Caribbee

Chapter 6

It was showy, but Kydd couldn’t resist His Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore returning to her harbour home of Port Royal proudly at the head of a procession. Not one or two but four prizes followed in her wake at regularly spaced intervals, each with the ensign of the Royal Navy above that of the vanquished. They weren’t the largest or most spectacular ever seen, and one in the amount of salvage only, but Kydd was confident it would put the admiral in the right frame of mind when he explained about the tender.

‘North settin’ current,’ the master warned, eyeing the less-than-hundred-yard gap between Gun Cay and tiny Rackham Cay. It was a tricky passage, but Kydd knew the current’s effect would be offset by the balmy north-easterly. Kendall was right to bring it to his notice but this more direct course had the advantage that their approach would lead them close by the land for all to admire his little show.

They proceeded around Port Royal Point and into Kingston Harbour, punctilious in their salutes. Kydd allowed a smile at the thought of the words of jealousy aboard Northumberland at the sight of the pretty frigate arriving with prizes at her tail.

The admiral’s flag was at the main, so he could pay his call immediately instead of taking carriage to the residence on the hill. He went below to change, reflecting that he would remember this time in his naval service as one of contentment, the larger war somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic and Bonaparte caged in Europe, powerless to affect this agreeable existence.

His gig put off for the flagship. Kydd had laid out his own money to revarnish the boat and then embellish it with Lincoln green inside, scarlet fittings and a peep of gold-leaf about the carvings of the stern-sheets. If L’Aurore was going to be a long-term feature of the Caribbean scene he wanted her to look the part. He mused idly that he should probably give thought to a residence ashore, a place to spend time out of the ship, acquire curios, perhaps, and to throw open for occasions of a social nature.

The boat had nearly reached the flagship and, as he looked about the familiar harbour, he wondered why there seemed to be so many ships. The small naval squadron was the same. It was the merchant shipping that was more numerous, some rafted together at anchor. Were they reluctant to put to sea for some reason? That didn’t make sense, for if that was the case the naval ships would be out dealing with whatever the threat was.

He shrugged, and they hooked on at the main-chains. His action had resulted in prizes and he passed over the bulwarks to the keening of the boatswain’s call with a light heart.

‘Captain.’ The first lieutenant greeted him, but his features were tense and lined. ‘I’ll see if the admiral is able to see you, sir.’ He hurried off, leaving Kydd on the quarterdeck.

Something was wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

A couple of lieutenants stood together to one side, talking in low tones.

‘Boney’s master-stroke, I believe,’ said one, his face grave. ‘As not to say, a war-winner.’

‘It’s got Dacres in a whirl, right enough,’ the other agreed. ‘Helpless, can’t do a thing to stop it.’

Kydd went over to them. ‘I’ve been at sea – what’s this about Bonaparte striking back?’ he demanded. He couldn’t help recalling Renzi’s foreboding that there would be some form of malevolent avenging of Trafalgar – was it now to be revealed?

‘Ah, I do think the admiral should give you the news himself, sir.’

Before Kydd could press the matter, the first lieutenant returned. ‘He’ll see you now, Captain – if you’ll be quick,’ he added, with embarrassment.

Dacres was at his desk, his flag-lieutenant by his side and two clerks at work nearby. He looked up, distracted. ‘Kydd. Um, a fine sight, your prizes. Well done. Anything to report?’

‘Sir,’ Kydd began guardedly, ‘I saw fit to employ my first prize as a tender in the getting of more and-’

‘Yes, quite, but we have more pressing concerns at the present time. You’ve been at sea and won’t have heard. Napoleon Bonaparte has made his move, and I cannot deny that it’s a great blow to this nation. The man’s a devil and a genius.’

‘But, sir, what is it that-’

‘You wouldn’t credit it! Conceives of a way to reach out and destroy us here in the Caribbean where all the time we’ve been living in a fool’s paradise thinking he could not.’

‘Sir, if you’d-’

‘No time to explain it now. Here – take this. It’ll tell you everything. We’ll be having a council-of-war shortly to see if we can do anything at all to head off the worst, and until then I’ll bid you good-day, sir.’

Kydd tucked the single sheet he’d been passed into his waistcoat and left. Outside, the first lieutenant was apologetic. ‘It’s not a good time for him right at present. There is a meeting tonight at Spanish Town. Every planter and bigwig in these islands will be there baying for blood – anyone’s!’

Consumed by curiosity, it was all Kydd could do to wait until he was seated in his gig on the way back before he drew out the paper.

It was ill-printed on cheap stock and in French, manifestly produced in mass for wide circulation. ‘From the Imperial Camp at Berlin. Napoleon, Emperor of the French and King of Italy …’

It was a decree. He scanned it quickly. To begin with there were nine clauses: aggrieved reasons why his enemy was in breach of international law and usage:

‘… that England does not admit to the right of nations as universally acknowledged by all civilised people …’ Kydd snorted. The hypocrisy of Bonaparte, whose armies on the march routinely robbed and plundered rather than trouble with a supply train.

And ‘… this conduct in England is worthy of the first ages of barbarism, to benefit her to the detriment of other nations …’ This was only the usual diatribe fawningly reported by the Moniteur – or was it?

The second part was a series of eleven articles to constitute henceforth ‘the law of empire’ for France and her dominions in retaliation.

Riffled by the wind and with the motion of the boat it was difficult to take in all the details from the sheet – maritime law, blockade, prizes and neutral trade. What was it that had caused such consternation? This would need more careful attention than he could give here and he put it away, aware of curious eyes on him.

As soon as he was in his cabin he sent for Renzi.

‘Flag’s in an uproar, Nicholas.’ He slapped down the paper.

Renzi scanned it once, then reread it carefully. ‘A blockade of all of Great Britain? This is unprecedented in history, of course. Blockade is for the purposes of investing a port or ports for a military purpose, not for the strangling of a whole nation.’

Kydd got up abruptly. ‘I’m calling a meeting of all officers. This has to be known. I’d like you to stay.’

They appeared suspiciously promptly, and the paper was passed around.

‘Barbaric,’ Curzon said, with studied cynicism. ‘Here it says every subject of England found anywhere, whatever their rank or condition, is hereby made prisoner of war. So Boney is making war on women and children, then?’

‘Yes, but to the main points,’ Kydd said brusquely. ‘For the benefit of those without French, could I ask Mr Renzi to summarise?’

‘Well, to begin with, the British Isles are declared to be in a state of blockade.’

‘And?’

‘Consequently, all commerce with such in the wider sense is prohibited. This to include such things as correspondence – Bonaparte here is even going to the length of condemning any letter or packet addressed in the English language itself.’

‘Thank you, Nicholas. The main points?’ Kydd prompted.

‘All trade or merchandise exchange with England or its possessions is forbidden. This is defined as any property that is in any way to the interest of a subject of the Crown, anywhere in the world, and is subject to confiscation on the spot. Any vessel on the high seas that contains the property of an Englishman is an accomplice to our iniquity and is therefore declared good prize.’

Renzi gave a dry smile, adding, ‘And half the proceeds of such confiscation go to merchants who have suffered at the hands of our evil frigates and privateers.’

It didn’t get a response.

‘And, finally, it seems that a vessel of any flag touching first at an English or colonial port is to be treated as if it flew the British flag and is condemned.’

There was silence as the implications became clear. ‘This is nothing less than a complete lock-down of England,’ Curzon said in awe. ‘Nothing can move.’

‘The admiral is in a taking, I’ll confide,’ Kydd said. ‘There’s really nothing he can do. We’re stretched thin and he can’t possibly provide more escorts. I’d think Barbados is in the same way. Weaken the squadron by taking escorts and we lie open to being crushed by a raiding battle-fleet.’

‘In this station we’d be in a similar moil, I’d think,’ Curzon came in, ‘should we be asked to provide escorts. We’ve nowhere near enough, and if that’s what they have to do all the time, then the privateers will take their chance to return in strength, the vermin!’

There was little point in going further in a formal way so Kydd extended an invitation to supper that night where discussion over wine would allow feelings to be expressed.

He turned to Renzi. ‘Nicholas, there’s to be some kind of meeting in Spanish Town, the chief people of the island to muster together to contemplate developments. I dare to say the Navy will not be invited in particular. I’m wondering if you can perhaps lay alongside your brother and let me know which way the wind blows?’

‘It’s ruination! We’re to be pauperised!’ The anguished voice rang out clear above the bedlam in Merchant’s Hall.

‘Sit down, you ninny!’ Renzi’s brother shouted in exasperation. ‘We’ll work something out – but only if we keep our heads.

‘I do apologise, Nicholas. They’re rare exercised and can’t see that this is a time for cool thinking if ever there was.’

Fuming, the chairman threw down his gavel and folded his arms while he waited for order as other despairing shouts echoed about.

‘What about demurrage?’ a hoarse voice near them boomed. ‘Costing me guineas an hour, stap me.’

‘I’ll have y’ know I’m out for two hundred thousands if I can’t get away this season’s yield.’

It was becoming impossible.

The one point of agreement had been that the decree struck at the very heart of their enterprise – and at the moment they could see not a thing they could do about it. Angry and frightened, they were lashing out at anything.

A neatly dressed planter with a spade beard twisted round in his seat and said soberly, ‘You’ll be selling up by year’s end, Richard, mark my words.’

‘Damn Bonaparte’s hide!’ Laughton ground out. ‘Just past a difficult year and now we’re to lose everything. It’s insupportable.’

He stood up suddenly. ‘No point in staying here just to hear all this wailing. Let’s go, Nicholas.’

They shuffled down the row to leave; the bearded planter got up and left with them.

Outside Laughton drew a deep breath. ‘There’s no denying it. We’re in a funk. I can’t see a way out of this.’

He paced ahead in a frenzy of bitterness and frustration. ‘With no warning – out of the blue so we couldn’t prepare. I rather fear …’

Renzi tried to sound encouraging. ‘The Navy can find you escorts, brother. And none can stand against our frigates.’

Laughton turned back abruptly. ‘Spare me your nostrums, Nicholas. It’s far too serious for that. Convoys only start at Barbados. How do you suppose that, with several hundred individual sailings a month from all over the Caribbean, they’re going to find ships enough to stay by each one? It’s nonsense and you know it.’

‘I only wanted to-’

‘I’m sorry I spoke hastily, Nicholas.’ He managed a grin. ‘You’ve a fine mind and deserve to know why it’s so monstrously difficult for us.’

He paced on for a few more steps, then said, ‘You’re concerned for your naval situation, and rightly so. We’re on quite another plane and our worries more direct. Have you seen in Kingston Harbour, brother, the quantities of ships lying in idleness? You put it down to our fear of what Boney has waiting out there on the high seas. For us this is the least of our concerns, believe me, the very least.’

‘I don’t understand, Richard. I take it they have full cargoes, ready to sail – then what other reason can there be to keep them back?’

‘Dear fellow, you cannot see it, and can’t be expected to. The sting in Napoleon’s decree lies not in the threat to destroy our ships, which I doubt he can achieve, but in its very different and brutally effective result. Nicholas, he’s closed the continent to us, destroyed our market. Those ships are laden with our sugar well enough but cannot sail – they have no destination. The commercial paper written against their safe arrival is worthless on both sides – we cannot deliver, therefore to sail is useless.’

‘How is it closed, exactly?’

‘Article four: all property of an English subject is declared lawful prize, of any origin and wherever found. What this means is that no neutral will touch an English cargo or be deemed an accomplice, especially since the decree additionally states that any neutral touching at a port of England or its colonies is deemed to be in collusion for the purposes of trade and will automatically be seized.’

‘Do pardon my ignorance on the matter, Richard, but the continent has been for some time under the heel of Napoleon. How, then, until now was it possible for an Englishman to sustain trading links with it?’

‘In course by the usual business practices. We have our own commercial agents in ports all over Europe, issuing notes against banks in England for our cargoes. These were carried in neutral bottoms and, while attracting the usual Customs exactions, were otherwise left alone. It may surprise you to learn that by this means it’s been possible for me to trade with France itself.’

‘It does indeed, dear fellow. Especially so since Mr Pitt’s Traitorous Correspondence Act treats trading with the enemy as a crime of high treason.’

‘As with all things in business, brother, do read the small type with diligence. The Act does not forbid the trading, rather its nature. Materiel of use to the military is of course prohibited but nowhere do I see sugar so proscribed. A little thought will reveal that the draining of French gold to pay for English produce has much to commend it, and there are Midland manufactories who are getting rich supplying to France and its subjects what they crave.’

Renzi came back, ‘It did cross my mind that, in your own case, our assault and taking of the French islands here, together with our diligent hunting down of their shipping, does favour you with a receptive market and high prices.’

‘True, we’ve done well – but now that’s a thing of the past. All British subjects in French territory are made prisoners of war. There go our commercial agents, leaving none to negotiate business. No neutrals will carry our goods – and that includes cargo from other sugar-producing countries around the Caribbean, for if we buy an interest in their crop it renders the whole subject to confiscation and they won’t allow it.’

Renzi gave a grim half-smile. The intricate web of international commercial relations was now shattered, the delicate threads of trust and faith at the core of international trading, which allowed the continuation of life-giving commerce in the midst of global war. It wouldn’t be the sugar industry only, even if it was the biggest wealth producer, but also the goods pouring out of the factories as a result of the revolution of industry in which Britain was leading the world.

‘Then there’s insurance,’ Laughton went on bitterly. ‘When premiums go much above ten per centum, profit on the voyage dwindles to nothing and at present, for fear of what Boney will do next, the rates are beyond reason.’

‘So you are at a stand, Richard.’

His brother gave a bleak smile. ‘Except that it is not to be borne. While our ships lie idle we must pay a per diem demurrage to allow our sugar to rot in the hold, an expense we cannot carry indefinitely. Yet we cannot sail for lack of market and increasing insurance rates. To sail – or not to sail. Nicholas, this is a dilemma for us. It makes trivial a decision such as to go with sugar or is it to be coffee, and is for myself the hardest I’ve ever faced.’

Aboard L’Aurore Kydd listened soberly to Renzi’s account of the meeting in Spanish Town. It seemed his friend’s sense of foreboding had been fulfilled. Napoleon had delivered his devilish counter-stroke and, because it was in the realm of commerce and economics, the Navy were helpless to do anything about it.

‘I can find no comfort to offer Richard other than that we carry on to do our duty,’ he told Renzi. It was a strange and disturbing feeling, being under threat of an enemy that could not be settled by sailing out to meet him in battle.

‘Meanwhile our orders are the same. Keep the seas to put down any privateers or such as show their faces – although with none of our shipping abroad I can’t see how they’ll bother.’

Then he handed a letter across. ‘This morning’s mail. From our late and much lamented third lieutenant. As my confidential secretary I think you’re entitled to see it, old chap.’

It was in Bowden’s strong, neat writing but on the front and reverse it had ‘in confidence’ written in capitals across the top.

‘To you. And asking for advice.’

‘Yes – read on.’

…

and so I suppose I’m asking you for counsel. I know my duty, that is clear, but the situation aboard has worsened to an alarming degree and I’m vexed to know what is the best course to take in the circumstances for the sake of all concerned …

‘Tyrell. Coming it the tyrant still.’

…

the topman came down from aloft as bid, but before he could be seized by the master-at-arms he cast himself into the sea and was lost. The four men on deck who called out in horror were taken and are to be flogged for contumacy. Moreover the entire starboard watch are under stoppage of grog for a week, occasioned by his hearing wry talk at their supper and none to own to it, and are as a consequence mutinous and intractable.

What is most disturbing is what is happening in the wardroom. They are a sullen, moody crew, for all believe the other is carrying stories to Captain Tyrell, for he knows what each is doing and saying and they durst not venture an honest opinion. I keep my counsel if asked, for if pressed it would be difficult not to betray what I think to be the true reason, that is, the captain is constantly prowling and spying on us privily …

Troubled, Renzi looked up from the letter. ‘These are not the actions of a balanced individual, dear fellow. Has he-’

‘Go on.’

…

while ashore he drinks himself to oblivion, but at sea he never touches a drop that ever I’ve seen. But for all that, the night watches are much put out of countenance because it is his practice to roam the decks under cover of dark – but curiously, if he encounters any man, he does not notice, looking by him and pacing on. Mr Kydd, I’m concerned that should we fall in with the enemy we shall not make a good accounting …

‘You’ll find some position he should take, will you not?’

‘How can I? Tyrell is captain under God and has done no wrong by the Articles of War. It’s the sea service and he wouldn’t be the first hard-horse captain hated by those under him. And on deck at night – does every mortal always command a good sleep?’

‘Still, I take pity on poor Bowden.’

‘If Tyrell had friends by him they’d ease his course but he has none.’

‘Of his own doing,’ Renzi said drily.

‘He has an unfortunate manner, true, but does it make him a lesser commander? As a King’s officer Bowden has a loyalty to his captain that must prevail over all. There is no other course.’

‘So. We sail this afternoon,’ Kydd said, helping himself to another warm roll. ‘I’m to circumnavigate this island of Jamaica, our presence a deterrent and comfort, I’m told. I rather fancy it will be a leisurely voyage, time for once not being of the essence.’

Tysoe noiselessly cleared away the breakfast things and went for more coffee.

‘The only question to be faced is whether this is to be conducted clockwise or the other. What do you think, old trout?’

‘We’ve seen much of the east, would not a west-about route now be in order?’

The coffee arrived and Kydd had an idea. ‘Tysoe – you hail from hereabouts, don’t you?’

‘From this island, yes, sir,’ he said quietly.

‘Which part, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I was born at Breadnut Island Pen, which is in Westmoreland County, sir,’ he answered softly.

‘Um, and where’s that?’

‘Out to the west, as far as you may go.’

‘Tysoe, how would you like to visit your mother and father? If they should be in good health, that is.’

He held still and then whispered, ‘That would be good, sir, very good.’

‘How long has it been since last you saw them?’

‘Sir, I was eight years old when taken from them.’

‘Eight! How so?’

‘A captain in the Navy thought to take home to England a little black page-boy. It was the fashion then, sir.’

‘But your parents-’

‘Were slaves, sir.’

‘Oh, I see. Er, what happened to you after then, Tysoe?’ Kydd asked. He had acquired him years ago in Canada as a junior lieutenant, when no other would have him as servant, and realised now that he knew little of his previous history.

‘I was in service with the Duke of Rutland until I …’

Became too big to be a pretty page-boy, thought Kydd. But then how would it have been to grow up the only black boy below stairs with the servants, and no one to look out for him? There must be depths to Tysoe’s character that he’d never suspected.

‘Then I was seen and taken up by a sea officer who was of a noble family and wished to have about him one of polite accomplishments, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.’

‘Captain Codrington?’

‘No, sir. That was later, when I came under his notice and he arranged to have me as his personal chamberlain in Tremendous 74, in the Mediterranean,’ he said, with quiet pride.

It must have been a bitter blow when the aristocratic Codrington had died of a stroke in his own great cabin, leaving Tysoe in Halifax without employment to fend for himself. He must have felt he’d come down in the world when the raw Lieutenant Kydd had asked for him.

‘And now you’re here in L’Aurore, and with more sea service than myself, I’d wager.’

‘Oh, no, sir, that cannot be,’ Tysoe said shyly.

‘Well, we’re off to west Jamaica this afternoon. Have you a thought for what you’ll give them both?’

Leaving the feverish atmosphere of Kingston, L’Aurore spread her wings for the open sea. As always, Kydd felt a lift of the heart at the first rise and fall of a live deck responding to a grand seascape – sparkling, clear and limitless. Orders were essentially simple: to show themselves, to be seen for what she was – a powerful agent of the Crown, able to express the resolve of Britain to defend what was hers wherever it might be.

The muted talk of Curzon and Gilbey on the other side of the quarterdeck, however, was of Napoleon Bonaparte and his war-winning strategy.

Away from the Hellshire hills and past Portland Point, they went looking into the wide reaches of Long Bay, with the prospect of a night at anchor off the steep sides of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

The wind dropped and they were left to enjoy the warmth and splendour of a Caribbean evening, gazing directly into the vast broadness of a spectacular tawny orange sunset. It was difficult to conceive of a wider world locked in war while sitting in wardroom chairs on the quarterdeck, watching the majestic sight with a glass of punch in hand and exotic scents wafting out from the land on the soft breeze.

The next day saw a leisurely sail past marshes and mountains until they reached the tiny old sugar port of Savanna La Mar. Keeping well off the reef-strewn approaches, Kydd sent in a boat, which returned with no news of strange sail and they sailed on.

Tysoe maintained a dignified manner but it was surprising how often he needed to adjust the stern-windows, be on deck to check the direction of the wind and linger as they rounded South Negril Point and glided past the lonely wilderness of the Great Morass towards the north.

Long before their anchor plunged into the impossibly lovely sea-green transparency of Bloody Bay, Tysoe was ready on deck. He was dressed plainly but that did nothing to conceal his patrician bearing and gentle manner. The bundle by his side was not large but well tied, his face unreadable as he surveyed the unexceptional seashore.

‘It’s been a long time …’ Kydd said, unsure how to bridge the distance between the captain of a King’s ship and his valet – and also how to reach out to someone whose parents might still be slaves.

‘Yes.’

‘Um, your parents … are they still, er, slaves?’

Tysoe tore his gaze away and said softly, ‘No, sir. The older Mr Thistlewood in his kindness manumitted them. They have a small patch to grow and sell foodstuffs and they are content.’

Relieved, Kydd said more briskly, ‘Well, I find that the boatswain requires time to, er, rattle down the larboard main-shrouds, which will mean we must delay sailing a further day. Be sure to be back aboard by the daybreak after next. Will that be enough?’ he added, in a softer tone.

‘It will, I’m sure. And I’m beholden to you for your thoughtfulness, sir.’

‘Well, here’s something I want you to give them from me,’ he said, handing over a small package. ‘Off you go – you know the way?’

There was a gentle smile. ‘I do.’

He boarded the boat, and as the crew bent to their oars, he looked back once. Kydd was startled to see the glint of tears in the eyes of the man he had known for so long, and at the same time had never known.

‘A fine thing you did today, dear fellow,’ Renzi murmured.

‘A good man, it was nothing, really.’

Collecting himself, Kydd said, ‘On another matter entirely, it seems to me a damned waste of splendid scenery were we not to do something about it. I have it in mind to call a Ropeyarn Sunday for the hands tomorrow, and shall we step ashore? I’ve a yen for a spell on land.’

Was it the wafting breeze carrying the warm scent of sun-touched flowers or was it the sight of the lazy sweep of pristine beach beyond the crystal depths? Kydd was gripped by the sudden feeling that he and his ship were under notice – that these days of idyll and beauty couldn’t possibly last and were about to be cut short by the brutality of war. It brought to his mind the ironic name of this place of tranquillity and allure: Bloody Bay.

‘Nicholas, I’ve a sense we’re not long to enjoy this paradise and I mean to make the most of our situation.’

‘Odd. I have the same sentiment,’ Renzi murmured. ‘And the same hankering.’

Kydd smiled. ‘Ask the boatswain to lay aft, if you please. I have plans.’

At dawn the first boats headed inshore, over the pellucid water, to hiss to a stop in the bright sand. Laughing delightedly, barefoot sailors splashed ashore with gear and, under directions from a jovial Oakley, began setting up for the day.

First there was the pavilion: a masterly contrivance that saw a topsail spread to vertical oars and robustly stayed, with, inside, tables of barrels and planks. Then, in deference to the officers, another was constructed at a suitable distance with the softer cotton of boat sails, and well equipped with chairs, a table and items of civilised ornamentation suspended decorously from the leech cringles of the sail.

It was time: the signal went up and the remaining L’Aurores swarmed ashore. Wearing togs of every description, they were ferried to the beach where they broke loose, like children, running up and down, splashing each other and behaving as utterly unlike man-o’-war’s men as was possible. Some had brought their hammocks, which they tied between palm trees, while others lay in the shade, smoking their clay pipes and yarning.

The inevitable cricket pitch was laid out and a noisy game of larboard watch against starboard began, while still others simply wandered along the near-mile length of the beach, revelling in the break with discipline.

When Kydd arrived, Rundle the cook was in despair at the arrangements. ‘How’s I going to bring the scran alongside without I have m’ coppers?’ he groaned.

Trooping back aboard to be fed was not to be contemplated by free spirits. ‘Toss the salt pork on a fire,’ one sailor offered.

‘Burgoo an’ bananas,’ came in another.

‘Well, what do the folks around here do for a bite, then?’ a third said in exasperation.

Nobody seemed to have an answer – but Kydd knew someone who would. ‘Where’s Mr Buckle?’

‘Why, he’s officer-of-the-watch in L’Aurore, sir!’ As junior that was of course where he was, lord of a near-deserted vessel.

‘He’s to step ashore and report.’

Buckle soon saw what was needed. ‘It’s a barbacoa as is used, sir. May I …?’

‘Certainly – you’re in charge.’

In the centre of the beach seamen were set to excavate a pit and light a fire to which was added a number of large stones to get white hot. Others trotted respectfully behind Buckle as he approached the curious villagers, who had collected to take in the diverting sight of ‘koonermen’ rollicking ashore. In fluent native Creole, he negotiated the purchase of a pig and had it slaughtered, dressed and wrapped in banana leaves.

It was placed in the pit and thick maguey leaves were piled on top. By the time the morning had developed into a beautiful day, mouthwatering aromas were already drifting about the beach.

That wasn’t the end of Mr Buckle’s talents. He endeared himself to the seamen when he fashioned a strop around his girth and used it to shin up a palm tree to cut down coconuts for all hands.

After that it seemed churlish to Kydd to send him back to exile in the frigate, so Buckle took delight in instructing the stewards on the most delectable ingredients for a punch and how the old-time pirates had made a buccan, the wooden frame on which meats were smoked to preserve them.

As Kydd lazed in his chair he felt that life needed little more to achieve perfection. The enveloping warmth of the sun, tempered by the breeze over the sea, worked on his body and he eased into a delightful torpor. He had only to open his eyes and there was his trim frigate no more than a couple of hundred yards before him; the thought that he was actually being paid and honoured to take the lovely vessel across the ocean, away from the rain and cold of England to this Elysium, tugged his lips into a smile.

Renzi had a book, which he was reading with a smile of contentment, and on the table was their punch and exotic tropical fruits.

Left alone with his thoughts Kydd drifted off to sleep as the heat increased to midday and the noisy rollicking on the beach subsided.

As the afternoon sea-breeze began gently to blow, the pig was at last declared well and truly cooked. It was quickly surrounded by ravenous sailors, but Buckle had it well organised: following Kydd’s lead, the wardroom nobly declined their droits of the joint and took equal shares with the men. The pig’s left side was declared for the larboard watch, the right for the starboard. Further, in accordance with parts-of-ship, the fo’c’sle hands took the forward portion, the waisters the midships and the afterguard the rump end. To even things out, choicer cuts were smaller in size but could be bartered for larger but less favoured pieces.

The entertainment this provided lasted for some time, helped by a ceremonial issue of two-water grog from a tub decorated with exotic blossoms. The beach, facing directly into the setting sun, was then treated to the majesty of another Caribbean sunset. The evening drew quickly in, a warm and sensuous tropical dusk tinged with violet. All too soon shadows deepened and it was time to return to the ship before it became too dark to see.

As Kydd had intended, it had been a time to remember, to be put away tenderly for future times when their mortal existence itself would be under threat.

The following morning L’Aurore readied for sea.

Kydd was prepared to be generous in the interpretation of ‘daybreak’ but when the sun was well up, the ship gone to sea-watches and the first lieutenant pointedly checking his fob watch, it was time to take action.

It was unlike Tysoe to be late – he, who would berate the steward for bringing up the breakfast a minute past six bells: it was incomprehensible that he would be adrift from leave.

‘I’ll not sail without the villain,’ Kydd swore. A quick note was written, politely requesting the plantation owner of Breadnut Island Pen to remind Tysoe of his duty to be back aboard and this was given to a midshipman to deliver.

Hours later he had not returned. ‘This is insupportable, sir,’ Gilbey complained. ‘A King’s ship held on account of a laggardly servant and dawdling reefer! We have to get about our business – leave ’em both to cool their heels until we’re next this way.’

‘You’re forgetting yourself, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd retorted. ‘Mr Tysoe is ashore on a mission.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ There was disbelief in his tone that rankled with Kydd.

‘Yes, he is! If there’s to be a slave revolt, who better to send in to discover it?’ This was at least half true; Kydd had conjured up the excuse for later, if any at the admiral’s office queried his resting at anchor in this distant quarter.

Nevertheless there had to be a limit. Mentally resolved to weigh anchor at midday he was relieved to see the boat return shortly before, but it held only the dusty figure of young Searle.

‘I’m to give you this,’ the lad said, handing over a note.

It was short, but to the point.

On the matter of this Tysoe, I thank you, Captain, for your politeness in returning my property, one Quamino

.

Y^r obed^t etc. Daniel Thistlewood, owner

.

‘What does he mean by this?’ Kydd said in astonishment. ‘Did you see Tysoe, at all?’

‘I did, sir. In the house only for a moment, then he was sent away, sharp like.’

For some reason Tysoe had been mistaken for a runaway slave and had been taken up. Time was short and this needed settling quickly at the highest level. Kydd saw there was only one way to get it done: to go himself.

‘How far is it?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, at the foot o’ the mountains, ’bout four miles, sir. I had to walk,’ Searle said apologetically. ‘I didn’t have the coin to hire a horse ’n’ trap.’

Swearing to himself, Kydd told Gilbey, ‘Stand down sea-watches. I’m going to fetch the rascal. Mr Searle will accompany me. Do you wish to come, Mr Renzi?’

As always, even a hundred yards into the land the air changed – from the sea where at least a zephyr could nearly always be relied on to a still, enclosing heat, wreathed with the odour of dust and animal droppings. Kydd was thankful when the hired cart got under way and there was a breeze.

He waved away the inevitable flies, reflecting sourly that making even a single mile out to the open sea they would all vanish, defeated by the cleanliness of a ship.

But he was here because of Tysoe. It was not only the recollection of years of faithful service, but also the intolerable thought of his noble self spending the rest of his days as a plantation slave.

Beside him, Renzi said nothing, calmly observing the scrubby landscape. Kydd was darkly amused to see Searle sitting bolt upright, keeping ‘eyes in the boat’, as if with the captain in his gig.

The cart ground on until at last there was a hedge of sorts each side of the road, leading to the plantation Great House, a sprawling white edifice with a dark-varnished veranda and set about with blossoms.

They descended at the entrance and a white-clad houseboy appeared. ‘Captain Kydd to see Mr Thistlewood,’ Kydd told him, but a figure emerged from the house and pushed him aside.

‘I’m Thistlewood,’ snapped the thick-set man in leather boots and wide hat, his face hard and deeply tanned. ‘What’s your business?’

Kydd removed his hat politely. ‘I’m here to set right a little matter, if I may. I gave leave for my manservant to visit his parents and he’s failed to return. I wonder if you could-’

‘That’s this Tysoe, then. Surprises me it needs a Navy captain to come looking.’

‘Yes, that’s the fellow. Do tell him that we’re about to sail and-’

‘He’s not going back.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He’s not about to leave here, cully. He’s my property and he stays.’ The man’s eyes narrowed and he folded his arms.

‘I think you may have mistaken his identity. He is-’

‘I know who he is – there’s no confusion. He found his parents. Then they all fell about weeping and the like. He’s their son, without any kind o’ doubt.’

Kydd shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Then if you know who he is, why can’t he return with us?’

Thistlewood gave a hard smile. ‘Seems to me you have a strange notion of slave law, Mr Sailor. That there is known as Quamino, a piccaninny born of slaves, right here in my father’s pen. The law says therefore he’s a slave himself, property of his master. There’s no going up against the law now, is there?’

Renzi spoke: ‘We happen to know they were manumitted years ago.’

‘You’re right.’

‘So he’s a free man.’

‘We’re talking his folks, not him. They’re free right enough.’

‘If-’

‘The deed of manumission. You want to see it? There’s Phibbah and Cuffee, no mention of Quamino. He were illegally borne off to be a page-boy well before they were freed, so by any law o’ the land he’s still a bound slave.’

It was all too clear. The casual handing over of one of the many plantation children those years ago had come back full circle to trap Tysoe. Thistlewood had seen his chance to acquire an accomplished house-boy to flaunt in planter society, and the law was on his side.

Frustration boiled up in Kydd. ‘I’ve a King’s ship wants to sail. You’re delaying me by this tomfoolery! I demand that-’

‘Nothing stopping you. Sail away.’

‘I won’t let it rest, sir! This is nonsense and you know it!’

‘I think not! Why, I see I’ve a case for damages. Yes – loss of earnings in a slave unlawfully detained for … let me see … thirty years? Your admiral is going to be pleased with you, he gets a lawsuit against the Navy that carried him off …’

It was getting nowhere. Despairing, Kydd said, ‘Well, er, I’ll buy him back.’

‘He’s not for sale. Now, I’m sure you’re busy chasing pirates or such, so I won’t detain you any longer.’

Kydd threw a beseeching look at Renzi.

‘Ah, then we’ll make our farewells,’ Renzi said smoothly, ‘with our earnest apologies for taking up your time. Come, gentlemen.’

Aghast, Kydd hesitated but Renzi was walking to the cart. Then he stopped and turned, with a disarming smile. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten. Just one small detail we’ll have to trouble you with. It shouldn’t take long.’

‘What detail? I haven’t got all day.’

‘Why, as secretary to the ship, I can’t have loose ends to disturb my captain later, can I?’

‘Get on with it.’

‘It’s the little matter of Tysoe’s oath.’

‘Oath?’

‘Yes,’ Renzi said, brow creased in a clerkly furrow. ‘You see, on enlisting in any ship of the Royal Navy a man has to swear to serve the King. Now, all I need is an affidavit signed by Tysoe that he no longer wishes to bear allegiance to His Majesty, this being countersigned in a release by his captain, and he will be free to take up duties with you immediately.’

‘He’s a slave, damn it. Has no right to go swearing oaths! He’s still my property and-’

‘Unfortunately, the oath was sworn, whether in error or no. And the one to King George may not be put aside. It has prior standing over any other in the kingdom. Why do you think deserters are hanged at the yardarm? It is because they have violated their oath to the sovereign. We don’t want that happening to your slave now, do we?’

‘God rot me! If every slave was allowed to enlist we’d be-’

‘They are not, Mr Thistlewood,’ said Renzi, clearly pained by his language. ‘This is why the law does disallow it.’

‘So-’

‘It is clearly stated that should a slave or apprentice, or any bound by law to a master, attempt to decamp by enlisting, then the master may on representing the case claim him back, with costs against the captain.’

‘Then-’

‘Providing he does so within the span of thirty days. Our muster-roll has no evidence that any such claim was made against the person of Tysoe. Therefore he was entered in full as a bona-fide member of the ship’s company.’

‘So you’re saying-’

‘Do present this man that we may hear the revoking of his oath. Then I’m sure Captain Kydd will be happy to initial his release – won’t you, sir?’

Thistlewood saw his answer on Kydd’s face. ‘I’m not letting him go – get off my property now or I’ll set the dogs loose,’ he snarled.

‘Oh dear.’ Kydd grinned. ‘It seems we have here an attempt to conceal a deserter. I do believe I’m quite within my rights to use lawful force to recover same. Mr Searle, go to the first lieutenant and ask him to land five hundred men – armed. I mean to arrest this villain.’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

‘Wait! I’ll get him – but I’m after compensation.’

‘For a piccaninny?’ Renzi said disapprovingly. ‘A child under the age of ten is considered a liability, not an asset, Mr Thistlewood. Rather, the Crown should be seeking recompense from you in the article of his bringing up. Now, does this mean we have to …?’

As L’Aurore heeled to a fine sea breeze Tysoe brought in their wine, as if nothing whatsoever had happened that day.

‘Thank you, Tysoe,’ Kydd said courteously, as he always did, but he didn’t fail to catch the glimmer of feeling that passed unacknowledged between them.

In fine good humour, he chuckled, and said to Renzi, ‘Topping it the lawyer, Nicholas. I didn’t know you had it in you.’

‘Ah, well, it was all I could think of at the time.’

‘Does it mean anything?’

‘Not as far as I know. I made it up as I went along – it seemed to fadge.’

It was raining. Not in the sense that an Englishman would recognise but a white mist drifting across the surface of the sea. It could be seen from the comfort of his cabin prettily stippling the water outside the sweep of his stern windows, while on the upper deck it would bring a pleasant cooling to the men on watch; the sun-warmed planking would be gently steaming and the lower edges of each water-darkened sail busily dripping along its length.

They were in no hurry. As visibility was obscured they had shortened to topsails while, in this north-easter, they made an offing away from the reef-strewn northern coast of Jamaica.

When the showers lifted to a thinning sprinkle they were quite unprepared for the sight of a ship some distance away in the eye of the wind.

Kydd, called on deck, snatched the telescope from the officer-of-the-watch and trained it carefully. With all friendly merchant shipping at a standstill in port, this could be only one of three: a French frigate, one of their own patrolling frigates or an enemy privateer.

For reasons of size this was not a privateer and for a certainty no other British frigate had reason to trespass on their patrol line. It had to be the enemy.

His heart beat faster. This was how it always began, out of the blue on a quiet day, a sudden sighting, a swift confrontation, then danger and death.

‘We’re to join action shortly, I believe, Mr Gilbey. Men to quarters as soon as you may, if you please.’

The next few minutes would be revealing. Would their opponent fight or fly? L’Aurore was as close to the wind as she could lie – being directly upwind the situation depended greatly on whether the other decided to turn and bear down on them, in which case they could look to broadsides within no more than an hour, the enemy being in the position of choosing their course of attack. If that happened, there would be no reason to loose courses, the larger driving sails, for almost always combat took place under topsails. For now, they would keep them set as they were.

Then another curtain of misty rain spread across, and when it thinned and cleared they had their answer.

And it was a puzzler. The ship was now considerably to the right of where it had been, under full sail, its course directly for the land.

Kydd raised the telescope. Broadside on, every detail of the other became plain – and he had his explanation. This was no warship: it was a merchantman – a large one and making to flee inshore as fast as it could. A Frenchman desperate to break out to the Atlantic with a cargo of colonial sugar, so much needed in the motherland.

He rubbed his hands in glee as he announced the news to cheers from the quarterdeck.

‘You may stand down the hands, Mr Gilbey.’ This was now merely a chase.

It was odd that the vessel had not tried to lose itself in the open expanse of the Cuba Passage but, then, it probably reasoned that it didn’t stand a chance against a predatory frigate and was heading instinctively for the nearest land, hoping to shake them off in the shallows.

This was probably the better decision, for L’Aurore at that time was stretching out on the starboard tack. To close with their prey, not only had they to put about on the other tack, but as well set their big courses abroad on all masts first.

The ship made the coast and had just disappeared on the far side of Pedro Point by the time they had started closing with it, some hours behind. Impatiently, Kydd waited for the rocky bluffs to pass, opening up the long north coast of Jamaica – and their quarry. But it was nowhere to be seen.

Frustratingly, the twisting coastline was deeply indented, beaches and coves endlessly stretching into the distance. This was what the wily captain was counting on – with local knowledge, a hideaway in one, such that his pursuer would be delayed, looking into them all.

Then Kydd realised he had a trump card. ‘Mr Buckle!’ he hailed down the deck forward.

The young man hurried back from his station at the fore-mast. ‘Sir?’

‘Should you be fleeing a hunter, where would you head?’

‘A’tween us and Montego Bay, why, there’s only two places will take a full-rigged ship. Tom Piper’s Bay the larger, Mosquito Cove the smaller. And my money’s on the last.’

When the frigate opened up the first bay they saw right into its mile or more depth but with no result. They sailed onwards, on Buckle’s advice ignoring the many smaller ones until they came up with Mosquito Cove. It was narrower but just as deep and they could see into it completely – but when they looked, right to the end, there was nothing.

As they prepared to get under way again there was murmuring about the deck and Buckle looked crestfallen, but then he brightened. ‘I remember there’s a small watering place inside past the narrows on the left. If he’s there and warps close in we won’t be able to see him from seaward. Sir – he’s in there!’

It had to be – to go to ground so promptly when there was nowhere else.

Kydd thought quickly. If it was to be a cutting out it could be tricky in the narrow shallows, and if there was a better way …

‘Launch and cutter in the water, both with carronades. Lively, now!’

While they were being hoisted out he had a quiet word with the boats’ crews, who quickly caught on. When L’Aurore shook out sail, the two boats pulled strongly for their positions – out of sight, one either side of the entrance.

Any interested observer would notice that, after a while, L’Aurore had tired of the pursuit of her vanished prey and had put about, returning down the coast whence she’d come.

Two hours after the frigate had disappeared there was movement – and through the narrow entrance emerged a wary merchantman under full sail. Like a bolt slamming shut, the two boats tugged hard on their oars, coming to a stop in the middle of the entrance before slewing around – to face out, each with a loaded carronade and effectively barring the way back.

And L’Aurore had already wheeled about in anticipation and now came down to claim her prize.

Kydd could not resist the urge to board the vessel himself: he wanted to meet her captain, who had proved both cool and intelligent and, but for Buckle, would have been able to make good his escape.

As they approached the disconsolate vessel, Kydd felt the first stirrings of unease. Even from this distance, the ship didn’t have the feel of a Frenchman or a Spanish. She had an indefinable alien air about her, the cut of the sails, the lead of the working rigging, and when they came alongside he was sure.

It was an English ship.

As he swung over the bulwarks, there was no mistaking the vessel’s master, who was standing by the main-mast with an expression of disbelief.

‘Captain Kydd, Royal Navy,’ he said, with just a trace of irritation. ‘It was a merry dance you led us, sir, my congratulations.’

‘As did you, old chap! ’Pon my word, a King’s ship strange to these waters and with every appearance of a damned Frenchy!’

‘Which was that, sir?’

‘I thought all the world would have heard. Etoile 32, Captain Sieyes out of La Rochelle, new sent to harass our Caribbean interests and already struck.’

‘No, I hadn’t heard. Now, you’ll oblige me with your papers, if you please …’

The rest of the boarding passed off without comment and ended with a shared Madeira in the saloon.

When Kydd returned to his ship he had much to think on and, first, the existence of a French commerce-raiding frigate in these waters, a serious development, which would be causing a deal of concern to Dacres. That it resembled his own French-built vessel was an inconvenience, frightening the innocent, but it couldn’t be helped.

What was more troubling was that, from what he’d heard, the standing of the bottled-up British merchantmen had changed drastically.

Commercial pressures had risen above fear of the unknown. While the L’Aurores had been disporting at leisure, one ship had plucked up the courage to sail come what may. Others had realised that if it won through to any kind of market it could set its own prices, an intolerable position for those left. They had sailed together, some risking a voyage without insurance, putting out in the desperate hope they wouldn’t be seen in the more than thousand-mile passage to the convoy rendezvous at Barbados.

As the word spread, from every sugar-producing port others would be joining the mass flight – an impossible number to protect. The French frigate and the ever-present privateers would, with great satisfaction, swoop to the kill.

All feelings of diversion and languor fell away. This was the new war and unquestionably L’Aurore was critical to it. It was probably the best course to return as soon as he could to Port Royal for orders – but they were on the north coast of Jamaica on the opposite side. There was little for it but to reach the eastern end by long, tedious boards in the Cuba Passage and call at Port Morant, the naval dispatch station, to see if anything had changed drastically in the meantime.

The atmosphere had altered in L’Aurore: the jollity of the past days had evaporated for it was plain to all that the balance had shifted to the defensive and they were in the front line. And if this French frigate was with another – they often hunted in pairs – they could at any moment be fighting for their lives.

In a near calm they reached Port Morant, at last to be met by an advice-boat with a general order that wherever L’Aurore was to be found she should be sent with all urgency back to Port Royal. The war had caught fire.