Seaflower (28 page)

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—