque's
stern. They passed close enough to see pale faces over the taffrail and sails
slatting in confusion as, no doubt, orders were being angrily countermanded.

There
was nothing to miss. The line of windows at the stern gallery dissolved as gun
after gun on
Seaflower's
deck crashed out, the balls' brutal impact causing
ruin along the length of the enemy. Kydd felt a furious exaltation — it was the
first smoke of battle he had smelt since the great frigate struggle between
Artemis
and
Citoyenne.

The
last gun banged out and
Seaflower
was past. With her crew cheering madly, the guns
were served, but there was a new peril — a square-rigged vessel would back
topsails and stay where she was, battering the helpless victim into submission,
but with her fore-and-aft rig there was no way
Seaflower
could
do the same. She continued on her course, her only hope to get out of range
before the enemy could recover, but the black hull was already turning.
Seaflower
lay
over under her press of sail, but there was no escape. Kydd's hands sweated at
the helm — but he was tied to his place of duty and must stand and take
whatever fate had in store for him.