Seaflower (30 page)

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.

'Oil'
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 their 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 men-at-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.

Without
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.'