Seaflower

Chapter 2

The boat, borne away at speed by an ebbing tide through the harbour entrance, passed scenes and sounds of merriment ashore as the seamen of the victorious Fleet gave vent to their feelings. In the launch there was a grim silence, just the creak of oars in their rowlocks and a regular, hypnotic splash as they dipped into the sea.

Kydd felt bleakness take hold. A lump grew in his throat as his eyes took in the land. So far! And so much had happened on the voyage! His sorrow left no room for rage.

Altering to starboard after making the open sea, the boat made for the gaunt shapes in the dusky light of men-o'-war at anchor at Spithead, but not before they had passed close to the raucous revellers in the rickety old buildings of Portsmouth Point, close enough to hear individual cheers and oaths.

Kydd's eyes fixed on the shore. Renzi tapped him on the shoulder and he looked around to see down

the massive length of a 74-gun ship-of-the-line. They passed around the stern, with its old-fashioned open gallery, and Kydd looked up. In faded gold there was a big heraldic ribbon. The name Trajan was elegantly lettered inside.

Bitterness welled up and choked him. Kydd gripped a rope at the edge of the foredeck and stared back at his homeland, unwilling to let the fast-receding land disappear. The seas lengthened as Trajan met the first Atlantic rollers coming up the Channel, sending men staggering. The two-decker was soon clawing to windward as close as she would lie, two other vessels astern and one ahead. The land finally turned to a misty anonymity and vanished, and the lump in Kydd's throat deepened.

'I must declare myself truly gulled,' Renzi said, appearing at Kydd's elbow shaking out the chinckles in a light line for coiling. Kydd was supposed to be at work on the fo'c'sle, but no one felt inclined to make a point about it. The Artemises were sadly ill-used, was the general opinion, and they were left alone to their misery.

Kydd glanced at him. 'Gulled? Not th' word I'd choose f'r it m'self,' he muttered.

Renzi paused. 'Is the loss of the flying Artemis so much on the public mind that we are all to be kept out of the way? Or is the Fleet so in need of seamen that they press even the shipwrecked mariner? No! What we have is a political act, a move to shield the reputation of one who should be brought to account. Instead, and with the exercise of interest at the highest level, Rowley has been excused of blame, your evidence is suppressed — it is only a deposition — and we ... we are an embarrassment ...' His voice trailed off for Kydd's thickening anger was apparent on his face.

'We're shipped out t' the Caribbee to save Rowley's hide!' His face white with anger, Kydd said harshly, 'T' the West Indies, fever ...'

'I fear so. But, dear fellow, it is also the Spanish Main, treasure, the richest islands in the world — and glory, too, as we mercilessly seize the sugar islands from the French!' Renzi winced inwardly at the last, but Kydd had to see some purpose in this twist of fate.

'In this old scow!' Kydd's scornful words were heartfelt. After the trim beauty of Artemis, the elderly Trajan was all that Renzi knew he despised. A ship-of-the-line, she was lumbering and massive, her timbers old and decaying — and she had big-ship discipline: Master-at-Arms and corporals, trumpeter, boatswain's mates. And his previous rate as acting petty officer had not been accepted in Trajan', she had her full complement and no need of him. He was now no more than an able seaman, even if a topman, and he had to sling his hammock with the rest instead of in the cosy privacy of a screened-off petty officer's berth.

Renzi said nothing. Kydd's words were powerful and true, and could not be denied. He had every reason to feel aggrieved. Howe's great victory had released forces for the ongoing island invasions in the Caribbean, and Trajan was on her way to assist in these — what better way to be rid of an embarrassment? His gaze lost itself in the tumbling waste of seas stretching to infinity ahead. He tried to swallow his bitterness and went below.

The noon meal was a cheerless affair — no grog this close to home, small beer only on offer. Boiled with dandelion and herbs, it had a bitterness that was intended to hide rankness, but at least it was better than water from the cask, which quickly grew stale and flat, then stagnant. After weeks at sea the beer would give out and they would revert to rum, which was much preferred, but for now Kydd's pot contained a thin brew that did nothing for his mood.

Kydd pulled forward his meal — the square wooden plate he remembered only too well from his first ship as a pressed man: no pewter and crockery here. He glowered at the mush of peas and odd-tasting pork. There was soft tommy taken aboard in Spithead, the bread only a couple of days old and useful for wiping up the last of his meal — there would only be hard tack in the weeks ahead.

'Got yer watch 'n' station, then, mate?' Doggo asked, his grog-roughened voice uncharacteristically low. His ugly, monkey-like face was long and grim.

For as far ahead as could be seen, Kydd would have to perform his sea duties as assigned this morning in his part-of-ship and watch, and this could be onerous or a satisfaction depending on the character of those in charge. And his quarters in battle — this might have been manning the helm, and therefore defenceless before the pitiless musketry of an opponent alongside, or with the ship-smashing 32-pounder cannon on the lower gundeck, or any one of a number of other dangerous duties.

'Second o' larboard, maintopman,' said Kydd gloomily, fingering his bread. 'An' the fore magazine f'r quarters.' To his great disappointment he had learned that Renzi was in the opposite watch. This meant that they would only meet for meals and the odd 'make and mend' when they could sit together on the foredeck at work on their clothing. In Artemis they had been in the same watch, and had spent many hours happily discussing life, philosophy and other conundrums.

Isaac Larcomb's pleasant, open face creased. 'Could be worse, cully, topman ain't a bad start,' he said.

Renzi nodded, but did not say anything.

'Aye, and that means I'm in yer watch, Tom!'

Kydd looked across at the tow-headed Luke, a ship's boy from Artemis. He smiled, but only briefly. Luke was eager and had come to admire Kydd, but he was no substitute for Renzi.

Kydd was slated to do his trick at the helm in the first dog-watch, and felt immediately better after he had seized control at the man-high wheel. The familiar tug and thrum of the tiller-ropes with their subde transmission of the sea's temper was medicine enough. Trajan felt ponderous but obedient to the wheel, just a little weather-helm, not enough to be a griping, calm and sure.

He warmed to the ship. Glancing up often to the weather leech of the comfortable old main topsail, he tested how far he needed to meet each boisterous sea on the bluff bows, and what she needed to correct the yaw induced when a sea passed at an angle down her length. It seemed she had no real vices — which would be verified or otherwise when the old lady was really put to the test.

He could look forward under her sails the whole length of the ship, a sight he never tired of — the lazy heave and fall of the deck, the blue horizon dropping out of sight then emerging at a slightly different angle, a continuous, comforting, satisfying motion. He nodded, and a smile broke through. She couldn't be mistaken for a racehorse, but as a homely old mare she was perfect.

'Watch yer luff!' growled the quartermaster's mate-of-the-watch. There was no need for his caution — Kydd had been completely in control of the situation and there was never any question of losing way by coming too far into the wind.

He glanced at the man. Squat, powerfully built, he wore rumpled clothing and a glower that triggered a warning in Kydd. 'Aye,' he said, to be on the safe side.

At the interchange the officer-of-the-watch looked back from his pacing. Kydd kept his gaze politely forward, aware that he was under eye. He had nothing to worry about, and continued in his duty. After a minute or two, the officer came over. 'You're one of the Artemises, are you not?' he asked. It was not at all the right thing to engage the helmsman in conversation, but this was an officer.

'Aye, sir,' he said. It would be understandable to keep his eyes on the weather leech of the mainsail. Trajan sailed on; Kydd sensed interest in the officer.

'You've got a frigate's touch at the helm, I see.' That did not require an answer, but it must have been apparent from his many light moves at the wheel instead of the more deliberate, slower action of a ship-of-the-line.

'What is your name?'

'Kydd, sir!' broke in the quartermaster's mate firmly. In direct charge of the conn, the petty officer had every right to deflect any interference from his helmsman.

"Thank you, Coltard,' the officer said smoothly, but continued to address Kydd, 'So you were in Artemis around the Horn?'

'Sir,' said Kydd briefly. He wished the officer would go away.

'At the helm?'

'Quartermaster's mate, sir.'

'Hmmm.' Kydd caught the quick glance at Coltard and wondered what it meant. The stumpy petty officer flushed and looked dogged.

The half-hour trick was over all too quickly, and Kydd felt reluctant to hand over to the able seaman waiting. The officer-of-the-watch contemplated him with a ghost of a smile, and he stood down with a light heart.

Kydd went forward along the moving deck to complete his watch, ready to lay aloft as a topman at the mainmast The Atlantic's influence was becoming more marked, the longer ocean seas sweeping up the Channel and adding stateliness and a wider range to Trajan's movements. He glanced up at the less-than-white canvas, noticing patches in her sails and signs of hairy chafing in her lines running aloft; as with Duke William earlier they were cutting corners to keep the most valuable units of the Fleet at sea.

Portland was disappearing astern. They would fetch Torbay on this tack, and from there, rumour had it, they would pick up the convoy to Madeira and then the Caribbean. Another surge of resentment swept over Kydd, this time dulled by resignation.

* * *

'An' here's ter pieces o' eight an' a right good frolic in Port Royal!' chuckled Larcomb, raising his pot His sally drew general approval, and expressions lightened along the table.

'Frien' o' mine in Daemon frigate was out there wi' Rodney in 'eighty-two — an' paid off in Plymouth carryin' home twelve guineas o' prize money,' said the man next to Larcomb, with evident satisfaction at the prospect.

'Yair, but I got three ol' shipmates went out too an' ain't one of 'em come back yet,' Doggo responded.

Kydd put down his tankard. 'But y' can have fever anywhere,' he said, 'C'n remember in Artemis we had th' fever after roundin' the Horn, 'n' on our way home — even did f'r the captain.'

'Aye, but—'

Larcomb broke in earnestly, 'Look, if yer gonna make fishmeat, yer number is a-written down already, no use wonderin' about it,' he said, 'S' why not rest easy 'n' take yer life as it comes t' yer?'

There were troubled looks, but Larcomb ignored them. 'Has anyone bin ter the West Indies?' he asked. It seemed none had, and he lifted his pot

Renzi stirred. 'It would seem that we are doing well in the Caribbean — we have taken Martinique,' he said, to general incomprehension. 'A big island, and wealthy,' he explained. 'I believe our intent is to detach, one by one, the enemy islands from the French.'

'But if our ships are out there, doin' this invadin', then the French will feel free to fall on England!' Kydd said, with spirit.

'Yet if we leave these islands to themselves, the enemy will take them! No, the islands are a wellspring of English wealth, and we must defend them.' Renzi's cool assessments were not to the taste of his new shipmates and the conversation faded.

Auberon, the first lieutenant, was on deck the next forenoon for Kydd's next trick at the helm. He took the wheel from a grey-haired able seaman and squared up. The quartermaster of the previous watch hovered, fidgeting with the traverse board and slate as the minutes lengthened and no one came to relieve him.

'For God's sake, what's the matter?' Auberon said peevishly to him.

'Er, 'aven't had m' relief,' he said hesitantly.

Auberon stiffened. 'You mean he's adrift?' he snapped.

With some hesitation the petty officer nodded awkwardly. Auberon showed him no sympathy. 'You shall quit the deck only when properly relieved,' he growled, and began to pace back and forth.

Kydd felt the rising tension, and kept a careful alertness. The duty watch on the quarterdeck fell silent as time extended, avoiding each other's eyes, trimming the sails and coiling down the lines from aloft, carefully and quietly.

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

A single bell sounded from forward, sharp and clear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Me belly, it—'

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

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

'Master-at-arms!'

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Aye?'

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

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

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

'Sir.'

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

'Aye, sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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