Seaflower (4 page)

The
watch was set to exercise — loose and furl. Kydd noted the marked stability the
ship showed on the helm even when the big foresail was dowsed and furled,
unbalancing the forces of propulsion, then let free and sheeted in to take up
again in the brisk easterly. This was a sea-kindly ship.

A
single bell sounded from forward, sharp and clear.

Instantly
Auberon rounded on the mate-of-the-watch. 'Pass the word for the
master-at-arms!' he ordered.

In
a short while the master-at-arms appeared. He touched his hat to the first
lieutenant. 'Sir?'

'To
wait, if you please, Mr Quinn,' said Auberon coldly.

Kydd
handed over the helm to his relief, and went across to report to the captain of
the maintop for his duties for the rest of the watch. Clearly the man did not
want to miss anything and set Kydd to rehanking the falls around the forebrace
bitts nearby.

It
was unfortunate for the absent man that the first lieutenant was on deck. This
was the officer next after the Captain in authority, and who, more importantly,
had the responsibility for the watch and station bill detailing every man's
place of duty.

A
face appeared at the main-hatch, wary and hesitant Coltard came on deck as
though treading on eggshells, darting looks about him. The rest of the deck
watch busied themselves, but made sure they were within earshot

'You,
sir!' snapped Auberon. His cocked hat was jammed on at an aggressive angle, his
arms thrust down behind him. There was no question of what was to follow.

Coltard
touched his forehead. 'Aye, sir?' His face was pale and set; his hat passed
nervously from hand to hand.

'You
are adrift, sir!' As if to lend point to his words, the bell forward sounded a
sharp double-strike. 'An hour!'

Trajan
rose playfully to a sea on the bow,
sending Coltard staggering a few paces. 'Got gripin' in the guts, sir - feel
right qualmish, if y' please sir.' His voice was weak and thick.

Auberon's
expression did not change. 'You have attended the doctor,' he stated, in hard
tones. There could be no answer. If he had, Auberon would have had the
surgeon's morning report; if he had not, it would be assumed he was fit for duty.
'This is the third complaint I have had of you, sir. What have you to say to
that, you rascal?'

'Me
belly, it—'

'You
have been taken in drink, I believe. And at this hour. You shall dance pedro
pee, upon my honour!'

Coltard
straightened, but his eyes showed fear. 'Sir! I'm a petty officer, not—'

'Master-at-arms!'

This
was harsh treatment for a petty officer: they had privileges that stood them
above the common sailor, yet Coltard could no longer count on them. Discipline
was above all. Quinn moved eight paces away, then turned and faced Coltard. His
foot tapped a black caulked seam in the decking.

There
was no pretence at work now: everyone turned inboard to watch. Coltard stared
down at the black line of tar. 'Get a move on!' Auberon snapped. As though it
were a high wire, Coltard stepped forward, and within three paces had lost his
footing. 'Again!' said Auberon.

Within
seconds it was over, and Coltard stood dull but defiant.

'Mr
Quinn, this man is fuddled with grog. He is to be triced up in the weather
foreshrouds to dry. Then he is to explain himself before the Captain at six
bells.'

*     
*      *

'Haaaaands
to muster! Haaands lay aft to
witness punishment!'

Reluctantly
seamen ceased work to make their way aft. Emerging up from the gundecks,
dropping to the deck from the rigging, they crowded on to the quarterdeck. The
officers stood above on the poop-deck, looking down with grave expressions on
the little party below.

Coltard
stood flanked by the master-at-arms and the ship's corporal. His eyes darted
among the mass of sailors; if he was looking for sympathy, it was hard to tell.
Kydd caught his eyes and he responded with a sneer. Kydd started in surprise.

The
awful words of the Articles of War sounded out, clear and final. Judgement was
given: Coltard's head fell as he heard his captain disrate him. He was now a
common sailor, turned before the mast. There was more, inevitably. Coltard made
no protest as he was stripped to the waist and seized to the grating by his
thumbs with rope yarns.

Kydd
turned away his eyes as the marine drummer opened up on the poop. A sudden stop
and sweeping down and the boatswain's mate's cat-o'-nine-tails mercilessly
slammed into the paleness of Coltard's back. It brought only a grunt into the
appalled quiet The second and succeeding lash brought no sound either — Coltard
was going to take it all without giving his audience the satisfaction of a cry.
Kydd stared at the deck and felt the skin on his back creep.

Making
his way below afterwards, Kydd could join in the general hum of jollity at the
humbling of a petty officer.

It
was clear that the man was so much in the thrall of drink that he had risked
the lash to indulge his need. It did not take much to surmise that his
shipmates had tired of covering for him and, that morning, had left him to his
fate.

Before
he had reached his mess a small midshipman tugged his arm. 'Able Seaman Kydd?'
he squeaked, breathless.

'Aye?'

'Lay
aft and attend the Captain,' the reefer said importantly. Kydd stared at him.
'This instant, you dog!' the youngster shrilled.

Kydd
padded aft, and made himself known to the sentry. Dare he hope?

Inside
the Great Cabin the Captain sat at his desk, the first lieutenant standing near
him with papers. 'Ah, Kydd?' It was the first time that Captain Bomford had
addressed Kydd directly.

'Sir.'

'I
understand you are one of the volunteers from Artemis." Bomford had a
pleasant, urbane manner. Kydd's heart leaped.

'Aye,
sir.'

'You
rounded the Horn, I believe.' 'Sir.'

'And
you were quartermaster's mate at the time.'

'Acting
quartermaster, sir.' He would never forget that exhilarating but terrifying
time in the great Southern Ocean, the massive seas and sudden squalls slamming
in from nowhere ...

'And
Duke William before that?' The first lieutenant exchanged looks with Bomford.

'Yes,
sir.' The big 98-gun ship-of-the-line and its memories were well behind him
now. No need to add that he had been on her books as a lowly landman and then
ordinary seaman.

'Then
I am sure that you will do well in Trajan? Bomford said smoothly. 'It is in my
mind to rate you petty officer — what do you think of that?'

Yes!
He had been right to hope! A cooler voice intervened: Auberon would have
primed Bomford about the presence aboard of a suitable replacement well before
the events of the morning; Kydd had no illusions about his good fortune.
Nevertheless
...

'I'd
like it well, if ye please, sir.' There was no suppressing the smile. 'In what
rate, sir?'

The
captain's eyebrows rose as he studied a paper. 'Quartermaster's mate.' He met
Kydd's eyes again. 'If you do your duty strictly and diligently I see no reason
why you should not rely on further advancement, if the opportunity arises.'

'Thank
ye, sir.' It was a priceless step.

'Then
you are so rated. The first lieutenant will arrange your watch and station.
Carry on, please.'

Kydd
strode back down to the fo'c'sle with his news clutched to his heart, and stopped
suddenly. He was now a petty officer: he did not belong with the others. His
excitement fell away as he realised that all his messmates were now subordinate
to him, every one — even Renzi, his particular friend.

He
continued down to the gundeck, but kept his announcement until after the noon
meal when he quietly made his goodbyes. He left Renzi to the end. His friend
had taken the news with annoying equanimity, hanging back with a slight smile
while the others slapped his back and showed gratifying envy. It was time.
Awkwardly he held out his hand. Renzi took it with a firm handshake, but said
nothing. Kydd mumbled something, and left.

Right
aft on the larboard side of the gundeck were the petty officers' messes. Each
was screened off with canvas, a little world within a world. Kydd scratched on
the entrance of his new home; he was answered by Toby Stirk.

'Knoo
you'd waste no time a-gettin' yerself a petty officer's berth!' The hard-featured
seaman grinned — with his experience he had been quickly entered as a quarter
gunner — and pulled him inside. It was snug and well appointed with pewter
mess-traps, and the inside of the screens were splendidly decorated with
colourful painted nautical scenes.

'This
'ere is Thomas Kydd — shipmates wi' me in Artemis, he was. Right taut hand o'
the watch is Tom,' Stirk said smugly, his dark eyes glittering. There was no
one Kydd would have preferred to serve the compliments: Stirk's courage in battle
and skill at the long guns was fabled.

He
thumped his gear down on the table, looked around at his new messmates and
glowed with happiness.

Chapter 3

'
T"
aaaand hooooP
The
masthead lookout's powerful hail stopped all work on deck. 'Land ahoy — one
point t' loo'ard!'

In
the van of the convoy,
Trajan's  
lofty masts gave the best height of eye and they
sighted Barbados first. A string of flags jerked up her signal halliards and
news of her landfall spread fast around the eighty ships of the convoy. It had
been five weeks since they had left England, with only a brief stop in Madeira.
The .men in the maintop, engaged in the endless task of tarring down the
standing rigging, broke into excited chatter. Kydd listened from his position
at the aft rail.

'Where's
this'n?' demanded Larcomb, his face animated.

'The
Barbadoes, in course!' said Carby, an older hand. 'This 'ere is the first port
o' call fer the Caribbean — ev'ry other o' the islands are t' looard. Includin'
the Frenchie ones,' he added.

Kydd
watched the grey blur on the horizon grow

in
definition and broaden, eager white horses hurrying towards the land. 'What's
ashore, mate?' he asked Carby. He was unsure quite what to expect; Renzi had
elaborated on the strategic importance of the sugar islands, but that didn't
seem to square with the hazy tales he had heard of pirates, the Spanish Main
and the infamous Port Royal. Especially the pirates — were they still at large?

'Yair,
well. Nothin' much, 'ceptin cane-fields and blackamoors,' grunted Carby. 'Yez
c'n get a good time at the punch shops, an' the ladies are obligin', I'll grant
yer.' His lined eyes crinkled. 'But don' expect ter be steppin' ashore like in
Portsmouth town, cully.'

Within
the hour Barbados had transformed from an anonymous blue-grey sprawling land to
a substantial island, curiously weathered into small ridges and valleys, all
looking rather brown. As they rounded the south-west tip, Kydd saw many
windmills and tiny huts on the hillsides in a sea of bright green sugar-cane.

One
after another the convoy tacked around the point, an endless swarm of sail that
filled the sea. As Kydd stood by in the maintop for the evolution of mooring
ship, he made sure that Carby was near to give a commentary.

'There,
mates, that's the lobsterbacks' barracks, an' up there, big place near th' open
bit, you has th' hospital. Yer goes in there wi' the yellow jack 'n' it's a
shillin' to a guinea yer comes out feet first.'

Kydd
gazed at the detail of the land resolving in front of him. A wide bay was
opening up past a large fort on the point, and a small town nestled in the arm
of the bay. 'Carlisle Bay an' Bridgetown,' said Carby.

In
common with the other vessels, they would not be entering the harbour, their anchor
splashed down noisily into the innocent blue-green of the wide bay. As cable
was veered Kydd worked at furling the big main course to its yard. This furl
would be concluded with a fine harbour stow, and he was in place of honour at
the bunt in the middle, not at the yard-arm. It was some satisfaction for Kydd
to be recognised as a good seaman. 'A yard-arm furler and bunt reefer' was what
a mediocre sailor was called: the best men always went to the outer ends of the
yard for deep-sea reefing and the complex centre of the sail for harbour
furling.