Caribbee

Chapter 4

Their orders were delayed; in their place Kydd received a summons to a distracted Cochrane, who wasted no time in informing him of L’Aurore’s fate.

‘You’ll victual and store immediately. L’Aurore is to be attached to the Jamaica Squadron in exchange for Nereide. Clear?’

Kydd felt a pang of disappointment: he was doing well on the station – but the needs of the service …

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘You’ll convey my dispatches to Admiral Dacres and I expect you to sail without delay.’

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, and I’ll relieve you of your junior lieutenant. I have a vacancy through sickness I must fill.’

Bowden.

It would be a wrench, for he’d known the young man since he’d come aboard the old Tenacious as a stuttering midshipman. They’d seen a lot together and he’d become a fine lieutenant who would be a credit to any ship. Now was not the time to object, though.

‘I’ve appointed another, whom you may have as he recovers, fit to serve.’

‘Then he’s in hospital, sir?’

‘Yes. I haven’t spare officers in my pocket, damn it!’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘Then I’ll not trouble you further. Good day to you, sir.’ Cochrane returned to his papers.

‘Sorry, sir, he’s already gone, like,’ the quartermaster said, as Kydd returned aboard, his regret clearly sincere. Bowden was well liked by the hands.

‘Thank you,’ Kydd said heavily, but it was the way of the sea service. ‘Any word from the shore, let me know directly.’

They were to sail within the hour but without a third lieutenant, and all that that implied for redistribution of men at quarters and divisions, as well as the obligation now of the first lieutenant to stand watches. Their replacement was still apparently in hospital, and when they reached Jamaica it was most unlikely that a spare lieutenant could be found.

‘Hands to unmoor ship, if you please,’ Kydd ordered.

The move to Jamaica would be welcomed by the seamen: the rambunctious buccaneering reputation of the last century’s Port Royal had not entirely disappeared, and Kydd brought to mind some famous times in the past had by seamen flush in the fob with prize-money.

‘Fo’c’slemen mustered correct, sir.’ They were last to report – with the capstan manned they were ready to depart.

Kydd looked at his watch. ‘No sense in delaying. Weigh anchor, if you please. Cast to starb’d, Mr Kendall?’

‘Aye, sir.’

Topmen swarmed aloft to stand by to loose sail to take the wind on the starboard side when the anchor had been won, and the age-old quickening of the heart of an outward-bound ship touched them all.

‘Thick an’ dry!’ came the yell from forward. The cable was taut up and down and with the ‘heavy heave’ that broke the anchor’s grip on the seabed they would be free of the land, their voyage begun.

‘Gunfire, sir!’

Kydd had heard it as well, the distinct crack of a small gun. Someone pointed: a low-built cutter of the kind that swarmed by the score in Carlisle Bay was crowding on sail directly towards them, the smoke of the shot dissipating as they watched.

It was inconceivable that they were under attack but unauthorised gunfire in a naval anchorage was forbidden. A civil advice-boat with news or dispatches?

‘Avast at the capstan!’ Kydd snapped, but he was too late: a shout from the fo’c’sle and a simultaneous sliding of the bows downwind showed they were under way.

He thought furiously. ‘Belay the last – get that anchor in!’

It could not have come at a worse moment. With the unusual on-shore south-westerly there was no time to take the turns of cable off the capstan, releasing the anchor to plunge down again, and therefore their only course was to get sufficient way on the ship to claw off.

‘Make sail!’

Canvas dropped and the topmen raced in as the yards were braced around to catch the wind, but instead of an orderly and relaxed departure L’Aurore was sent close-hauled across the busy roadstead to clear anchored ships.

Another shot came from the cutter.

‘See if we can heave to, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said tightly, eyeing the shore. There was less than a mile of usable water for any kind of manoeuvre – there had better be a very good reason for the boat’s antics.

L’Aurore passed through the cutter’s wind, obliging the little craft to tack about, making a sad showing that left Kydd fuming. He was on the point of ordering the frigate to bear away and make for the open sea when it finally closed with them. A figure in flamboyant dress on its foredeck shouted up indistinctly.

Gilbey made impatient signs to come alongside and hailed irritably: ‘What’s your business?’ With its small local crew and shabby look, it was obviously not a government vessel.

‘L’tenant Buckle, y’r third, come to join.’

Kydd swore. ‘Get him on board,’ he snarled to Gilbey. ‘As quick as you may.’ As he stumped back to the wheel he could hear some sort of altercation concerning baggage and ground his teeth.

They were perilously close to drifting down on a brig-sloop at anchor – he had to take action. But as he was about to give orders to bear away, an inbound merchantman altered course to pass them to seaward, cutting off their track out.

‘Get that looby inboard this instant!’ Kydd bellowed furiously.

It was going to be tricky indeed: how could he-

‘Flat out the headsails, douse the driver!’ he roared. With sternway beginning to make itself felt, they had to move now. He swivelled to glare at the quartermaster. If he forgot to reverse all helm orders-

‘Um, L’tenant Buckle, sir?’

Kydd ignored him. ‘Stand by at the braces!’ he bawled down the deck. It would need faultless timing if they were not to be caught aback.

‘Come aboard t’ join, sir.’ The man seemed to have no idea of the situation and was dressed in a green morning coat and pantaloons tucked into tasselled boots.

Kydd turned to stare at him. ‘Get out of my way, you infernal lubber! Can’t you see-’

Kendall broke in: ‘We has a chance, sir. See the sugar barge, done loading, and she’ll clear the merchant jack in a brace o’ shakes.’

He was right – as long as they had sufficient way on to ensure tight steering. But it would mean committing to the single course of action and if that failed …

‘We’ll do it,’ Kydd responded decisively. Thank the Lord he had a tried and trusty crew. ‘Brace around!’

L’Aurore was no longer clean-bottomed. Her last careening had been in far-away Cape Town, and it showed in her sluggish responses. Her bowsprit nevertheless swung obediently to aim like a rapier at the merchantman.

‘Er, what d’you want me to do, sir?’ Buckle said eagerly. A generous-sized portmanteau lay at his feet.

They picked up speed, the coral bottom flicking past in the crystal-clear waters. ‘Mr Oakley, double up the fo’c’sle hands. I want ’em to sweat when the time comes,’ Kydd threw at the boatswain.

‘Can I help at all?’ Buckle persisted.

Kydd saw red. ‘Get off the deck, blast y’r eyes. I’ll wait on your explanation later!’ he ground out, trying to see past him to the rapidly growing bulk of the merchant ship. Buckle stood irresolute and Kydd thrust him aside savagely.

‘Stand by, for’ard!’ he roared. But, as he had fervently hoped, close to the merchant ship the wind veered and eased.

‘Helm up!’

As they rounded the ship’s stern there were frightened faces at the rail on one side, and on the other the men at the sweeps in the barge simply gazed up in shock as the frigate swashed heavily past.

‘Wh-where shall I put my baggage, then, sir?’

Not trusting himself to speak, Kydd waited until L’Aurore emerged on the seaward side to take the breeze happily, leaning into it with a will as they made for the blessed expanse of the open sea.

‘Get below to the gunroom and wait until I send for you. Give him a hand, Mr Searle.’

They had done it, but the situation should not have arisen in the first place.

Course set westward and order restored, Kydd went to his cabin and summoned Buckle.

Leaning back at his desk he took in his new lieutenant. An agreeable-looking young man in his twenties, with an anxious-to-please expression, he was still in his wildly out-of-place shore clothing.

‘This is damned irregular, joining ship out of rig, Mr Buckle,’ rasped Kydd.

‘Oh, that’s because m’ friends insisted on a righteous send-off, is all.’ The accent was peculiar, touched with a slight Caribbean lilt.

‘And?’

‘Why, nobody thinks to see you put to sea so quick, an’ when they spy you ready to go, I threw m’ gear together an’ here I am.’

‘Was it you fired those shots?’

‘I did! Always take m’ duck gun everywheres and it surely came in handy this time.’

Incredulous, Kydd began, ‘You thought to fire away in a naval anchorage …’ He let it go rather than endure another explanation. ‘Be so good as to show me your orders, Mr Buckle.’

They were correct, the commission dated only the day before and with Cochrane’s signature. ‘Weren’t you in a sickly way betimes?’

‘Er, I took the fever an’ was landed from m’ last ship, but I know my duty when I sees it. When the call came, how could I not arise an’ answer?’

‘Quite. We’d better ask the doctor for a survey, just in case.’

‘Oh – that won’t be necessary,’ Buckle said hastily. ‘I’m feeling prime.’

Kydd frowned. There was something odd about the whole business. And the commission referred to Acting Lieutenant Buckle.

‘Do tell me something about your sea time, Mr Buckle – and I’m bound to tell you that in L’Aurore it’s customary to throw out a “sir” every so often.’

‘Aye aye, sir! Well, I starts in Mediator as a volunteer o’ thirteen years and-’

‘No, your last few commissions.’

It came out. From a prominent Barbados planter family, he had made midshipman at fifteen, managing to serve his entire career in the Caribbean, but had been unfortunate in the matter of promotion. His first service as lieutenant was in his previous ship and had been brief, terminated by a near-mortal but mysterious fever.

‘What, then, was your last ship?’

‘That would be fourth o’ Hannibal 74, Captain Tyrell. A hard man, sir, cruel hard!’

A midshipman with no shortage of interest, yet well past the usual age for a lieutenancy, was questionable, but what raised Kydd’s hackles was the suspicion that he had shammed illness in order to be quit of a lawful appointment – at Bowden’s expense. No wonder he had ‘recovered’ so quickly, the thought of shipping out in a frigate too good to miss.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Buckle. I mislike the cut o’ your jib. You’re not my idea of a naval officer and I doubt others on board L’Aurore will disagree. We’re at sea now and I don’t have a choice, but mark my words, sir, there’s no passengers on a frigate. If you’re not in the trim of a sea officer by Jamaica I’m having you landed as useless. Understand?’

‘You can count on me.’ Seeing Kydd’s expression, he squeaked hastily, ‘Um, sir!’

‘Go! And get in sea rig!’

With a sketchy salute, Buckle left hurriedly.

Sighing deeply, Kydd knew he had problems. He couldn’t let the ninny take a watch on his own. His first lieutenant Gilbey would have to stand his share, which would not please him. And what the hardened man-o’-war’s men aboard would think of Buckle to serve under …

‘Sir?’ It was the boatswain, knocking softly. He had an odd smile playing on his lips.

‘Yes?’

‘Bit of a predicament is all, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Mr Oakley didn’t often come across problems he needed to take to his captain.

‘Like, it’s the new lootenant. His dunnage don’t fit in his cabin. Three chests an’ other gear he has, sir.’

‘Has he, now. Then he’s to take what he wants as will stow, the rest to go over the side. Clear?’

Grinning openly, the boatswain turned to leave.

‘Oh, and ask Mr Curzon to attend me,’ Kydd added. Buckle would be second officer-of-the-watch to Curzon and Kydd decided to make him responsible so that there was no opportunity for his junior to create a disaster in the taut machine that was a thoroughbred frigate.

It was a fair wind for Jamaica, the reliable north-easterly trades nearly abeam with never a tacking to contemplate, the easiest blue-water sailing possible. Curzon had the deck. Hesitantly his second came up the hatchway and self-consciously fell in behind him.

The watch stared at him in wonder: not only was his uniform stiff new but he wore highly polished hessian boots, a cocked hat a shade too big and a marvellously ruffled shirt peeping out from under his coat.

‘Good God,’ Curzon spluttered, his own plain sea uniform green-tarnished and well-worn.

‘Hello,’ Buckle said brightly. ‘What do you want me to do at all?’

‘We’re on watch. I’m your senior – you call me “sir”.’

‘Oh, right, um, sir.’

‘You should have been here for the handover,’ Curzon said testily. ‘How else can you think to know your course and sail set?’

‘Well, I had s’ much trouble with that odious neck-cloth and things, I can’t think how-’

‘Course west-nor’-west, all sail to royals, nothing in sight,’ Curzon said impatiently.

‘That’s, er, all sail-’

‘If you don’t know, why not take a look at the quartermaster’s slate?’ Curzon’s words were heavy with sarcasm, for it was the officer-of-the-watch himself who chalked in the orders.

‘Aye aye, sir!’ Buckle went to the binnacle. ‘Er, do you mind if I take a look at your slate at all?’ he asked an astonished quartermaster, who handed it over without a word.

He returned to stand companionably next to Curzon. ‘I do want t’ get it straight, you see.’

Curzon rolled his eyes heavenward, then told him, ‘Those men forrard at the fore topmast staysail. They’re slacking – I want that tack hardened in properly. Go and stir them along.’

Buckle strode forward importantly and stopped at the group swigging off. ‘I say, you men! Come along, now – work harder!’

Returning, he was met with a stony-faced Curzon, who curtly ordered him to keep close behind for the remainder of the watch to mark and learn – and woe betide if he once opened his mouth.

Days passed and L’Aurore pressed deeper into the Caribbean. It was now well into the hurricane season and Kydd, who had reason to fear them from his experience of these waters in the past, took to tapping the barometer every time he went below. But the airs remained fine and settled.

In flying-fish weather the boatswain took the opportunity of doing what he could to fettle the rigging – turning worn ropes end for end so wear took place at another spot, re-reeving same-sized lines to different tasks and taking up stretched ropes where they had slackened. The sailmaker sat on deck in the sun, patching and seaming, helped by his mates and skilled able seamen. By the main-mast midshipmen took their instruction in sea skills from the older men.

The gunroom gathered for supper. With Curzon and Buckle in charge of the deck, Gilbey, now off-watch, was idly reading an old newspaper.

The boatswain came in, found his place and sat, tucking a napkin around his neck.

‘Are we a-taunt yet, Ben?’ rumbled the gunner, Redmond.

‘Not as would satisfy any blue-water sailor I knows.’ Oakley reached for the cold meats.

The master polished his spectacles. ‘Still an’ all, eleven knots on a bowline satisfies me.’

Gilbey lowered his paper and glanced around for pickles to add to his cheese as Curzon came in, shaking water off his hat. ‘You’ve left the deck to that damn looby?’ he asked sourly.

‘That, or be driven out of my wits before my time.’ He slumped into a chair and picked at the offerings. ‘The man shows willing, but …’ He gave a theatrical sigh.

‘We has to do something,’ Gilbey snapped. ‘I don’t fancy standing watch an’ watch for ever – which is what’ll happen if’n he’s landed in Jamaica. We’ll never find another l’tenant there.’

The warrant officers held silent: it was not their place to criticise an officer, but the gunner found a way. ‘Then there’s no word yet about a l’tenant at quarters, then, Mr Gilbey?’ he asked innocently.

That was the nub: this was a fighting frigate, and if their third lieutenant couldn’t be trusted to lead his men at quarters or to take charge of a division, what use was he?

There was only an unintelligible growl in response.

Clinton said mildly, ‘He’s a decent sort of chap, I find. Get him going about the Caribbean and he’s an entertainment well enough.’

‘As we need in a ship o’ war,’ snarled Gilbey, throwing down his paper. ‘How the fool got his step I’ve no clue.’

Renzi, as always in a corner chair, set down his drink carefully. ‘It might be profitable for us to consider his origins before going to judgement on the fellow.’

‘His origins?’ Curzon said warily. Renzi, with his learning, was accorded respect in their little world and all quietened to hear what he had to say.

‘Indeed. He’s born and bred a Barbadian, of a respectable family. So we must ask why, then, should he seek a life at sea?’

‘And?’

‘I believe he wishes to be at a distance from the life he was born into, even as he has a taking for his Caribbean world.’

‘A pity he thinks to be a sea officer.’

‘Er, I believe this, too, deserves our attention. Consider – his is not the life of ambition and ardour so warmly displayed in this gunroom. He harbours no desire to return, well promoted, to cold and unwelcoming England, to him a foreign shore. Therefore he contrives to see service in smaller, unnoticed vessels – your gun-brigs, cutters and similar, all of which carry little danger of unwelcome promotion.’

There were smiles of understanding around the table. ‘He’s badgered by his father for the sake of outward show to make something of this naval exile and passes as lieutenant. At this point the only way he can achieve his swab is to be appointed into a ship of size, which, unfortunately for him, is Hannibal, Captain Tyrell. I can only begin to imagine what he suffered before he thought to be taken by the fever.’

He ignored Gilbey’s ill-natured grunts, and continued, ‘Therefore we have before us an oddity, not to say curiosity, a naval officer whose entire existence has been within the confines of the very smallest of King George’s sail. Now I ask you to conceive of duty in such for a youngster forming habits of sea service. No big-ship ways to encourage him to a respectful understanding of our traditions, no ocean-going routines to fall in with, no taste of the puissance of the great guns. In short, he’s nearly as much a stranger to our life as the merest landman.’

‘If you saw him handle the men,’ Curzon drawled. ‘Good God! Even a-’

‘He was perhaps the only midshipman aboard,’ Renzi went on, with quiet conviction. ‘He must command hard men, some twice his age. With none to stand at his back, he finds a reasoned, mild approach more to his liking than hard-horse discipline, and I dare to say he’s well practised in the art. That our own tars do expect a more, er, hearty manner is not altogether his fault.’

The master coughed quietly. ‘It’s not unkind to say that he’s a little rum in his nauticals, as we might say. I saw him brace around wi’ men still on the yard and-’

‘It would be strange indeed if, after such an apprenticeship in coastal fore ’n’ aft rig, he’s as well practised in ocean square-rig, wouldn’t you say, Mr Kendall?’

‘You’re just takin’ the bonehead’s part!’ accused Gilbey.

‘Not at all,’ Renzi replied coolly. ‘I’m only pointing out that should you not recognise his limitations then you stand to be watchkeeping for months or years to come. The choice is yours, of course.’

‘Be damned to that jackass!’ Gilbey burst out. ‘If he don’t come it the sea officer soon, I’ll-’

‘Mr Curzon, sir,’ the mate-of-the-watch interrupted from the door, perfectly blank-faced.

‘What is it?’

‘Mr Buckle’s compliments, and … and could you come on deck instanter …’

Kydd had made up his mind about his third lieutenant well before raising Jamaica. They had neither the time nor the facilities to nurse a lame duck to something like effectiveness. If only he’d stayed in a ship-of-the-line where it was easier to absorb such a greenhorn … To be fair he’d recommend that he put in service with a bigger ship first but still discharge him in Kingston. Better to have no third lieutenant at all than a morale-sapping passenger taking up space.

He brightened. Jamaica: memories came warmly to mind of those times at the beginning of the war when he was there in the old Seaflower. There was no question but that this part of the world with its exotic and matchless beauty would be a splendid place for his lovely frigate to serve.

This time, though, he was an officer of distinction and quality, captain of his own ship, and he would not want for comforts. He would be revisiting with a very different pair of eyes.

A first spatter of rain brought him to reality: they were being pursued by the lofty white curtain of a line-squall advancing with the breeze, and its outliers were just reaching them. It took him back to hot afternoons in the boat-shed where he had worked, waiting for the deluge to pass, the red rivulets appearing as if by magic, staining the green transparency of Antigua harbour, and that distinctive warm, earthy smell.

It would be good to return.

Ahead, the horizon was obscured by another squall, the white drifting veil lazily moving across their vision.

‘Shorten sail, sir?’

‘No, I think not.’ He didn’t need to look at the chart: the only hazards between them and Jamaica were the Morant Cays, tiny islets with reefs over which the seas continually broke in a smother of white. In daylight, even through the rain, lookouts would spot these well in time.

The squalls thinned and lifted slowly to reveal the two-mile-long line of breakers over to starboard and well ahead.

‘Take ’em south about, a mile clear.’ As they had been so many times before, the cays were a reassuring token of where they were, a mere half-day’s brisk sail from Kingston, to the north-west.

Unexpectedly, over on the far side, the flutter of raised sail appeared. Two masts – and not square-rigged. The hull was hidden by the line of surf but it was obvious that the unknown craft had been anchored in the lee of the cays and on seeing them had cut his cable to run. Was this sudden flight the result of a guilty conscience?

‘Helm down!’ Kydd snapped. ‘Get after him!’

They were far upwind of the stranger and here the big square driving sails of the frigate would be decisive.

Interest quickened around the ship as word spread. Kydd’s swift action had placed the chase squarely ahead of them and even before they reached the islets it was clear that in the fresh conditions they could look to overhaul the vessel before dark.

It couldn’t be better: they would arrive in Kingston with a prize at their heel!

Speculation went back and forth. It was a schooner, raked masts and a black hull, no trader he – almost a caricature of a privateer and almost certainly lying in wait for inbound Jamaican traffic. It was their bad luck that the rain squall had hidden L’Aurore’s approach until it was almost too late.

Within a short time the schooner sheeted in for a dash to the north. Instantly Kydd had L’Aurore on a parallel course to keep upwind and closing slowly.

By rounding Morant Point at the eastern tip of Jamaica and staying ahead until darkness fell, it would be in a position where Kydd would be forced to guess whether it had decided to go to Hispaniola, Cuba or even out into the open sea to the west.

The move closer to the wind was not to L’Aurore’s advantage. With the fresh breeze now forward of the beam the schooner was more than holding its own and the two ships raced ahead, every line taut and straining. Soon after midday the flat, palm-studded Morant Point was in sight but now the schooner was well in the lead and before L’Aurore could come up with the low sprawl, its distinctive pink earth, the schooner had vanished behind it.

‘Sir, charts are talking of reefs offshore a mile, two?’

Kydd tried to recall when he had been last this way – but the small cutter that Seaflower was drew far less than a frigate. ‘Keep her away, then, Mr Kendall.’

It was giving the chase a further advantage but it couldn’t be helped. Mentally he decided on another hour or so beyond the point, and if they weren’t within striking distance, he’d drop it.

The rain squall caught up with them just before they rounded the point, the energetic downpour now an irritating inundation that dampened the spirit and hid their quarry. They pressed on resolutely through the rain-slashed sea until, after one more spiteful flurry, the air cleared.

The grandeur of the sapphire-misted Blue Mountains inland was little consolation for the fact that the schooner was nowhere to be seen. It must be ahead somewhere – or had it tacked about in the murk and even now was stretching away to Hispaniola? Very unlikely – the risk of the rain clearing to reveal them crossing ahead before the frigate’s guns was too much.

Then it must be beyond the next headland – Booby Point, according to the chart.

There was little to be gained in going to quarters – their size alone could be relied on to subdue any thought of resistance – but pulses quickened as they rounded it. Nothing.

Kydd felt a surge of irritation. ‘Clap on more sail,’ he told the master. ‘We’ll go direct and catch him before Northeast Point, only another hour or two.’ If not, he would have to accept they had made their escape.

In and out of the rain squalls L’Aurore sailed, but when they reached the north-east tip of Jamaica, there was still no sign.

‘Wear ship, if you please, we return,’ Kydd said heavily.

He watched Buckle fumble his duties at the main, saved only by Curzon’s bellowed intervention, and his growing annoyance that his triumphant return was spoiled took focus.

‘Mr Buckle to lay aft,’ he roared, and waited while the hapless lieutenant dithered over whether to abandon his men.

‘Sir, I’m to tell you that you’ll be landed at Kingston. You’ve no place in this ship.’

‘Sir?’

The crestfallen look that replaced his willing air nearly made Kydd weaken. ‘You’ve to learn your profession in a bigger ship first, I believe.’

‘I can get the knack, if you’ll-’

‘No. Get your gear together, Mr Buckle.’

His shoulders drooped as he turned to go. Then he stopped and said humbly, ‘Oh, could I tell you something?’

Kydd frowned.

‘It’s that I’ve heard of your reputation as a fighting captain and, er, I thought …’

If this was going to be an emotional confession …

‘Well?’

‘I, um, you see, I was worried you’d think it an almighty cheek should I tell you …’

‘What, pray?’ Kydd said, dangerously.

‘… where t’ go to hunt the chase.’

‘Oh? Where should I go, then?’

Taking a deep breath, Buckle began, ‘Y’ see, when I was a boy, we came to Jamaica and I went playing in the John Crow Mountains.’

‘And?’ said Kydd, heavily.

‘Going by raft all the way down the river. Rare fun!’ At Kydd’s look he caught himself and hurried on: ‘Right to the sea, we ends in a little harbour, not big at all – but snug in any nor’-easter.’

Buckle waited for a response, and when there wasn’t one he went on lamely, ‘When I was mid in the little Ibis I told Captain Hardison about it, and we always used it in place o’ Port Morant, and never the need to haul back after.’

‘And you think the schooner is there?’ Kydd snorted. ‘We’ve been close in with the land all the way up the coast and saw nothing.’

‘Ah, you wouldn’t. The spit o’ land we shelter behind is thick wi’ trees and you can see naught from seaward.’

Kydd grimaced, but decided it was worth a look. ‘Show me. You can read a chart?’

‘I can, in course,’ Buckle said, with a wounded expression. ‘I passed l’tenant! But I doubts we’ll see it there, it’s so small. Manchioneal Harbour, Mr Hardison calls it.’

‘It’s here,’ Kendall conceded. ‘No mention of holding ground, though.’

‘We’ll give it a call. What depth o’ water can we expect?’

‘Oh, not as would float a frigate,’ Buckle admitted. ‘I just thought, well, the schooner might be lying inside, like.’

Manchioneal Harbour was as he had said: from seaward it looked like an insignificant indentation in the coast, not worth the investigating.

Kydd gave orders that had L’Aurore heaving to well clear of the breakers driving inshore. ‘Take away a boat, Mr Gilbey, land on this side and peek through the trees. Mind you’re not seen, and return immediately with your report.’

The first lieutenant was soon back – the picture of satisfaction. ‘He’s there, sure enough,’ he called up, from the approaching boat. ‘Bung up an’ bilge free.’

‘Well done, Mr Buckle,’ Kydd conceded. ‘We have him now.’

The little harbour was as much a trap as a hideaway and they were the stopper in the bottle.

Yet one thing could bring everything to a halt. Although it was acting suspiciously, there would be no question of prize-taking if the vessel could prove it was neutral. Kydd decided that, as the officer most experienced at boarding, he would take the pinnace in himself. ‘Four marines and boat’s crew,’ he ordered. ‘And Mr Saxton,’ he added. A master’s mate rather than midshipman to take the tiller and add gravitas to the proceedings.

The boat surged in, sped on by the white combers, going beyond the spit and turning right into the harbour opening up inside.

And there was their quarry, sleek and low and lying to single anchor.

There was no identification but her lines seemed familiar to Kydd – was this a New England schooner, the like of which he had come across in his brief time in the United States as a lieutenant? As they approached, men appeared on deck, then the American flag jerked hastily up the main-mast.

This was going to be tricky, Kydd allowed: he’d had time to read only once his captain’s appreciation of the current legal situation between Britain and the United States in the West Indies. In essence, the Americans were strict neutrals by international law, allowing them to trade freely with both sides, but there had been developments that he’d not yet been able to study for their implications. If he was wrong in the details, there would not only be an international incident but he himself would be cast into ruinous damages.

As they came alongside he stood in the boat and hailed: ‘In the King’s name, I direct you to allow me aboard.’

An older man with seamed features pushed to the side and broke into a smile. ‘Ye’re English, thank the Lord! O’ course y’ may.’

A small Jacob’s ladder was flipped down and Kydd pulled himself up, Saxton following.

‘We thought you was Frenchies, you crackin’ on so serious as y’ were.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Elias Dale, master o’ the Orleans Maid.’

‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore. You’re American registry, then, Mr Dale.’

He gestured up. ‘That’s the Stars ’n’ Stripes sayin’ we are.’

‘Then you won’t object were we to take a sight of your papers.’

The smile eased a fraction. ‘Why, no, o’ course not. I’ll go fetch ’em.’

While he was away Kydd took in the scene on deck. If it was a trading vessel he was a Chinaman. Fine-lined, there would be no capacious hold to cram full to increase profits, and the four six-pounders appeared altogether too well looked after. And, as well, the silent men crowding the deck in no way had the look of common merchant seamen.

Dale returned quickly. ‘There you is, Cap’n.’

He thrust across a bunch of papers.

Well used to the ploy, Kydd passed them to Saxton to hold then selected them one by one to give each his full and individual attention.

Registered in New Orleans the previous year, the owners American, the port bound to was Charleston. So far, all seemed in order.

Kydd glanced up, sensing tension in the watching seamen. One tossed a marline spike from hand to hand – he fumbled and it fell on his toe. ‘Merde! J’ai envie de chier!’ he swore, hopping about.

Saxton caught Kydd’s eye, but Dale came in quickly. ‘A Frenchy from Dominica. I guess I c’n ship who I like, don’t you?’

Kydd scrutinised the manifest. Aloes from Curacao, indigo from Bonaire. And no bond listed to cover a valuable cargo?

‘I request that you’ll open your hold for inspection, Captain,’ he snapped.

‘You’ll rummage m’ ship?’ Dale said incredulously.

‘That’s what I said. If the goods in the hold match what’s listed in the manifest, you’re free to go.’

The man didn’t move. His face was tight.

‘Now, if you please.’

Kydd became conscious that there were even more men on deck, some advancing with violence in their eyes.

Dale held up his hand to them. ‘Now, I don’t reckon on the ruckus you’re causin’, Mr damn Kydd. You see, m’ men don’t take kindly to it and there’s one helluva lot more o’ them than you’ve got.’

‘You’d take on a frigate?’

‘Don’t have to, friend. There ain’t nothin’ above a brig can enter here, an’ you knows it. You’re on your own, and while you thinks on it, I can wait here as long as I likes.’

Kydd knew L’Aurore couldn’t stay indefinitely: a cutting out would be expensive in casualties against a well-manned and alert privateer, and if he sailed away to get more appropriate support it would release them to leave.

But he had something up his sleeve. He folded his arms and gave a tantalising smile. ‘I think you may be wrong about that,’ he said coolly.

‘Why, damn it?’

‘My ship carries twelve-pounders, Mr Dale.’

‘Ha! What’s that to me?’

‘At this moment I have one landed on the spit, and when it’s through to this side at, say, one or two hundred yards range, I doubt it’ll take much more than ten minutes to smash you all to flinders, sir.’

For a long moment the man stared at him, then sagged. ‘Then I guess you’ve got all the cards. What do we do?’

‘The hold, Mr Dale.’

His instincts had been right: what the Maid was carrying was most certainly not in accordance with the manifest. In fact, the rich assortment suggested quite another explanation.

Kydd gestured to the marines to come aboard. ‘Mr Dale. You fly the American flag yet you have plunder aboard that proves you to have been a-caper. Without a letter of marque and reprisal, my conclusion can only be that you are pirates, your hand set against each and any.’

‘Wha’-’

‘As pirates, therefore, no civilised nation will dispute that you’re beyond the law of man and deserving of extermination. I’m bound to hang each and every one of you on the spot. What do you say to that?’

It had the desired effect. Dale turned to look despairingly at a dark-featured seaman behind.

The man pushed him aside and, with a sullen bow, said, ‘Je suis le capitaine de la Pucelle d’Orleans, le corsaire.’ He drew out a document. ‘Mon lettre de marque.’

Trying not to let his satisfaction show, Kydd took it. He’d forced their hand: this was the true captain of the privateer, the American a convincing act.

‘Mr Saxton, strike that flag!’

His heart full, Kydd stood astride the quarterdeck with Renzi at his side as they approached Kingston harbour. He knew his friend must be aware of what he was feeling at the prospect of arriving back at the scenes of his youth. So much had passed. Would it be the same?

As they were a ship of significance a pilot was taken aboard at Port Morant, and he was free to enjoy a sight he had last seen from the tiller of a tiny cutter putting to sea on that fateful voyage when they had been overwhelmed by the raw forces of Nature.

And today there was to be no slipping in between Drunkenman’s Cay and the Turtle Head for a King’s frigate: it was the direct route between Lime Cay and Gun Cay, and close about Port Royal Point, the years melting away as well-known seamarks passed.

Rounding the low, sandy point they opened the harbour, and there at anchor was the Jamaica Squadron. They were relatively few, however: a single ship-of-the-line, two frigates and a number of sloops. The rest must be at sea, Kydd reasoned. At the masthead of the largest there was no admiral’s flag to salute but he recollected there was a fine admiral’s residence ashore.

L’Aurore glided into the anchorage, secured a place among the frigates, slipped her bower and found her rest.

‘I think I must make my number with the admiral, Nicholas. Should you wish to come ashore?’ Kydd asked politely, as he completed his full dress uniform.

‘In course, dear fellow. I am, like you, curious indeed to see if it’s the locus that has changed or myself.’

They made landing at the little pier at the end of one of Kingston’s streets. In the naval way of things, Poulden, as Kydd’s coxswain afloat, would do like service ashore and he was sent to engage transport.

The hot and dusty streets were as busy and colourful as ever, with the white-and-green-painted houses and tiny gardens with their profusion of tropical plants, the noise and babble of Jamaica on all sides.

Poulden returned with a ketureen, a light gig with a decorated sun-roof. Standing aside as the two boarded, he swung up next to the driver and ordered, ‘The Admiral’s Pen, y’ villain.’

There was a show of whip-cracking, and soon they were bowling along for the cooler hills above Kingston, the breeze of motion welcome.

The residence, with a large blue ensign lazily floating at the mast, came into view and they drew up at the door. ‘I doubt I’ll be long delayed, Nicholas. Do amuse yourself as you will, old fellow.’

Renzi was content to close his eyes and breathe in the fragrance of frangipani.

Kydd was greeted by the flag-lieutenant and conducted into the cool inner office of James Richard Dacres, vice admiral of the Blue. Kydd had heard that he had been on station since the beginning of Napoleon’s war, and his near fifty years of sea service had been steady and not undistinguished.

‘Captain Kydd, L’Aurore frigate new-arrived, sir,’ he reported.

‘Welcome, Mr Kydd. From the Leeward Islands Squadron, I believe, come to join our little band. And with a prize at your tail, I notice – you’ve a good notion of your duty, I see.’

There was a shrewd intelligence behind his genial manner, and Kydd answered with a guarded ‘I have indeed sir, being recently come from Buenos Aires.’

‘Ah. One of Mr Popham’s restless spirits. You’ll be able to tell me more of your southern adventuring on some other occasion.’

He paused for a moment, considering. ‘Now, sir. I can’t pretend that your presence is anything other than opportune, not to say pleasing. You’ve been in these waters before?’

‘Er, only as a youngster, sir.’

‘Yes, a midshipman’s view of things can never be accounted reliable. Well, I will tell you myself what will be your chief concerns on this station. The Leeward Islands Squadron is rightly preparing for a descent by a battle-squadron from the Atlantic, presumably commanded by one bolder than Villeneuve. Ours, however, is a very different war, Mr Kydd. I don’t have to tell you that these sugar islands are a fountain of revenue for the government, providing for all from coalition subsidies to the meanest fore-mast jack’s shilling.

‘But what we are seeing here, sir, is the imperilling of it not by fleets of men-o’-war but a piecemeal destruction by privateers. At Barbados the West Indies convoy assembles from all over the Caribbean for its voyage across the ocean and will be well escorted, but they must sail as independents from each sugar island before they reach there. I’m not able to provide escorts for all of them, so the others are ready prey for the corsairs that do infest these coasts.

‘Understand this is your prime task, Kydd. Exterminate the creatures where you can, deter and dismay by your presence otherwise. No privateer born can stand against a frigate and they know it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. This leads me to the next. While we bend our every effort to ensure our sugar cargoes reach England, we’re duty-bound to prevent the French from delivering theirs. Thus their ships are fair game to us but they’ve been shamelessly making use of neutrals, particularly the Americans who see no sin in playing both sides. The law is clear, however: both the French and our own Navigation Act forbid them to carry cargoes between colonies and the motherland. At the same time, though, it allows them to trade freely with the same colonies on their own account.’

‘I’d heard there’ve been legal developments.’

‘Ha! Yes, you’re right. Our American friends are found out. Their practice has been to take up French sugar on the pretence that this is their importing, but when they arrive in a United States port they turn their ship around and head for France with new papers that show it as goods produced at home for export.’

‘How then do we-’

‘This is what they term a “broken voyage”, and until a legal ruling recently, we’ve had to accept it. Now we look to see if Customs duty has been properly paid, cargo landed in bond and so forth as evidence that it’s not a continuous voyage. Take no rubbish of words – we have it from the highest Admiralty court that the onus is now on the neutral to prove it’s not carrying contraband.’

‘I see, sir.’

‘I’ll find a lawyer fellow to cover the detail for you – Rule of 1756, Orders in Council of May this year you won’t have seen, that kind of thing.’

‘I’d be grateful for a steer, sir, I will admit.’

‘Good. Don’t want you hoist by some pettifogging legal snag.’

He beamed. ‘A light frigate! Just the medicine to rid me of the vermin. And in so doing …’

‘Sir?’

‘Well, do I need to spell it out to you, Mr Kydd? Prizes! Our rightful recompense for service on this fever-ridden station. Have you objection to being enriched at the enemy’s expense?’

‘Why, no, sir!’

‘Then I expect you to be forward in your efforts to land a few more, for both our sakes. I’ll give you five days at Port Royal dockyard and then it’s out in all weathers, m’ boy.’

‘Five days, Nicholas. What we would have done with that before – raise a Bob’s-a-dying as would have ’em know our ship’s in port!’

‘While your silver lasts, as you’ll recall.’

‘Ah, here we have the Billy Roarers in port with a prize already in tow. The vice-admiralty court will condemn the Maid without too much ceremony, I believe, and then there’ll be cobbs for every man to celebrate it.’

He smothered a sigh, staring out of the stern windows at the glittering expanse of sea to the palm-fringed shore. ‘What I would have given for a fistful of prize money before …’

‘I do seem to recollect that you seemed to have done quite well without, as saw you in a mort of pother.’

With a lazy smile Kydd was obliged to agree, then went on, ‘But I own that being a frigate captain has its compensations, the doors to society among them. Speaking of which, I do look forward to seeing Richard again.’