Seaflower

Chapter 8

The day Kydd and Renzi were parted had been a bleak one for Renzi. The brig gathered way, making for the open sea in the bright morning. Renzi looked back from the tiny foretop. He could just make out the red coats of the marines in the panic ashore, and knew that Kydd must be there too, watching the vessel sail away, leaving him to his fate.

On the crowded deck, moans and shrieks arose from the French passengers at the realisation that they were on their way to safety but that their friends and relations ashore would probably soon suffer a cruel death. Only Louise Vernou stood quietly, staring at the shore, frozen in pity. She held an object to her lips: Renzi saw that it was the anchor-embossed button Kydd had given her, around her neck on a thin cord.

If Kydd could escape from the clutches of the mindless rabble and keep the marines with him, he had a chance, but the situation was critical. Despite his cool self-possession, Renzi felt his throat tighten. They had seen so much together. It was characteristic of war, the arbitrary nature of its demands of blood and grief, but he realised that he was not as detached from the world as he had thought.

Jowett, the master's mate in command, stumped over and told him brusquely, 'Tell th' Frenchie bastards to go below, t' the hold!'

Renzi cajoled and threatened them, and eventually had them crammed into it. The main hatch was left open to give them sight of the sky.

Square sail was set and the brig settled to a workmanlike beat to round the southern end of Guadeloupe. 'We c'n make Antigua in a day - wi' this lot we cannot fetch Barbados without we find water 'n' vittles,' Jowett said. 'We sets course f'r St John's.'

There was a dockyard in Antigua, Renzi recollected, and it was well fortified. St John's was round the coast to the north, but had the main naval presence, the Admiral commanding the Leeward Islands station and all the facilities for taking their cargo of newly homeless. Later, no doubt, they would go on to the dockyard. All they had to do was cross the short distance to the island without encountering any of the French invasion fleet.

Some hours later they had rounded the southern tip of Basse Terre and, well snugged in on the starboard tack, they began to slip their way north, past the now-hostile anonymous green-splotched coast. The distracted babble died away as the brig met the busy waves of the open sea, responding with a lively roll that had the passengers in the hold huddling down. A canvas awning was spread over the hatch against the frequent spray but there was no protest from below.

By the afternoon they had reached the northern coast of Guadeloupe and began to stretch out over the sea to the bulk of Antigua ahead. Jowett's face -set to the north-east, towards the build-up of cloud massing there. He sniffed the wind distrustfully. 'I mislike bolderin' weather this time o' the year, this bein' the season f'r hurricanoes an' all.' They would have no chance if it came to anything like a gale: merchantmen were always looking to shave corners with the cost of gear.

'Sail hoooo!’ The lookout in this small vessel was only forty feet up, and his sudden bellow made Renzi start. He followed the outstretched arm and saw a fore-and-aft rigged craft emerging from a kink in the northern coastline, not large but dismayingly warlike. A second vessel appeared and the pair set course to intercept.

'Armed schooners!' muttered Jowett.

'Privateers, an' we ain't got a chance!' a seaman added. In the absence of the bulk of the Fleet at San Domingo the French privateers were basing themselves back in Guadeloupe, issuing out to fall on any passing prey. Like corsairs, they were savage and murderous.

'Don' vex 'em more'n we need, Mr Jowett,' an older seaman advised, staring at the two schooners leaning to their hard drawing sails. 'We ain't got powder fer our guns, nor a full suit o' sails, so we'll never outrun 'em. Why don't we strike our colours now?'

Jowett's jaw set. 'No — we got a chance. If they see us in Antego, we get help. Hold course!' The island was drawing nearer and hardening in definition. Renzi scanned the south coast for any indication that they had been seen and a ship was putting to sea in their aid.

Half-way across, it became obvious that the Frenchmen would come up with them well before they could make Antigua. The white swash at their bows sparkled in the sun, their sails hard and boardlike. They were now close enough to show the sight of their crew, clustered around their fore-part.

The flat crack of a gun followed the sudden appearance of a puff of gunsmoke; the leading schooner was making its intentions known. Renzi swept his gaze over the approaching coast Even if they were sighted now, help could not arrive before the privateers had done their worst A half-smile appeared on his face. Logic ruled that he would be either dead or captured within two hours. He folded his arms and awaited events.

Then Renzi saw the leading schooner suddenly surge round, head to wind. Her sails shook until the vessel paid off on the other tack — going before the wind away from them! Shaking his head in disbelief, he looked about, searching for a reason for the sudden retreat: perhaps the headsails of a ship-of-the-line appearing around a headland, a vengeful frigate from the south. Nothing. The other schooner followed suit and, under the incredulous gaze of the brig's crew, the privateers were seen making for Guadeloupe and their lair.

Excited, the sailors jabbered away, looking for an explanation for their deliverance.

Jowett seemed not to share their jubilation. "Cos they seen that,' he said. His arm pointed towards the north-east. The cloud banks had extended across the sky and darkened. 'It's a reg'lar goin' hurricanoe, that's what, yer sees.'

'We bears up fer English Harbour,' said the helmsman.

'Nah, we bin holdin' course fer St John's an' we c'n never beat back to the east'd in time.'

'If we makes it ter Antego west about, we'll be in the lee o' the storm.'

Jowett growled. 'Shut yer jabber - we goes t' St John's.'

The brig was battened down tight; it was hard on the unfortunates in the airless hold and if they foundered or struck on the rocks their-end would not be pleasant. Renzi cringed as he gave Louise his assurances and asked her to calm her compatriots. She did this without question, quietly accepting imprisonment in the claustrophobic darkness.

They kept well clear of the breakers to the south-west of Antigua but by the time the rock-studded danger of Five Isles was abeam, the brig was bucketing and rolling in ugly seas. 'Only a league or so,' yelled Jowett, to the men on the yard. They had come up with the little islet of Sandy Island off St John's and were now within a few miles of safety — but that now seemed impossible, for it lay in the teeth of the fresh gale, hourly increasing in strength.

Seamen gathered on deck. The distant sight of the town, no more than five miles ahead, taunted and beckoned. The little brig strained to her uttermost close-hauled, but could not lie close enough to the wind to fetch harbour.

A fizz, then a sudden gout of choking smoke, and a rocket soared up into the grey evening sky to explode high above. Jowett was trying to get a larger vessel to come to their aid, but it was unlikely that any would risk putting to sea under the threat of a hurricane. It was stalemate: on this point of sailing they could only reach the rocky coast to the south where, without charts or local knowledge, they were sure to be wrecked. Or they could run with the gale, but that was no alternative for the hurricane would grow and overwhelm them. It was only a matter of time.

'Wind's backin'!' screamed a seaman, as the wind shifted into the north - and with it came a chance. It would need acute judgement, but at the right moment it would be possible to go about then beat down to St John's. It was a desperate matter, for they would be close up against the coast on one side and the battering storm on the other.

Renzi watched Jowett: the thirty lives aboard were in his hands. Jowett stood facing directly into the streaming wind, his nose unconsciously lifting in little sniffs as he judged its mood. 'Ready about,' he snapped. The brig seemed to stumble as her bow came up into the wind. Renzi willed the plain little vessel to go through stays without complaint, which she did, and they lay over on the larboard tack, every minute gathering speed in the blasting gale.

Explosions of white heaved skyward from the seas pounding the rocks under their lee. The clouds massing took on an ugly cast, but St John's grew ever nearer. Soon they encountered the breaking seas over the bar at the harbour entrance and, once inside the headland of Hamilton's fort, the waves lost their viciousness.

Weary and weatherbeaten they headed directly for St John's town.

Renzi survived the storm in the company of Louise and the French in a stone warehouse. Worn out and emotionally drained, he snatched what sleep he could with the insane howling of the storm outside. In the morning he looked outside, in the gusting winds and rain of the dying hurricane, and saw their brig miraculously still alongside the wharf, snubbing and rearing like a spirited horse, but safe.

The time of trial had left Renzi strangely depressed: the lunacy of war was au fond the outworking of the crass irrationality that lay in the heart of Unenlightened Man, but he knew that what lay on him was more personal. At least Kydd would not meet the hurricane at sea: he was safe ashore, but in what circumstances? His helplessness in the face of the situation was probably the true reason for his dejection, Renzi realised. Moody and hungry, he awaited events.

Rather later a busy little man arrived from the civil administration to relieve him of his charges. He left Louise with no false hopes for Kydd, and when the goodbyes were said, French fashion, he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes.

The brig was uncomfortable to work in, her movement brisk and jerky, but it would not need much to make her ready for the short voyage south again to the naval dockyard at English Harbour.

In the afternoon, Renzi begged leave and went into town, seeking a bookshop, the well of contentment that might restore his balance. Three hours later he returned, spirits restored, his bag stuffed with gold — another Goethe, for 'Prometheus' had awakened in him a grudging respect for the man; a second-hand Raynal, the Histoire des deux Indes, which had probably been the property of a French royalist; and an interesting new work by the Plutarchian Robertson on 'conjectural history'.

And, most important, a glorious find, newspapers from England a bare six weeks old. He exulted as he tramped back to the brig: this was what it was to be alive! At the gangway a cross-looking lieutenant was waiting. Jowett called down from the deck of the brig and the officer rounded on him. 'Are you Renzi?' he huffed.

'I am, sir.'

'Parley-vous le fronsay vraymont? Astonished, Renzi could only stare. 'Answer, then, if indeed you have the French!' 'Mais bien sur - qu'est-ce que ca vous fait?' The lieutenant smiled in satisfaction. 'That will do. Follow me.'

Without thinking, Renzi fell into step beside the man, but was swiftly told, 'Fall in astern, if you please.' The officer's look of disdain caused Renzi nothing but secret amusement. A short walk took them to an imposing stone building: a blue ensign and marine sentry at the door proclaimed it a naval establishment. The marine slapped his musket to the present as the officer entered, then winked at Renzi.

The lieutenant paused. 'Play your cards right, my man, and your days as a foremast hand may well be at an end.' Mystified, Renzi followed him down the passageway.

They stopped at a door; the lieutenant knocked and leaned inside. 'The man Renzi, sir,' he said.

'Send 'im in!' roared the unseen personage within.

'Rear Admiral Edgcumbe,' said the lieutenant softly, and ushered Renzi in.

The Admiral sat behind a massive dark-polished desk, his expression more curious than fierce. 'So you has the French, an' a manner to go with it, I'm told,' he mused, looking keenly at Renzi.

He slid across a piece of paper and quill. 'Write "Render to me your return affecting stores that are rotten.'"

Renzi complied, his hand flying across the page, sure and fluent.

'Damme, that's a splendid hand for a sailor,' grunted the Admiral, and looked up sharply. 'Are ye a forger?' 'Er, no, sir.'

'Pity. First class with a pen, y' forger.' His head snapped up. 'What's the county town o' Wiltshire?'

'Sarum — which is Salisbury,' said Renzi immediately. It was a little too close for comfort: his family were prominent in the next county and he had reason to remember the spires of old Salisbury.

Admiral Edgcumbe smiled. 'Ah, quick an' sharp with it,' he said, with satisfaction, and leaned back in his chair.

'Flags!' he roared.

The lieutenant instantly poked his head inside the room. 'This one'll do. Get 'im in a decent rig an' on the staff.'

'Aye-aye, sir.'

'See he doesn't run, an' have him aboard the packet in good time.' He bent his head again to his work, thus dismissing both men.

By the evening it had become clear what was going on. The Admiral was newly promoted commander-in-chief designate to the Jamaica station and was due to sail shortly with his staff to take up the appointment. He had been unlucky in the matter of fever — it was damnably difficult to find good replacement staff at short notice - and word about Renzi had reached him just in time. Renzi would be a writer, a form of clerk entrusted only with duplication of orders and unimportant matters, but would prove useful with his good knowledge of the language of the enemy. The lieutenant clearly felt that Renzi had been plucked from an existence as a sea menial to a prestigious position with real prospects, and should be grateful.

For himself, Renzi felt a lurch of premonition at the mention of Jamaica, but perhaps in the naval headquarters there would be no exposure and therefore little risk of confrontation. A new life of petty politics at headquarters was not to his liking, for he had deliberately chosen the sea life as the purest form of exile.

Next day the packet swarmed with the Admiral's retinue. Renzi, as a seaman, knew precisely where to keep out of the way and watched with wry amusement the fluster and confusion as the pretty little topsail cutter put to sea. A small frigate accompanied them as escort, the pair foaming along in the freshness after the hurricane, heading westward deep into the glittering blue of the Caribbean sea.

The island of Jamaica was raised five days later without incident, an impressive blue-grey monolith appearing out of the morning on the distant horizon. They had passed St Kitts during the night and Hispaniola was a disappointing low scrubby headland, approaching then receding as, with the favourable north-easterlies, they headed direct for the southern coast of Jamaica.

Off Morant Bay they hove to, a pilot schooner plunging and rolling as she sent across the Kingston pilot, and in turn took aboard the Admiral's flag lieutenant. They would remain there for the night while warning of the arrival of their august passenger reached the capital overland.

It had been a pleasant, if crowded passage; the tedium of a sea voyage without duties brought Renzi an unexpected pang of sympathy for the passengers he had previously scorned. More immediately useful was the information he had gleaned from casual talking with the Admiral's staff. In the West Indies there was wealth, more millions than he had ever suspected, a river of silver and gold heading back to England from trade and its support, but above all from sugar. The plantation society, the plantocracy, had high political significance in London and lived like lords, if the tales of high living were to be believed, but with the great wealth there was another of corrupt and unscrupulous conspirators who infested every class.

He had met the First Clerk, Mr Jacobs, a dry but astute man who weighed and measured each word before it was uttered. From him Renzi learned that they would be going not to the capital, Kingston, but further inland to Spanish Town, the administrative centre of Jamaica, and would be involved primarily in the necessary dealings of the navy with the civil administration. It was not a prospect that pleased Renzi.

Morning saw the two ships proceeding sedately westward to the entrance of Kingston harbour. On the sheltered inner side of a low encircling spit of land miles long was the Jamaica station of the Royal Navy: a mighty 74-gun ship-of-the-line, four frigates, sloops of war, and countless brigs and schooners.

The Admiral had transferred to the frigate during the night in order to make his arrival with all appropriate ceremony, and in the light airs of the morning, clouds of smoke eddied about the anchored 74 as her salute crashed out at the sight of the frigate's bunting.

The packet followed humbly in the wake of the frigate, but when the bigger ship went to meet her brethren, it passed across the bay to bring up noisily into the wind opposite a wharf at the end of a street in Kingston town. A heaving line sailed across and they were pulled alongside.

The hot, sandy streets were alive: drays filled with the trade goods of two continents, merchants concluding deals in the broad piazzas, processions of traders with their slaves following behind. The cheery green and white of the houses was complemented by the gardens, which differed wildly from the calm neatness of English cultivation: here there were fruit-trees, coconuts, tall palms and a riot of colour from vines.

There was little time for Renzi to stand and stare. Mr Jacobs was clearly discontented with the arrangements for transport. The ketureens — the ubiquitous Jamaican gig sporting a gay raised sunroof on rods — offered insufficient security against possible rain for the two chests of correspondence. When this had been settled, with dozens of negroes walking beside and an overseer riding ahead to clear the way of wagons and carts, they set out on the flat road to Spanish Town. After passing a great lagoon with vast reed beds, they stopped at the Ferry Inn to refresh and change horses before the final run to the old town.

'It is of an age, I believe,' Renzi said to Jacobs, as they wound along among the outer streets of Spanish Town.

'It is. Founded by Christopher Columbus, and settled by the Dons. Captured by us in 1655.'

Renzi would have to be content with that bare information, but his mind expanded upon it: two centuries of Spanish indolence and fixed ways, eventless years that were in stark contrast to the tumults in Europe. Then the English had flooded in, upsetting the staid times with their thrusting, mercantile rudeness, turning the old, comfortable social certainties on their head.

The procession ground into a large square with imposing buildings that would not have been out of place in far Castile. One notable exception was a distinguished white marble edifice set between the two largest structures. They disembarked in its shadow and, to his surprise, Renzi saw that it was a splendid colonnaded statue of an undeniable sea flavour — cannons, rope and the sterns of fleeing enemy ships.

‘Rodney,' explained Jacobs.

Of course. Renzi remembered. Admiral Rodney had fought the French de Grasse to a smashing defeat in a great fleet action some ten years earlier off Guadeloupe; as a result, Jamaica had been saved from French colonisation.

He looked around the square: it had a slightly offended air, as of an older gentleman put out by a younger man not fully recognising his dignity. But the cool, ochre-painted stone of the government offices was real enough. There he would see out his working life for the immediate future. These were his prospects. He could envisage only a dreary vista of daily sameness in the months ahead.

The work was easy enough: the endless round of returns, reports, minutiae of the Fleet, now lying at anchor. It had to be victualled, clothed, repaired, administered. As Renzi dealt with his tiny part of the steady stream, he grew increasingly respectful of the scale of the operation: tens of thousands of men, the Fleet as big as a county town, a moving town that might be anywhere, yet needing the same flow of all manner of goods.

In the main Renzi was left to himself. He often caught flashes of suspicion from Jacobs, but realised that these were because of his reserved, indeed secretive nature. His, however, was a circumstance of endurance, of serving a sentence, and he had no care of what his interim fellows supposed. His thoughts strayed to Kydd. By now he would probably be a lonely corpse in up-country Guadeloupe, or a prisoner-of-war in a French vessel on his way to incarceration, anything. In the absence of any knowledge, logic was useless, and in sadness he forced his mind to other things.

The Admiral did not live in Spanish Town: his mansion was out of town in the cooler hills north of Kingston, and after several weeks Renzi was summoned there.

Admiral Edgcumbe received him at his desk, leaving him standing respectfully. 'What do ye think o' that?' he said, thrusting a newspaper at him and jabbing a blunt finger at the top of one column. It was a copy of the Moniteur from Paris, not three months old, and the article about the unstable, now executed Robespierre was interesting and significant. Renzi hesitated — what was he being asked to do? Had the Admiral sent for him merely to ask his opinion on a newspaper article?

'By this, sir, I believe we find that the Thermidor coup has established itself. Robespierre overstepped himself, the Committee felt threatened, combined to overthrow him, execute him, and then—'

'Belay all that, what does it mean?'

Renzi resumed carefully, 'It means that the Terror in Paris is spent. The revolution is now controlled.' He paused, the Admiral's intense eyes on his. 'It would be reasonable to suppose that their attention is no longer distracted by the fratricide, that they are now able to turn their attention outward to the larger considerations of the war, perhaps even—'

'Enough.' The Admiral sat back with a loud grunt. 'And now be so good as to tell me who in Hades you are, sir.'

A fleeting smile forced its way on to Renzi's face. 'May I sit, sir?'

'You may.' The flinty eyes did not spare him.

Deliberately, Renzi relaxed. He crossed his legs and clasped them over the knee, languid and confident, a

London beau manque. 'You may believe I am a gentleman,' he said, in tones he had last used in the company of the Duke of Norfolk. The Admiral said nothing, but his gaze did not alter. 'And you may also know that I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed — you have my sacred word on that' There was a 'Humph'.

'My beliefs include a devotion to the Rationalist cause, I do not care for the comforts of the old thinking.' He straightened and fixed the Admiral with a level gaze. 'Sir, if I am to say more, I must ask for your word, as a gentleman, that this will go no further than yourself.' He held his breath. This was, on the face of it, a preposterous impertinence from a lowly clerk to a blue-blood admiral.

'You have it.'

Renzi gathered his wits. The only course was to tell the truth: any less would be detected instantly. 'Sir, my philosophies compel me to satisfy their moral demands in a way that others might consider — eccentric. I find them sufficiently logical and consistent. Therefore, when faced with a matter bearing on my personal moral worth I must answer for myself.

'My father procured an Act of Enclosure — there was grief and suicide occasioned by it. For the sake of my conscience, sir, I am undertaking an act of expiation. I sentenced myself to five years' exile, not to a foreign shore, but to the lower deck of a man-o'-war.'

At first it seemed there would be no response. Then the Admiral's quarterdeck expression eased, and a glimmer of a smile appeared. 'A glass of Madeira,' he growled, and reached for the decanter. Renzi accepted thankfully.

The Admiral looked at him speculatively. He felt for a key and unlocked a drawer, extracting a closely-written piece of paper. 'Cast y' eyes over this,' he said.

Renzi took it and scanned quickly. 'This is a letter, from a Monsieur Neuf. It is to his son, I think.'

The Admiral nodded. 'Just so. We took it fr'm a brig that thought it was going to France.' He smiled thinly. 'And now it is not. What I am exercised with is just how to spread half a dozen ships o' force over a thousand miles of sea.'

Renzi met his ferocious stare equably - but his heart sank. He could see now where it was all leading, and wanted no part of it. 'Sir, I am a perfect stranger to dissimulation, deceit and the other necessary qualities to make a spy, and must decline in advance any such service.'

The Admiral's eyebrows shot up. 'What do you mean, sir? I wish you merely to exercise your intellects in the reading of any chance material bearing on intelligence the fates throw our way — see if you can sight any clue, any unguarded slip o' the pen, you know what I mean. That is, if y’ morals will allow of it.'

Renzi found himself quickly removed from the vast hall filled with labouring quill-drivers and sharing an upper-floor room with two others. To his satisfaction, they were uncommunicative and self-absorbed, and he found he could work on without interruption.

Each morning, a locked box would be opened in their presence and each would receive a pack of papers of varying size. On most days Renzi received nothing and then he would assist one of the others. Occasionally the Admiral would call for him, and he would find himself reading a letter, pamphlet or set of orders - there was a pleasing sense of discretion in the proceedings that considerably eased his mind at the odious act of violating the privacy of another.

It was a strange, floating and impermanent existence; and above it all hung the knowledge that at any time he could be brought into confrontation with his past, to mutual embarrassment. When it happened, there was not a thing he could do.

'Renzi, blue office, if y' please.' This was where petitions from the populace were initially heard. He was generally included where matters touching the navy were involved, taking notes in the background and making himself available if explication were needed. He sat at his little table to one side, readying his paper and ink, leaving the bigger desk to Jacobs.

'Mr Laughton,' called the usher from the door.

Renzi froze.

The man came striding in, looking past the lowly Renzi to Jacobs, who assumed an oily smile.

'Another loss!' Laughton snapped. 'This is insupportable, sir!'

'Sir, you will recollect that the navy is much committed in the Leeward Islands—'

'Damn your cant! Without trade this island is worthless, and with these losses you will soon have none.'

Renzi kept his head well down, and scratched away busily, taking his 'notes'. The talk ebbed and flowed inconclusively, Jacobs stonewalling skilfully. Laughton snorted in frustration and rose suddenly. 'So, that is all you have to say, sir?' He turned and stormed out without a glance at Renzi, who sat back in relief.

A few seconds later the door flew open again, and Laughton's voice sounded behind him. 'Be so good as to direct me to the Revenue office,' he said, in a hard tone.

'Mr Renzi,' Jacobs asked mildly.

There was now no further chance of evasion. For the space of a heartbeat or two Renzi stared down at his paper, savouring the last moments of an uncomplicated life. "This way, sir,' he said softly, holding his head down to the last moment.

Laughton gave way at the door, and then, as Renzi quickly closed it behind him, his eyes widened. 'Nicholas!' he gasped.

Renzi looked up. His younger brother had not changed overmuch in the years since he had last seen him, a broadening of the shoulders, an unfashionable sun-darkened complexion, the confidence.

'We - we thought you had .. .' Laughton spluttered.

'Richard, be so good as to walk with me a space,' Renzi said, hastening along the wide veranda to the steps that led to the gardens at the back of the building.

'Nicholas, are you in distress of money?' Laughton asked, when they were out of possible earshot on the grass.

'Dear brother, no, I am not.' It were better the whole story be told rather than allow wild surmise. 'If we could talk at length, without interruption - but you perceive, at the moment ...'

Laughton glanced quickly at Renzi and gripped his arm. 'In Spanish Town I have a certain ... weight. You shall have your talk. Come!'

They returned to Jacobs. Laughton strode forward. 'Sir, I find this, er, Renzi has a certain felicity in explaining the naval situation to me. I beg leave to claim his services for a few days to assist me to formulate a position. Is this possible, sir?'

Jacobs seemed taken aback: a new clerk of such accomplishment that both the Admiral and the influential Richard Laughton were laying claim to his services, clearly indicated that it might be in his best interests .. . 'By all means, sir,' he stuttered.

Laughton gave a polite inclination of his head and gestured to Renzi. 'This way, sir, if you please.'

The gig ground on over the bright sandy road with Laughton himself at the reins, past endless bright-green cane-fields and black people on foot. Windmills and tropical dun-coloured buildings were the only disruptions to the monochrome green.

'For the nonce, dear brother, I would ask that you do not claim me as kin — I will explain in due course,' Renzi said, a little too lightly.

Richard glanced at him and nodded. 'If that is your wish, Nicholas,' he said neutrally, bringing the gig dextrously to the side of the road. They sat patiently as an ox train heavily laden with barrels of crude sugar for the coast approached in a dusty cloud, the yells and shrill whistles of the wagoners piercing the thunder of many wheels as they ground past. The overseer raised his whip respectfully in salute to Laughton; the handle was like a fishing rod and the rawhide tail all of seventy feet long.

They resumed their journey, turning up a neat road lined with what looked like gigantic pineapples, blue, red and white convolvulus blooms entwined among them. 'Penguin hedge,' Laughton said, and when the road straightened to a line leading to a sprawling stately homestead, he added, 'and this is the Great House.'

They approached between immaculate lawns, and Renzi saw the scale of the place, grand and dignified. A bare-legged ostler took the reins as they descended from the gig. Stone steps and an iron balustrade led to a broad veranda and the front doors.

'Do ye wait for me a short time, Nicholas, and I shall show you the estate,' Laughton said, taking the steps two at a time. He pointed to a cane easy-chair as he strode inside, which Renzi politely accepted. Shortly afterwards Laughton emerged, now in a blue, square-cut coatee and hessian boots, and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat. They mounted the gig again and ground off.

'Over nine hundred acres, an' four hundred to work it, quite sizeable - all sugar,' Laughton opened, with just a hint of pride. They passed a gang of field-workers trudging out to the cane-pieces: men, women, children. At Renzi's look he added, 'Each has his task, even the piccaninny — follows on behind and weeds the fields. Teaches 'em responsibility.'

Reaching a cluster of out-houses, Renzi heard a loud rumble and creaking. Around the corner he saw the open, straw-covered busyness of a sugar mill. The rotating rollers were fed with cane stalks in a crashing, splintering chorus; the mill workers did not raise their eyes from feeding the cane into the maw of the rollers. A large axe with a glinting blade was hung on the mill frame. Laughton observed drily, 'Better a limb severed than being dragged into ...'

It was a complex operation, a sugar estate, and Renzi's concentration wilted under a barrage of details: slaves gained skills ranging from fieldworker to muleteer, sawyer, driver, and varied in origin from 'salt-water slave' from Africa to infant born on the estate.

The heat of the afternoon suggested they should return to the Great House, and they sank thankfully into the cane chairs on the veranda. Laughton heaved up his boots to rest them on the rail, and clapped his hands. 'Sangaree,' he ordered of the white-coated houseman.

The breeze of the trade-winds was deliriously cool and Renzi relaxed. 'You have done well for yourself, dear Richard,' he said, looking at the rolling lands reaching to the horizon.

'Thank you, Nicholas. It was Father gave me my step, as you know,' Laughton replied. He accepted his glass of sangaree, and glanced carefully at Renzi before he sipped the rosy liquid in wary silence. "The letter from home was scarce in details, brother,' he began softly. 'Said you had — disappeared after an argument with Papa.'

That was paraphrasing truth indeed: the bull-headed obstinacy of Renzi's father to acknowledge any culpability in the ruination of ten families and the anguished suicide of the young hope of one was a direct contribution to his decision to take upon himself the moral obloquy of his family's act. 'Indeed so - but in truth, this is only the outworking of a decision I made .. .' He found it easier than he had feared: Richard was from the same mould as himself, strong-minded, obedient to logic, and sympathetic to firm resolve based on moral principles.

Renzi finally ended: it had been said.

His brother did not respond at first. Then he stood up, looking away, out over the estate. He turned, fixed Renzi with an intense look, and smiled. 'You were always one to show the rest of the world its duty,' he held out both hands, 'and I honour you for it'

Another glass of sangaree was necessary before conversation could resume.

Laughton's warm smile returned. 'Your name, if you will forgive the impertinence?'

‘Renzi? Why, nothing but an impenetrably obscure Italian of another age. He was unfashionable enough to value riches of the mind above that of the world, and I ... have grown used to it' He reached for the jug of sangaree and splashed more into his glass.

'My dear fellow! But you have been a sailor on the bounding main all this time! You must have a tale to tell - or should that be a yam?'

'It has been a life of some, er, variety,' agreed Renzi.

'But the conditions! You were a common sailor and—'

'And still am, brother.'

A slight frown settled on Laughton's brow. 'Just so. Then how could you bear the incarceration and daily hazard? Pray tell - I'm interested.'

Renzi smiled at Laughton's attempt to relate to his endurance. 'I bring to your recollection, brother, that this is the serving of a period of exile, and tolerability is not at question.' He paused, then stretched in his chair. 'However, I may tell you I have had adventures ashore and afloat around the world that will keep me warm in memories for ever. But, you will ask, what of the company, the common seaman, the brute beast of the field?'

Renzi faced his brother. 'And I will answer truthfully that those who have not experienced the especial fellowship of the sea, the profound and never articulated feeling of man for his fellow, out there on the yardarm, at the cannon's mouth, deep in the ocean's realm, they cannot know mankind in all its imperfection yet heroism.' He gazed into the distance. 'There is time at sea to ease the mind, to contemplate infinite truths and consider in their intimate detail philosophies and axioms to complete satisfaction.'

'You do not weary of the quality of your company?'

'At times I — but I keep myself impervious, there are ways to remain apart,' Renzi said slowly, 'and I have a particular friend .. .' He tailed off, for with a rush came a vision of Kydd's face - strong and uncomplicated — which held both intelligence and humour. He continued huskily,'. .. but I regret he has met with - he is probably dead,' he finished suddenly.

'I do sincerely mourn with you,' said Laughton softly. He busied himself with his glass and said, 'It would be an honour, brother, if you could sit at table with us tonight. We generally meet on this night, not in the formal way you understand, but to talk together, perhaps a cigar or pipe while we settle the business of the world.' His eyes flicked over Renzi's odd clerkly garb. 'And there is probably a stitch somewhere I could give you, should you feel the need to appear, er, inconspicuous,' he said lightly.

* * *

The cool night airs, which breezed freely through the double doors and on through the large airy rooms of the house, were agreeable to the guests as they sat down in the richly polished dining room.

'Gilbert, might I present Mr Renzi, an acquaintance of mine from England? Nicholas, this is Gilbert Marston. He is owner of the estate that borders mine to the west.'

Renzi inclined his head civilly at the stout gentle-man to his left, noting the shrewd intelligence in his eyes.

'Y'r duty,' the man said gruffly. 'In coffee, are ye?'

'No, sir, alas, I am here to visit only,' Renzi said, leaning back to allow a vast dish to be placed on the table. 'I have my interests, er, in the country — England, that is.'

'Ah.' Marston sniffed at the dish, strips of dried dark meat. 'Jerked hog. Y' got to hand it to the blackies, they c'n conjure a riot o' tastes.' Another vast tureen arrived. When the silver cover was removed it proved to be a mound of small, delicate fish. Yet another came: this was uncovered to loud acclamation. 'See here, Renzi,' said Marston, eyes agleam, 'this is y'r Jamaica dish royal - black crab pepperpot.'

The conversation swelled happily. Renzi noticed his brother gazing at him down the table, thoughtful and concerned. His expression brightened when their eyes met and he called, 'You will require a quantity of wine with that pepperpot, m' friend. Allow me to prove we are not without the graces here in the Caribbean.'

He nodded to a houseman, who in turn beckoned in a servant who pushed before him a neat cart. To his surprise Renzi saw that it seemed to be some sort of windmill, which the servant rotated carefully to catch the night zephyrs. 'A breeze-mill,' Marston confided. 'Damn useful.' Renzi saw that the mill drove a pump that kept up a continual circulation of water over bottles of wine in cotton bags, ranged together in a perforated tin trough. 'Saltpetre an' water - uncommon effective.' It was indeed: to taste chilled white wine in the tropical heat was nothing short of miraculous.

Renzi caught a speculative look on the face of an officer in red regimentals. 'Have I seen you, sir?' the man said slowly. 'In Spanish Town, was it not?'

Laughton put down his glass. 'That would be unlikely, sir. Renzi is heir to a particularly large estate in England. I rather fancy he would hardly have occasion to call upon the army.'

The officer bowed, but continued to look at Renzi, sipping his wine thoughtfully.

'I see Cuthbert has been broke,' Marston said to the table at large. 'All he had was ridin' in the Catherine brig, an' she was taken off Ocho Rios — less'n a day out.'

A murmur of indignation went up. 'For shame! What is the navy about that it cannot keep our trade safe, not even a piddling little brig?'

Marston bunched his fists. "There'll be many more ruined afore they stirs 'emselves,' he growled. 'Too interested in the Frenchie islands in the Antilles, all their force drawn off b' that.'

Laughton frowned. 'Went to see the Admiral's office in Spanish Town the other day for some sort of satisfaction in the matter — but was fobbed off with some damn lickspittle clerk.'

The conversations subsided as the table digested his words. An olive-complexioned man with curiously neat manners spoke into the quiet: 'In chambers they are saying that within the month insurance premiums will be out of reach of all but the grand estates ...'

A heavy silence descended. To send a cargo of sugar to sea uninsured would mean instant ruination if it were taken. The turtle arrived, and Renzi nibbled at the tongue and crab patties, checking his impulse to comment on naval matters. Further down the table a grumbling voice picked up another thread. 'Trelawney maroons are getting fractious again.'

Renzi gave a polite interrogatory look towards Marston, who took up the cue. 'Maroons, that's y'r runaway slaves up in the cockpit country, where we can't get at 'em. Damn-fool governor — about fifty odd years ago, gave in t' them, signed a treaty. They lives free in their own towns up there, doin' what they do, but that's not enough — they wants more.'

'An infernal impertinence!' another burst out.

'Wine with you, sir,' Marston exclaimed to Renzi. 'Your visit should not be damned by our moaning.' Renzi smiled and lifted his glass. Around the table, talk resumed: gossip, local politics, eccentricities. The barrister politely enquired of him London consol prices; fortunately, Renzi's recent devouring of the latest newspapers had left him able to comment sensibly.

The claret gave way to Madeira, ginger sweetmeats and fruit jellies appeared, and chairs creaked as they accommodated the expansive relaxation of their occupants. The cloth was drawn and decanters placed on the table. 'Gentlemen, the King,' intoned Laughton.

Chairs scraped as the diners scrambled unsteadily to their feet. "The King, God bless him!' The simple act of the loyal toast unexpectedly brought a constriction to Renzi's throat: it symbolised for him the warmth and good fellowship of the company to be had of his peers. A blue haze arose from several cigars and the talk grew animated; the evening proceeded to its end, and carriages were announced,

'I wish you the sleep of the just, Nicholas!' Laughton joked as he stood with Renzi at the door of his bedroom. He hesitated a moment, then turned quietly and went.

Renzi lay in the dark, the softness of the vast bed suffocating to one who had become accustomed to the neat severity of a sea-service hammock. He stared into the blackness, his thoughts rushing. It had caught him unawares, he had to admit, and even more, it had unbalanced him. The sight of his brother and the memories this brought of home, and above all the easy gaiety and reasoned conversation, all conspired against his high-minded resolution.

He rolled on to his side. It was hard to sleep with the up-country night sounds - the long snore of a tree-toad outside the jalousie window, the chirr-chirr of some large insect, a non-stop humming compounded with random chirping, whistling and croaking. An insect fluttered in his hair. He swore, then remembered too late that it was usual to search the mosquito net for visitors first. A larger insect blundered around in the confines of the net and he flapped his arms to shoo it out, but felt its chitinous body squirming against his hand and threw aside the net in disgust.

But then he recalled the usual method of dealing with giant scorpions dropping from above — hot wax from a candle: there was none lit, so he reluctantly draped the net again, and sank back into the goose down.

There was no denying that he had enjoyed the evening — too much. And he could feel himself weakening. It would not take much for an active mind to rationalise a course of action that would release him from his self-imposed exile. Such as the fact that, with his dear friend no longer at hand to share his burden, it might be thought excessive durance; he would then be released, free even to join his brother in the plantation . ..

Morning arrived. Renzi had slept little, but when he awoke he found that his brother was out on the estate. When he was ready he presented himself at the dining room. A tall black servant offered a chair and a small table outside on the veranda, obviously following Laughton's practice.

A breakfast arrived — but nothing Renzi could recognise. 'Ah, dis callaloo an' green banana, sah,' he was advised by a worried buder. Renzi smiled weakly and set to. The coffee, however, was a revelation: flavoursome and strong without being bitter.

As he was finishing, Laughton came into sight astride a stumpy but well-muscled pony. He slid to the ground and strode over to Renzi with an easy smile. 'Do I see you in good health?'

Renzi had never shied from a decision in his life, and the moral strength to stand by its full consequence was deeply ingrained. 'Brother, may we talk?' he responded quietly.

* * *

It was done. Although he knew he had made the only decision possible, the resumption of his exile was hard, and time slipped by in a grey, dreary parade. The probability was that he would not visit his brother again: the contrast was so daunting.

Day succeeded day in monotonous succession, the work not onerous, or demeaning but stultifying. While on one hand he would never need to turn out into a wild night, on the other he would not know the exhilaration of sailing on a bowline, the sudden rush of excitement at a strange sail, or touch at unknown and compelling foreign shores.

After the morning's work there was already a respectable pile dealt with and ready for signature. He picked up the next paper: another routine report, a list of names and descriptions of new arrivals from somewhere or other available for local deployment. His eyes glazed: he would need to advise the appropriate departments separately for each individual, a lengthy task. Sighing, he put down the paper, then snatched it up again. It was impossible — but the evidence could not be denied. On the fifth row, in neat copperplate, was the name Thomas Paine Kydd.

Feverishly, he scanned the line. Apparently a Thomas Paine Kydd, dockyard worker, was being transferred from the Royal Dockyard at English Harbour as surplus to requirements. The odds against two men with the same name being in the same part of the world must be colossal — but, then, this one was indisputably a dockyard worker. And probably a bad one at that. Renzi knew by now the code for offloading a useless article.

On a mad impulse he stood up. He gathered together the pile of papers, hurried outside and found Jacobs. 'These are for signature, Mr Jacobs. I have been called away by Admiral Edgcumbe again’ he said, and hastened away. If he was quick, he could ride on the noon mail and be at the naval dockyard in an hour or two.