Seaflower

Chapter 10

Captain Farrell returned from the flagship before ten the next morning, and immediately called the sailing master to his cabin. Overheard, the word swiftly went out.

"The Barbadoes wi' despatches?' snarled Patch, a privateersman. His shipmate, Alvarez, appeared next to him, his olive-dark face hostile.

Doggo glared at him. 'Stow yer gab, cully! Yer doesn't think the Ol’ Man is a-goin' ter let th' world know, now, do ye?' But Kydd caught his quick look: their tavern story might be recoiling on them, and gulled privateersmen would be hard to handle. 'Cap'n knows what he's doing,' he said harshly. 'Jus' be sure you does.'

'Haaaands to unmoor ship!' The boatswain's bellow reached every part of the cutter. Kydd cast off the beckets securing the tiller in harbour and tested the helm through a full sweep. It was his duty to take the vessel to sea, then when sea watches were set, he would take the conn and oversee the duty helmsman for his trick at the helm.

Strong running backstays were needed to take the massive driving force of the enormous gaff mainsail — two linked tackles were rove for this and, unique to Kydd's experience, the forestay had its own deadeye and lanniard secured to the stempost, both together in taut balance.

One by one, Stirk had Doggo and his party moving about the guns — six-pounders, a respectable armament for a mere cutter, eight a side and with swivels forward as chase guns. A cry from forward showed the anchor cable 'thick and dry for weighing' and Farrell, in full blues, consulted his watch. The anchor was a-trip. The Captain's arm went up, the saluting swivel forward went off with a spiteful crack and in the smoke both the foresail and mainsail rose swiftly, the steady north-east trades forcing the men at the main-sheets to sweat as they trimmed the sail to the wind at the same time as the waisters brought in the fore-sheets.

Seaflower responded immediately with a graceful heel, falling off to leeward momentarily before surging ahead. Kydd felt the rudder firm and, under Jarman's muttered direction, shaped course westerly to round the end of the Palisades. They slipped past the fortifications and the dockyard, then Port Royal itself, not a soul ashore apparently interested in their departure, and made a competent gybe to place themselves comfortably on track for the open sea. The jib was hoisted and conformable to the fair wind from the larboard quarter, her topsail was set. Seaflower quickly left the harbour astern. When they had cleared the hazardous cluster of cays to the south, they went about and headed along the coast for Port Morant.

Sea watches were set, and Kydd yielded the tiller to the helmsman. He took up the slate hanging on the side of the tiny binnacle and checked the course and details that the sailing master had scrawled. In this small ship he would have to maintain the conn himself — nobody to peg the traverse board, no marine to turn the sand-glass at the end of a watch.

He stepped back, and saw Patch finish coiling the fall of the topsail sheet. With a careless thump the privateers-man cast the coil on the deck against the bulwark and made to leave. Incensed, Kydd shouted and pointed at the untidy twists. Patch saw him, but deliberately turned away. Kydd moved fast, knocking aside another sailor as he confronted Patch. 'Take that lubberly shittle and belay it right,' he said, in a hard voice. Tangling coils were a hazard on any deck but, besides that, Kydd's seaman's pride was offended at the slovenly sight.

Patch stared at him, contempt in his dark eyes. 'King's ship ways on a fuckin' cutter? Ye must be—' 'Now!'

Patch paused. Kydd was not getting angry: his voice was iron, his control icy. Drawn by the raised voices, the boatswain approached from behind Patch, who failed to notice him. Merrick watched and waited with a slight smile.

Kydd did not lower his gaze before the case-hardened bigger man. 'Do ye take a bight and belay that fall,' he repeated.

Patch looked again in Kydd's face. Something passed between them - and Patch moved. He bent and picked up the rope, his eyes never leaving Kydd's as he obeyed grudgingly. Kydd paused, then walked back to his watch position.

In just a few hours they hove to off Port Morant and collected a satchel of despatches, then resumed course. They would reach the eastward tip of Jamaica in only an hour or so, then would keep clear of the offshore banks before shaping course for the Leeward Islands.

With no sign of an eager combing of the sea for an expected prey, there was a definite edge to the mess-deck chatter at dinner. Kydd and Renzi kept the deck to avoid questions. Stirk and Doggo found something to do with the six-pounders, but it was clear there would be an accounting soon.

Gun practice was piped immediately after the noon meal, the hard-bitten seamen making child's play of their weapons. Farrell kept them at it, and just as Morant Point drew abeam he ordered that live firing would take place. Seaflower's decks were cleared, and the pieces manned. Kydd took his place at the helm and silence fell as all eyes turned to Farrell.

At that precise moment the quiet was split by an urgent hail from the lookout on the crosstree. 'Sail hooooo!’ Above the low-lying point could be seen first the topgallants and then the topsails of a square-rigged vessel, and shortly after, the barque slid into view. At least twice their size and a sinister black, she quickly spotted Seaflower and her length foreshortened as she turned to intercept.

'Ready about!' Farrell snapped, his telescope up searching her masts for a flag. They slewed round and closed the distance, Farrell seeming to have no hesitation about closing the larger vessel.

There was an apprehensive quiet about Seaflower's decks. 'She's a twenty-eight at least, lads,' Doud murmured. 'Saw her ports.' Several faces popped out of the fore-hatch and gazed over the blue seas to the black-hulled vessel. The barque altered her heading to a broader angle. It served to show her gunports opening all along her hull, cannon rumbling into place at each. Still there were no colours aloft. A cold trepidation came over Kydd — the worst situation, with the banks to seaward and the unknown craft closing in to weather.

'Give her a gun, Stirk,' Farrell said quietly. A six-pounder crashed out forward, sounding toy-like after a frigate's 24s. There was a minute or two's delay, as if the stranger was amused at the small ship's presumption, before a flutter of colour at her mizzen peak appeared, shaking out into the stripes and stars of the United States.

'Thank Gawd!' laughed Farthing. 'I thought we wuz in fer a hazin'.' The barque's sheets eased, and she braced around slowly to diverge, clearly not deigning to dally with an Englisher. Relieved chatter broke out along Seaflower's deck.

'Sir, if y' please ...' Jarman had not joined in the general relief, and took Farrell's Dollond glass. 'Ah! As I thought. There's no Yankee I know of wears a red cap 'n' petticoat breeches. Sir, she's a Frenchie!'

Farrell snatched back the telescope and swept the barque's decks — only Jarman's suspicions and a careless French sailor had given the game away. 'Brail topsails!' he snapped. Under fore-and-aft sail only, Seaflower sped towards the enemy. She fell off the wind a little and her intention became clear — to pass close astern of the other vessel to send her puny balls smashing through the unprotected stern and down the length of her enemy.

Stirk raced from gun to gun. Fortunate to be at quarters, they were at the ready, but Farrell roared, 'Larboard — firing to larboard!'

This was away from the enemy. Kydd was baffled by the order. Then the barque responded. The United States flag whipped down arid the French flag rose to replace it in jerky movement. At the same time the vessel came around sharply into the wind, to stay about. Well before Seaflower could come up to deliver her blow, the bluff sides of her antagonist were swinging around on the other tack to parallel the little cutter and present her full broadside.

Kydd's throat constricted — a crushing weight of metal would be slamming into them in seconds. He glanced at Farrell who, to his astonishment, wore an expression of ferocious glee.

'We have you now, Mr Frenchman!' he roared triumphantly. The barque's swing had been a mistake. Farrell snapped, 'Ready about! Lee, oh!' and Seaflower pirouetted prettily to leave her with her larboard guns laid faithfully on the barque's stern. They passed close enough to see pale faces over the taffrail and sails slatting in confusion as, no doubt, orders were being angrily countermanded.

There was nothing to miss. The line of windows at the stern gallery dissolved as gun after gun on Seaflower's deck crashed out, the balls' brutal impact causing ruin along the length of the enemy. Kydd felt a furious exaltation — it was the first smoke of battle he had smelt since the great frigate struggle between Artemis and Citoyenne.

The last gun banged out and Seaflower was past. With her crew cheering madly, the guns were served, but there was a new peril — a square-rigged vessel would back topsails and stay where she was, battering the helpless victim into submission, but with her fore-and-aft rig there was no way Seaflower could do the same. She continued on her course, her only hope to get out of range before the enemy could recover, but the black hull was already turning. Seaflower lay over under her press of sail, but there was no escape. Kydd's hands sweated at the helm — but he was tied to his place of duty and must stand and take whatever fate had in store for him.

The enemy broadside came. But in ones and twos. Paltry puffs of powder smoke, the thin crack of four-pounders. And a whole gundeck of cannon staring silently at them. 'Caught 'em on the hop goin' about!' growled Stirk in disgust.

'They got the yeller fever an' can't man the guns!' someone shouted. Kydd's mind raced; this was no explanation for small-calibre guns.

Jarman smiled. 'She's a Mongseer merchant jack, puttin' on a show,' he said, with satisfaction. It was a pretence: the open gunports sported only quakers, wooden imitation guns that could not fire. Her bluff was called. The tiny Seaflower had not run for her life as intended, and had dared to attack. Incredulous shouts and cheers broke out while the trim cutter closed in exultantly on her prey.

* * *

'Damme f'r a chuckle-headed ninny, but that was rare done!' Patch said, lowering his cutlass to finger the quality of the cordage on the deck of their prize. 'Knoo the exac' time she'd weather th' point, and was there a-waitin',' he continued admiringly. 'Keeps it to 'imself, he does, an' four hours out we has a fat prize.' The French sailors sat morosely on the main-hatch while Farrell and the sailing master inspected below decks.

It was a matter of small hours to escort the prize back to Port Morant; the talk was all on the astonishing intelligence their sagacious captain must have had, and happy anticipation of prize money to claim later.

Farrell did not appear affected by his fortune. He appeared punctiliously on deck at appropriate times in the ship's routine, courteous but firm in his dealings with his ship's company, and considerate and businesslike with Jarman and Merrick, who stood watches opposite each other. Seaflower seemed to respond with spirit. Square sails set abroad and her prodigious fore-and-aft canvas bowsed well taut, she slashed purposefully through the royal-blue seas at a gallop, her deck alive with eager movement.

By the last dog-watch, deep into the Caribbean, Kydd joined Renzi at his customary pipe of tobacco on the foredeck, ignoring the occasional spatter of spray. They sat against the weather cathead, the better to see the gathering sunset astern. Renzi drew an appreciative puff at his clay pipe and sighed. 'This prime Virginia is as pleasing to the senses as any I have yet tried.'

Kydd was knotting a hammock clew. His nimble fingers plied the ivory fid he used for close work, the intricate net of radiating knittles woven into a pattern that ostensibly gave a more comfortable spread of tensions, but in reality were a fine display of sea skills. He had never caught the habit of tobacco, but knew that it gave Renzi satisfaction, and murmured something appropriate. 'We're right lucky t' take the barque,' he said. Patch had been considerably mollified and was now warily respectful of Kydd.

'Just so,' said Renzi, gazing at the spreading red display astern, 'yet I believe our captain must be much relieved.'

'Aye, we could not have taken a real pepperin' from such a one.' Kydd raised his voice against a sudden burst of laughter from the others enjoying the evening on deck.

Renzi smiled. 'A captain of a vessel charged with despatches endangers his vessel at his peril — but his bold actions may be accounted necessary with shoals under his lee and the enemy to weather.'

'Doud says as he's a hellfire jack, an' sent into Seaflower for the gettin' of prizes f'r the Admiral,' Kydd said.

'Possibly - but a humble cutter? Maid-of-all-work? But did not David prevail over the disdainful Goliath?'

Kydd grinned.

'You've done well for yourself, my friend. Who would have thought it? A quartermaster — and so quick!'

'Only a cutter, is all,' Kydd said, but his voice was warm. To direct the conn of a ship of war was a real achievement for any seaman.

Letting the fragrance of his tobacco wreathe about him, Renzi mused, 'Tom, have you given thought to your future?'

Kydd looked up, surprised. 'Future? Why, it's here in Seaflower, o' course.' He stopped work and stared at the horizon, then turned to Renzi. 'If you mean, t' better myself, then y' understand, I'm now a quartermaster an' as high as I c'n go. Any higher needs an Admiralty warrant, an' I don't have the interest t' get me one.' He had spoken without bitterness. 'Next ship'll be bigger, an' after that, who knows? Quartermaster o' some ship-o'-the-line will do me right well.' His broad smile lit up his face as he added, 'Y’ can't work to wind'ard o' fate, so my feelin' is, be happy with what I have.'

Renzi persisted, 'Captain Cook was an able seaman to begin with, my friend — and Admiral Benbow.'

Kydd's voice softened in respect. 'Aye, but they're great men, an' I ...'

'You sees, Mr Cole, the boatswain is a mason,' Doggo whispered, looking around fearfully.

The midshipman opened his eyes wide and leaned forward the better to hear. It was hard on young Cole, the only midshipman aboard and no high-spirited friends to share his lot, but he was a serious-minded lad who wanted to excel in the King's Service. 'I have a great-uncle a freemason, too,' he said, in a slightly awed voice.

'Do yez good ter get the bo'sun an' you like this,' Doggo held two fingers together, 'an' he'll put in a powerful good word fer you t' the Captain.'

Cole nodded gravely. 'I see that, but how ...'

'Well, the masons have this secret sign, wot they use to signal ter each other.' Doggo looked furtively around the sunlit deck. ‘Like this,' he said, and held up his open hand to his face, thumb to nose, and the fingers all spread out.

Awkwardly, Cole imitated him. Doggo pulled his hand down roughly. 'Not now! Someone'll see. Now, mark what I say, it's terrible important yez do it the right way, or 'e'll think yer mockin' the masons.'

Blinking in concentration, Cole listened.

'Yez waggles yer fingers, like so. An' then yer waits, f'r it's the proper thing fer masons to then pr'tend ter be in a rage — just so's nobody c'n accuse 'em of being partial to their own kind.' Doggo paused to allow it to be digested. 'An' then — mark me well, if y' please — yer waits fer the show ter blow over, an' that's when y' makes yer salute, both hands, all yer fingers at once.'

Later in the watch, Cole had his chance.

'Where's that idle jackanapes?' roared the boatswain, from the group of men aft preparing to send up a fair-weather topgallant sail. ‘Lay aft this instant, y' lubberly sod.'

Cole sauntered aft with a confident smile. Merrick drew breath for a terrible blast — but Cole boldly looked him in the eye and made the first sign.

The boatswain staggered as if struck. 'God rot m' bones — you bloody dog! Damn your impertinence! So help me, I.. .' Merrick paused for control, the enormity of it all robbing him of breath.

In the appalled silence the seamen looked at each other with horror and mirth in equal proportion. Cole saw that this was time for the salute, and bravely brought up both hands and waggled smartly. The boatswain's eyes bulged and his hands clawed the empty air. When the explosion came it was very terrible.

Jarman looked at Kydd speculatively. His cabin was tiny, there was not really room for two people, but there was nowhere else to speak in private.

'Kydd,' he said, and paused, as if reluctant to go on. Kydd waited patiently. 'Kydd, I'm the sailing master 'n' you're m' quartermaster.' This did not need an answer. Jarman levelled his gaze. 'What I'm a-sayin' is not f'r other ears. D'ye know what I mean?'

Kydd shifted uncomfortably. If Jarman was sounding him out over some spat with another, he wanted no part of it.

Seeming to sense his unease Jarman hastened to explain: 'Jus' a precaution, y' understands, nothin' t' worry of,' he said. 'No harm keepin' an eye t' weather, like.' Kydd maintained a wary silence.

The master picked up a book of navigation tables. 'I been to sea since I was a kitling, an' ended up mate in an Indiaman. I know the sea, ye unnerstands — t' get to be master o' Seaflower I has to be examined by th' Brothers of Trinity House f'r this rate o' vessel, a tough haul.'

Kydd wondered where it was all leading. He had no problem with the master's competence, but then remembered the reserve between him and the Captain. Was he feeling insecure, needing Kydd's approval? Surely not.

Jarman's voice dropped. Kydd strained to hear against the hiss of sea against the outside of the hull. 'It's like this — an' please hear me out. Th' Cap'n — an' please t' know I mean no disrespect - is a young man, an' did all his time in a vessel o' size, never in a small 'un. Y' knows that in a big ship ye can make all the blunders y' like an' there's always someone to bring y' up with a round turn, but a small hooker . . .'

Kydd kept his face blank. This might be the first step on the way to a court-martial for mutiny.

'As I said, you're my quartermaster, an' directly responsible t' me.'

This looked grave: was Jarman trying to secure loyalty to himself?

'Consider, if y’ please. The Cap'n an' me are the only ones aboard that c'n figure our position, th' bo'sun never learned. Now, I could say as how I'm a mort disturbed about we bein' carried off b' the fever, but I'd be lying. See, this is m' first ship as master, an' anything goes awry, then it'll be me t' blame — I don't see as how I should give best if it comes t' an argyment over the workings.'

Farrell, as captain, had a duty to seek the sailing master's advice only, and could entirely overrule him. Jarman wanted a witness — but what possible use was Kydd?

'So, I'd take it kindly if ye could jus' think about if you'd like to learn how to do the figurin' y'rself.'

Kydd sat back in disbelief. But he quickly responded: it was a great opportunity, not the slightest use in his position, but ... 'I'd like it main well, Mr Jarman,' he said, 'but how will I learn?'

Jarman eased into a smile. 'Don't ye worry — in the merchant service we has no truck wi' pie-arse-squared an' all that, no time!' He tapped the book of tables. 'It's all there — ye just takes y'r sights an' looks it up. I learned it all in a short whiles only.'

Farrell nodded approval when Jarman brought it up at seven bells. 'If you think it proper, Mr Jarman.' Therefore at noon, on the quarterdeck of Seaflower could be seen the amazing sight of the Captain, the master, the midshipman and Kydd preparing to take the noon altitude. Midshipman Cole as usual borrowed Farrell’s gleaming black and brass sextant, while Kydd gingerly took the worn octant wielded respectfully by Jarman.

Afterwards, the master, as was his duty, took Cole aside to examine his reckoning and drill him in the essentials. Kydd hovered to listen. 'Now, every point of half th' surface of the earth is projected fr'm the centre on to a tangent plane at some point, call'd its point o' contact — but th' plane o' the equator when projected fr'm the centre on to a tangent plane itself becomes a straight line . ..'

While the worried Cole tried to commit the words, Jarman turned to Kydd. 'Now, what we have there is a great circle. Nobody sails a great circle - we only steer straight or th' quartermaster-o'-the-watch would be vexed. What we really does is alter course a mort the same way once in a watch or so, an' that way we c'n approximate y'r circle.'

There was more, and unavoidably it needed books: Renzi took an immediate interest. 'To snatch meaning from the celestial orb — to gather intelligence of our mortal striving from heavenly bodies of unimaginable distance and splendour. Now that is in pursuit of a philosophy so sublime . . .'

With Hispaniola to larboard, they took a south-easterly slant across the width of the Caribbean, the trade winds comfortably abeam and, in accordance with Kydd's shaky workings shadowing the real ones, raised the island of St Lucia and its passage through to the open

Atlantic ocean. The Windward Island of Barbados lay beyond.

Kydd's shipmates accepted his privileged treatment with respect. He was one of their own, daring to reach for the one thing that set officers apart from seamen. It was a rare but not unknown thing for a foremast hand to take part in the noon reckoning, although in the usual way all officers' results were brought together for consensus while those of lesser beings were ignored.

The rule-of-thumb principles used in the real world, informed by Jarman's utilitarian merchant service experience, Kydd absorbed readily enough — it was really only the looking up of tables. What was more difficult was the bodily technique of using the heavy old octant to shoot the sun against the exuberance of Sea/lower's sea motion. A combination of tucking in the left elbow, lowering the body to make the legs a pair of damping springs and leaning into it, and Kydd soon had the sun neatly brought down to the horizon with a sure swing of the arm.

The underpinning of mathematics was beyond him, though. Renzi had the sense to refrain from pressing the issue. There would be time and more in the lazy dog-watches to make intellectual discoveries, and Kydd would benefit by the more relaxed explorations. Besides which, it was only the hapless Cole who was under pressure: he would take his qualifying examination for lieutenant within the year.

Off Cape Moule to the south of the island the boatswain shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun on the calm blue seas — the wind had dropped to a fluky zephyr. 'Have ye news of St Lucia, sir?' he asked.

The island changed hands with the regularity of a clock, and the green and brown slopes could now be hostile territory, around the point an enemy cruiser lurking.

Farrell grunted, swinging his glass in a wide sweep over the hummocky island, across the glittering sea of the passage to the massive dark grey island of St Vincent just fifteen miles to the south. 'I don't think it signifies,' he said finally. 'We will be past and gone shortly.'

In the light airs, Seaflower rippled ahead towards an offshore island and then the open sea. Kydd watched the course carefully: the tiny breeze was dropping and their progress slowed. The big foresail shivered and flapped, and the bow began to fall away. 'Watch y' head!' he growled to the man at the tiller.

'Can't 'old 'er,' the pigtailed seaman grunted, his thigh stolidly pressuring the tiller hard over.

'We lost steerage way, sir,' Kydd told Farrell. With the wind so light the heat clamped in, a clammy, all-pervasive breathlessness. Seaflower's sails hung lifeless, idle movements in the odd cat's-paw of breeze. Blocks clacked against the mast aimlessly and running rigging sagged. Kydd looked over the side. Without a wake the sea was glassy clear, and he could see deep down into the blue-green immensity, sunlight shafting down in cathedral-like coruscations.

Jarman broke the dull silence. 'We have a contrary current hereabouts, sir,' he said heavily. Seaflower lay motionless in the calm — but the whole body of water was pressing inexorably into the Caribbean, carrying the vessel slowly but surely back whence she came. "T would be one 'n' a half, two knots.' That was the speed of a man walking, and even within the short time they had lain becalmed they had slid back significantly against the land. A bare hour later they were back at the point where they had begun their passage.

A few welcome puffs shook out the sails, died, then picked up again. A tiny chuckle of water at her forefoot and Seaflower resumed her course, heading once more for the offshore islet. Once more the fluky wind betrayed them, and they were carried back again. 'T' the south?' asked the boatswain.

'No,' said Jarman, moodily watching the coast slip back. 'Can't beat to weather in this, an' if we goes south we have t' claw back t' Barbados after.' Unspoken was the knowledge that a French lookout post might be telegraphing their presence even now to Port Castries and any man-o'-war that lay there; any improvement in the wind later could bring a voracious enemy with it.

A darkling shadow moving on the sea's surface reached Seaflower, and the welcome coolness of a breeze touched Kydd's face - and stayed constant. Again, the cutter moved into the passage but this time the land slipped by until they had made the open ocean and were set to pass the little islet. 'I believe we may now bear away for Barbados,' Farrell said, with satisfaction, but his words were overlaid by an urgent shout from the crosstrees.

'Saaail hoooo!; There was no need for a bearing. By chance occluded by the islet at the same rate as their advance, the sails of a square-rigger slid into view, heading to cross their path.

'Brig-o'-war!' snarled Merrick. There would be little chance against such a vessel and, with the wind gathering, the further they made the open sea, it favoured the larger craft.

Farrell's telescope went up and steadied. 'I think not, Mr Merrick — to quarters this minute.'

But the merchant brig was not ready for a fight and struck immediately — to the savage delight of Seaflower's company. They entered Bridgetown with a prize in tow, sweet medicine indeed.

To muted grumbles Seaflower was ordered to sea immediately: the niceties of adjudicating shares in prize money between the Admiral whose flag Seaflower wore and the Admiral in whose waters the capture took place would have to be resolved before the sailors saw any, and in any case the Vice Admiralty Court would have to sit first.

As they put to sea again after storing, busy calculations were taking place in a hypothetical but blissful review of personal wealth. 'Merchantmen — so we don' see head money,' Petit grumbled.

Farthing pulled up a cask to sit on. 'An' gun money neither.'

Kydd arrived down the hatchway and joined in. 'Ye're forgettin' that a merchant packet has cargo - that's t' be included, y' loobies.' Gun money and head money were inducements to take on an enemy man-o'-war but the value of a merchant-ship cargo would normally far exceed it.

He paused for effect. 'D'ye know, we return to Port Royal, but if we fall in wi' the Corbeau privateer, we're t' take her?' As a privateer counted as neither a merchant ship nor a man-o'-war, there was no real profit in an action; and even if they did encounter her, a privateer was crammed with men and would make a fierce opponent. 'Could never meet up wi' her, y' never knows,' Kydd said cheerfully, collecting his rain slick and going back on deck. It was a maddening combination of sun and sheeting rain, and Farrell would be on deck shortly to set the course.

Seaflower now sported a pair of chase guns in her bow - and carriage guns at that instead of the swivels of before. Admittedly they were four-pounders only, but a three-inch ball slamming in across the quarterdeck could cause real discomfiture in a quarry. Stirk was eager to try them, but they were crammed in the triangle of bow forward of the windlass and the bowsprit beside. His gun crews could not rely on the usual recoil to bring the gun inboard for loading; they must reload by leaning outside, exposing themselves to enemy sharp-shooters.

'Know anythin' about this Corbeau?' Kydd asked Stirk.

He straightened from his gun and wiped his mouth. 'Patch says as how she's a schooner — not yer squiddy trader, but a big bastard, eight ports a side. Guess at least six-pounders, hunnerd men — who knows?'

Farrell, appearing on deck, put an end to the speculation. 'Mr Jarman. Be so good as to shape course north-about St Lucia.'

'North-about, sir?' repeated Jarman in puzzlement.

'Please,' said Farrell, with some asperity.

'He's chasin' the privateer 'cos he's worried she won't find us,' croaked the helmsman, out of the side of his mouth; north-about would place them between St Lucia and the large island of Martinique, a favourite stalking ground for the more lawless afloat.

They reached the southern end of Martinique in the midst of another rain squall, curtains of white advancing over the sea under low grey skies, the wind suddenly blustery and fitful while it passed.

Afterwards there were the usual wet and shining decks as they emerged into bright sunlight — but crossing their path directly ahead was a schooner. A big vessel, one that could well mount sixteen guns and carry a hundred men. She instantly put up her helm and went about, slashing directly towards Seaflower as if expecting her presence, her fore-and-aft rig robbing the navy craft of the best advantage, her superior manoeuvrability.

'Hard a' larb'd!' Farrell cracked out; they were sheering off not to retreat, but to gain time. The schooner followed downwind in their wake, her two lofty masts allowing nearly twice the sail of Seaflower.

There would be no stately prelude to war, no pretence at false colours: the two antagonists would throw themselves at each other without pause or pity. Aboard Seaflower there was no fife and drummer sounding 'Hearts of Oak', no hammocks in the nettings, no marines drawn up on the poop. Instead there were men running to whip off the lead aprons from gunlocks, and gun equipment was rushed up from below: rammers, handspikes, crows, match tubs. Tompions protecting the bore of the cannon were snatched away and Seaflower's full deck of six-pounders were run out.

Farrell waited, then turned Seaflower on her pursuer. Right around she swung — her broadside crashed out into the teeth of her foe, the smoke swifdy carried away downwind, leaving a clear field of fire for her chase guns, which cracked out viciously in a double fire.

First blood to Seaflower, thought Kydd exultantly, as he centred the tiller. It was, however, a new and unpleasant experience, standing unmoving at the helm, knowing that he was certainly a target for unknown marksmen on the schooner. He glanced at the vessel: there were now holes in her sails, but no lasting damage that he could see.

Seaflower completed her turn, her other side of guns coming to bear, but the schooner was already surging round to bring her own guns on target — the two ships opened up almost simultaneously. Kydd heard the savage, tearing passage of cannon balls and was momentarily staggered by the displaced wind of a near miss. Through his feet he felt the bodily thud of a shot in the hull, the sound of its strike a crunch as of a giant axe in wood.

The smoke cleared. The schooner, certainly the Corbeau, was racing along on the opposite tack to Seaflower, her outer jib flapping free where the sheets must have been shot away. Her decks were crowded with men.

Farrell reacted instantly. 'Hard a'-starb'd!' he ordered. They would stay about and parallel the schooner - but Corbeau was there out to windward, she had the weather gauge, she could dictate the terms of the fight. Firing was now general, guns banging up and down the deck, smothering gunsmoke blown down on them, obscuring points of aim. Seafiower's own guns were served with a manic ferocity.

'It's a poundin' match,' shouted the boatswain to Farrell.

'Better that than let those murdering knaves board us,' Farrell replied coolly, lifting his telescope once more.

Kydd could see little of Corbeau a few hundred yards to weather, but could feel the injury she was doing to Seaflower. He worried about Renzi, gun-captain of one of the forward six-pounders. If it came to repelling boarders he would be with the first of the defenders, probably going down under the weight of greater numbers. But if—

A sudden shudder and simultaneous twanging from close by made Kydd grip the tiller convulsively. The cause was ahead of him — there, the weather running backstay had taken a ball and was now unstranding in a frenzied whirl. Kydd instantly threw the helm hard over, sending Seaflower down before the wind.

Farrell saw what had happened and rapped out orders to ease away sheets to conform to the change in direction. The running backstays were vital sinews in taking the prodigious strain of Seaflower's oversize mainsail without which the mainmast would certainly carry away with the asymmetric forces playing on it. The stay now had some relief — but for how long? 'Mr Merrick—' But the boatswain was already calling for a rigging stopper, shading his eyes and gazing up to where the final strand was giving way. The lower part of the stay fell, its blocks clattering to the deck, leaving the upper length to stream freely to leeward.

Corbeau had been caught unawares, but now fell in astern in pursuit, the sudden silence of the guns from her bow-on angle allowing the victorious yelling of the enemy seamen to come clearly across the water.

The fighting stopper, a tackle with two tails, would be applied to each side of Seaflower wound, drawing the stay together again to be tautened by heaving on the tackle, but so high was the wound that someone would have to climb to the ratlines in the face of the storm of shot and musketry. Merrick took the hank of rope and blocks, the lengths of seizing, and without pausing draped them around his neck and swung up into the shrouds.

'Sir.' Jarman was pointing to the little islet not a quarter of a mile ahead: he seemed to be suggesting some sort of hide-and-seek around the island.

Farrell stroked his chin. 'One hand forward,' he said, common prudence with coral about, 'and we'll keep in with the island until we are to leeward, then . ..'

Kydd eased the tiller, snatching a glance astern. The schooner thankfully had no chase guns, but she was clapping on every stitch of sail and was gradually closing on Seaflower.

Jarman went forward with the lookout, staring intently into the water ahead, and indicated to Kydd with his arm where they should go. Musket balls occasionally hissed past, and one slapped into the transom, but the real danger would be when Corbeau reached and overhauled them. With the size of her crew, aroused to an ugly pitch, the privateer would be merciless.

Kydd clamped his eyes on Jarman. They were up to the island, and now began to round its undistinguished tip.

The schooner must have sensed their desperation, for she continued to crowd on sail, her crew clearly visible on her fo'c'sle, the glitter of edged weapons catching the sun as they waved them triumphantly.

'She's slowing!' Farrell's incredulous gasp came. 'She's - she's taken the ground! Corbeau's ashore!'

Kydd snatched a look over his shoulder. Corbeau was untouched, motionless on the course she had taken. She had misjudged the offshore reefs and her deeper keel had become firmly wedged among the coral heads.

Seaflower curved round, but Corbeau lay unmoving.

'God be praised — we get t' live another day!' muttered a voice.

An angry shout sounded from above. Merrick had passed the seizing on the upper length of the stay, and was demanding the rest to be hauled up to him. They had the luxury of dowsing sail while the operation was completed, Corbeau a diminishing image in the distance. The jury stay rigged, they could then beat a dignified retreat.

'Ready about,' ordered Farrell. 'We finish the job,' he said firmly. They carefully returned on a track that kept the bow of the schooner towards them. He hailed Stirk. 'Grape.'

Seaflower shortened sail to glide in within a hundred yards, then put up the helm and let go the stream anchor forward and kedge anchor aft. They came to a standstill, but were now in a position to adjust cables to aim her entire broadside to bear on the unprotected length of the big schooner.

With terrible deliberation Stirk went from one gun to the next, sighting carefully and touching off an unstoppable blast of man-killing grape-shot into the hapless vessel. It took until the third gun before activity was seen in the Corbeau — they were launching their longboat.

'That will do, Stirk,' Farrell called. Kydd was struck with Farrell's humanity in allowing the enemy to abandon ship without unnecessary killing, and felt ashamed of his own blood-lust.

'Give y' joy on y'r prize, sir!' Jarman said, with considerable respect.

'Renzi!' Seaflower's captain ordered. 'The longboat — do ye take possession of our prize.'

Grinning, Kydd watched Renzi climb into the longboat with his crew, but they were only half-way across when the first wisps of smoke arose. The boat's crew lay on their oars and watched blue smoke bursting into flame as tarry ropes caught, spreading the consuming blaze to the upper rigging. A crackling, bursting firestorm turned the schooner into an inferno, the shape of her hull only just perceptible in the flames. The climax came when first her foremast and then her main crashed down in a gout of sparks and the rapidly charring ruin forlornly settled to the reef. Corbeau's crew watched silently, lined along the shoreline. They were still there when Seaflower brought her longboat aboard and sailed away.

'Barbados?' asked Jarman. They had been cut about; it stood to reason they refit.

The beady eyes of Snead, the carpenter's mate, announced his presence on deck. 'Sir,' he said, touching his shapeless felt hat, 'we've taken a ball in midships, an' takin' in water.' The clinker build of Seaflower's hull was proving its worth - the strake where the ball had entered would need replacing but the rest were sound.

'How bad?' Farrell asked.

'Can swim a-whiles,' said Snead, *but she can't take a blow.'

'Dockyard,' said Merrick.

Snead looked at him and nodded.

Jarman turned to Farrell. 'Antego,' he said, without hesitation.

'Antigua — a couple of days only, thank the Lord,' said Farrell, but Kydd flinched. Of all places ...