Seaflower (34 page)

Kydd
wasted no time. 'We six in th' fishin' boat,' he said, indicating the nearest
five men. 'Wait f'r us t' get afloat, an' get after us. We get aboard t' the
for'ard you lay off until Cap'n comes up, an' we all go at it together.'

The
light was stronger. Before they broke cover to take the small boat, Kydd
thought of something. 'Strip off, or they'll see we ain't Frenchies.' They
whipped off their jackets and shirts, naked to the waist. 'Right, mates, we're
mortal scared o' the English, we are. Let's away!'

Shouting
hoarsely, the sailors raced to the fishing boat, waving arms, desperate to make
the safety of the brig. The little boat was rushed into the water and with
Farthing and Doggo at the oars it thrashed in a panic-stricken course across
the harbour. Kydd kept looking astern nervously, urging the men on. As an
afterthought he tied his striped shirt to the single pulley line and hoisted it
as if in distress to the top of the stumpy mast.

Stirk
performed his part perfectly. Raging like a bull at the edge of the water, he
threatened and menaced with a cutlass until the longboat could be launched. It
took the water with a splash, and a fierce and bloodthirsty crew tumbled aboard
to go in deadly pursuit of the poor Frenchmen'.

A
scattering of pops sounded. Soldiers knelt on the mole, taking aim at the
longboat, in little danger at that range. Kydd thought of the naked steel lying
concealed in the bottom of his boat. A warrior's rising bloodlust made his
heart pound.

At
the end of the mole, the lighter seemed to hesitate. Kydd ground his teeth. If
it didn't arrive soon to do its part, his theatrical performance would fail.
The few figures on the lighter seemed to dispute together, then the long sweeps
began again - and the ungainly craft careered around the end of the mole,
bumping and scraping in a shocking parody of seamanship.

A
shouting on the mole drew his attention. With a burst of triumph Kydd saw that
the soldiers were turning into file and trotting back along the mole,
presumably to defend the town. Events moved quickly. The longboat sheered off
under the threat of a swivel gun hastily manned in the brig, leaving the
fishing boat to reach 'safety*. They reached the forechains, laughing Frenchmen
urging them up. Kydd watched the lighter out of the corner of his eyes, seeing
Renzi berating Quashee's hapless bulk at the tiller, while Farrell jumped on
his hat in exasperation.

The
French leaned over the bulwarks, offering hands to help, but Kydd played for
time. Yelling incomprehensibly, he pointed at the 'exhausted' oarsmen and
gestured for a rope-ladder. By this time the lighter was nearly upon them.
Shouting angrily, men from the brig jumped to the stonework of the mole with
bearing-off poles and fenders as it threatened to drift across the brig's bows.

Kydd
knew that the time had come. The lighter thumped violently to lock across the
brig's forepart. 'Seaflowers! Huzzah for the King!' shouted Farrell, and swung
himself up into the bowsprit of the enemy. A storm of cheering rose from all
around the Frenchmen - an unstoppable stream of seamen boiling up from
concealment in the lighter, Kydd's wildly excited men swarming up the
forechains, and Stirk's longboat, racing to board by the stern.

They
had minutes only before the soldiers found they had been fooled. The French
sailors recovered quickly from their surprise, grabbed pikes and weapons from their
ready-use positions around the mast and rushed to the sides of the vessel.

Kydd
landed on the deck of the brig, and was immediately met by a sailor in a red
cap, who jabbed a long boarding pike at his face. Kydd's cutlass blade went up
and deflected the lunge, keeping pressure on the haft until he was close enough
to grab it with his left hand and yank the man off-balance. The grey steel of
Kydd's blade then thrust forward and took the man in the stomach. He dropped to
his knees, grabbing at the pitiless steel. Kydd's foot slammed into his face as
he wrenched the cutlass free.

A
pistol banged somewhere and Kydd felt the violent passage of the bullet past
his ear. Seconds later the pistol itself crashed into the side of his face,
hurled by its owner. Kydd crouched instinctively at the pain, the swish of a
blade sounded above and his head cleared. He thrust up with his cutlass at the
man's extended armpit. With a howl of pain he dropped his weapon and fell to a
foetal position. A foot kicked into Kydd. Across him an English sailor was
being hard pressed by a bull of a Frenchman. Kydd stabbed upwards into the
unsuspecting man's bowels, bringing an inhuman screech and the man's blade
clumsily and brutally down on his back. A burning line of pain opened, but a second
later the man was skewered by his original opponent. Heaving himself to his
feet, Kydd snatched a look at the man he had saved: his eyes were wild and
unseeing as he turned back to the fight.

From
aft a wave of men advanced. Kydd braced himself and turned to face them, his
head thumping and his back a cruel red-hot bar of pain — but these
were Stirk's men, and in a startlingly short time
the deck was cleared.

Farrell’s
voice sounded loud, commanding. Men dropped to the mole, axes rose and fell on
the mooring ropes. A warning shout came — soldiers were racing back along the
mole, many soldiers. The ropes fell free, and the axe-men scrambled aboard. The
lighter swung away and drifted into the harbour. More shouts from Farrell and
men were in the shrouds, racing for the yards. Kydd staggered, pain and nausea
swamping his senses. He sank to his knees, retching into the slime of blood.

The
brig's foresail dropped, and flapped impatiently before taking the wind. The
vessel's bow began to open clear water next to the mole. The soldiers, seeing
this, came to a stop and knelt to fire at the brig, but their hard running was
not conducive to good shooting and their balls whistled past harmlessly. Others
made a charge against the brig, but were decimated by the quarterdeck swivel
gun cracking out above, plied by English seamen.

The
brig parted from the mole, more sail was set and, while Kydd held his head on
his knees, they victoriously put to sea to rejoin
Seaflower.

'Ye
had us a mort worried, m' friend, coming in so strange-like,' Kydd told Renzi,
remembering the stop—start dispute he had seen on the lighter. He was lying
stomach down on the main grating of
Seaflower
Renzi gently applying goose grease to the angry weal
down his back.

Renzi
paused. 'It was not the best of times to be seeing a pack of soldiers waiting
for us — were we betrayed?'

He
resumed his soothing strokes. "Then the Captain sees our longboat chasing
fishermen! His comments on undisciplined rabble disobeying their orders were a
curiosity to hear, please believe, but then I recognised your shirt hoisted up
the mast and we understood.'

'As
I
should
have,' Kydd said crossly. The treatment hurt, and his head throbbed, broken
skin and a dark bruise extending out from his hair-line were where the pistol
had struck. The surgeon's mate had been dismissive of the head wound and, in
Kydd's opinion, ham-fisted in his ministrations to his back.

He
brooded, but by raising his head just a little he could see the fine sight
astern of the French brig-o'-war lifting and bobbing — his prize money must now
be growing significant and the prize agent would soon have golden guineas to
hand out. This was a happier thought: what would he and Renzi enjoy ashore on
the proceeds?
Seaflower
was only hours from Port Morant. She would soon make
her number to the small naval station there, and all the world would then know
that saucy
Seaflower
had been lucky again.

'Mr
Kydd!' Luke's eager voice broke in on his thoughts. 'Cap'n desires yer should
attend on him, if ye should be at leisure t' do so,' he recited. The odd
phraseology set warning bells ringing. Warily Kydd got to his feet. For a
moment he wondered whether he should put on a shirt: he had received
dispensation while his wound was still sore and decided that this still held.

He
went down the after hatchway to the Captain's minuscule cabin. Farrell was
seated at the tiny desk. He turned, and held a sheet of paper. 'This is my
despatch to the Commander-in-Chief, to be landed at Port Morant.

Farrell
found the right place and read:

...
but as we approached, a body of soldiers hitherto concealed from us became
evident. I was minded to abandon the venture, were it not for the clever ruse
of Thomas Kydd, coxswain of the longboat and quartermaster in
Seaflower.
He
caused his party to be split, one part of which went ahead in a fishing boat in
the character of a craft under pursuit by English seamen, the other part in the
longboat that followed.

The
action was most successful, surprise being complete. The soldiers were lured
away from their place by the supposition that a landing in force was under way
in the town. The brig was carried at slight loss
...

Farrell
could easily have claimed that Kydd was acting under orders. Kydd glowed at
the tribute - being mentioned in despatches was an unusual honour.

Renzi
looked at him oddly at the news, but said nothing. On the matter of where they
would celebrate, he smiled secretly and assured Kydd that he would not be
disappointed were he to trust him to find somewhere.

For
such an insignificant man-o'-war as
Seaflower
there was no manning of yards in honour from the
ships of the Fleet when she entered port, but the enemy brig demurely astern,
so much bigger than
Seaflower,
was proof enough of their prowess. There
was
no real need for the elaborate sail-handling when
curving so prettily around to anchor under the envious eyes of the Fleet, but
it was another chance to show the world what kind of man-o'-war the
Seaflower
really
was.

Within
the hour, Farrell had returned from his call on the Admiral bearing deeply
satisfying news.
Seaflower
was due for refit, and her people could rely on two
weeks at least of liberty ashore. The Vice Admiralty Court sitting at Kingston
had duly condemned their barque as prize, and they had tickets on the prize
agent for a gratifying amount.

Kydd
considered his ticket. There was the choice of parting with it now, suitably
discounted to a moneylender in town, or cash it for the full amount later when
the prize agent could be cajoled into drawing on account. He would see what
mysterious entertainment Renzi had in mind first: he hoped it would not be a
curious pile of stones or the residence of some worthy poet.

'Tom,
mate, yez has a letter.' Stirk handed over a folded and sealed packet. 'An'
that's fivepence y' owes me fer the post, cully.' Kydd took it gingerly: the
writing was small and well formed — a feminine hand. He frowned, then his
expression cleared. This was from Cecilia, his sister. The date was only five
weeks earlier, and with pleased anticipation he took it forward to open and
read in privacy.

He
broke the wafer; it was a single sheet, closely written.
As
usual she wasted no time and went
straight to the point. Kydd's eyes widened — he read quickly and stared
outwards. It seemed impossible.

He
found Renzi searching in their sea-chest for a suitable kerchief: in his blue
jacket with the white whalebone buttons he looked ready for the delights of
Port Royal. The mess-deck was rapidly emptying for there was every incentive to
get ashore to make this a time to remember: the Seaflowers were going on the
ran-tan. Kydd waited until they were alone, and held up his paper. 'Ye'd never
have guessed it, Nicholas, but here's a letter fr'm Cecilia!'

'I
pray she is in good health,' Renzi said, perfectly in control.

Kydd
grinned. 'Aye, she is that, m' friend. An', can you believe it? She is here in
Kingston!' Renzi stood quite still. 'Ain't it prime?' Kydd laughed. 'Here,
listen to this, "My dear brother, I found how I might write a letter to
you, and I have news that will make you stare! You may offer your
felicitations, Thomas, for you see, I am to be wed."'

Kydd
paused to see the effect on Renzi. His friend had always got along well with
Cecilia, and Kydd knew he would be pleased. Oddly, Renzi stared back at him
with unblinking eyes.