Seaflower (10 page)
The
sweat prickled down Kydd's back.
'What
I want you to try to do — is take your party to Petit Bourg, our largest
remaining stronghold. I shall withdraw into the mountains of Basse Terre and
yield up the capital and eastern half of the island to the enemy.' His head
lowered. 'God knows — I have done what I can.'
Kydd
knew better than to voice his anxieties. 'Aye-aye, sir,' he said, the age-old
response to a naval order, and made his exit.
Outside,
the marines waited. No file of men presenting arms, just a group of three in
dusty tunics, bowed with fatigue, but with muskets bright and gleaming. Why
they should follow his orders he had no idea, but he saw them straighten when
he emerged, looking to him. In that moment he understood — they needed from him
that nameless quality that drove men on regardless through adversity and
battle. They were joined by five seamen.
'We're
meetin' our mates,' Kydd said decisively, 'at Putty Borg — over yonder,' he
added. It had been pointed out to him earlier, an anonymous huddle of buildings
just visible across the bay on the rugged Basse Terre proper.
'That's
a fuckin' long way off, cully,' said an older seaman, in measured tones.
The
group fell quiet. 'Y'r right - fifty miles if it's a yard,' Kydd snapped. 'So,
let's be havin' ye.'
There
would be no rations, no water until they made the safety of the fort, but in
fact it could be no more than five miles away. 'On y'r feet!' Kydd barked. The
men stirred, and got up in ones or twos.
'Marines,
get into y'r line an' lead off.' They shuffled into file and stood to
attention, staring ahead blankly as they always did. 'Right — march away!' Kydd
shouted, not at all sure of the form of orders to start men marching. The
marines, after a moment's confusion, stepped out, and the little band of men
tramped off down the dusty road out of town. Kydd felt a swell of pride - his
men, obeying his orders, going on a military mission of importance.
Some
time later the gates of the small Petit Bourg citadel hove in sight for the
footsore and dusty band; security, food, drink and, above all, the warmth of
company of their own kind.
'Halt!'
This was not a welcome: what had happened? For a moment Kydd thought that the
French had reached here and were enticing them into a trap.
'The
fort ahoy!' shouted Kydd. 'Party o' men fr'm Pwun-a-Peter, come t' join.' He
could now hand over responsibility for 'his' men - he felt a slight pang.
A
different voice came from high above, and Kydd saw the shako of an army
officer. 'Well done, you men.' There was a pause, and the-head and shoulders of
the officer showed. 'You should understand that we may have fever .
..'
there was a stirring of alarm among
Kydd's men '.
..
and therefore you
may not wish to enter.'
'Sod it
! Any place 'as vittles, somewhere ter flake out,'
said the older seaman coarsely.
'Hold
y'r jabber,' Kydd told him briefly. 'Where else c'n we go, sir?' he hailed.
'Wouldn't
advise you to remain here,' the officer called. 'I expect an assault any hour.'
Kydd's heart lurched. 'Yet I do know where there are more of you fellows. You
might wish to join them.' His tone became apologetic. 'It's all of twenty miles
or so further along this road, around the south part of this island — Fort
Mathilda.' Silence. 'I do believe you should make your dispositions soon,' the
officer said, and indicated across the bay to where they had come from.
Pointe
a Pitre was now a bleak scene, ruined gaps in rows of houses, smoke from
burning buildings. The smell of devastation lay on the wind. The bombardment
had stopped, which meant that the French were in possession of the town. 'No
choice, is there, mates?' he heard from beside him.
He
remembered Renzi's way with logic and forced himself to think. If they entered
they would be safe for the time being, but at the risk of yellow fever. If they
started on a march of twenty miles or more there was every chance that they
would be overtaken by the French. Or they might make it, without exposure to
the fever. The elements shuffled themselves in his head at vertiginous speed
and came down on a course of cool certainty. They would march on. If there was
a chance they could reinforce Fort Mathilda with some able-bodied men, then
their duty was plain.
'We
march!' he growled. He hailed the fort again. 'We go on, sir! Chance o' some
rations — an' some water?'
The
officer removed his hat. 'Very commendable, my man. I will see to it.' His
figure disappeared downwards.
'There
is a choice, yer knows.' The older seaman confronted him, his eyes fixing Kydd's.
'We're not in kilter fer a long piece o' walkin' so we 'as ter do what we must
- we gives it all away, we got nothin' ter worry of, not like them royalists,
we'll get treated square .
..'
Kydd's
fist slammed into the man's stomach, doubling him over. The next blow took him
on the chin, knocking him to the dust, where he lay sullenly feeling his jaw.
Kydd turned back to the fort.
A
bucket on the end of a piece of rope appeared. In it, covered by a grey
blanket, were army biscuits, two cooked haunches of rabbit and a hand of
bananas. Three canteens of water followed. 'March!' Kydd ordered. They stepped
off, the fallen man left to catch up. As they rounded a curve he saw the
officer still looking in their direction. The marines had a rhythm of marching that
was relaxed and economic, but the seamen were fast becoming tired and slow.
'Up
there,' Kydd said suddenly, pointing at the sugarcane field. They stared at
him dully. 'Are ye thinkin' of walkin' all th' way?' It didn't need much smart
thinking to realise that cane-fields had carts for the cut cane, and these
would be pulled by horses or some other animal.
It
was more difficult than it appeared. 'Don' be daft!' One of the marines, an
ex-farmhand, chuckled, and took the reins from Kydd's hands. Kydd surrendered
them gratefully. The single ox was placid but sure, and the sugar-cane cart
jerked forward. Sprawled in the back were his men, and he had provided for
them. Before he fell asleep under the hot sun, Kydd felt a certain
satisfaction.
Fort
Mathilda was small, but built securely into the rock of the coast. A surprised
lieutenant met them inside the gates and asked immediately about the situation
in Pointe a Pitre. Then the little fort stood to, awaiting the inevitable.
It
wasn't long in coming: rising dust clouds inland showed the approach of a
substantial column — but the satisfying sight of men-o'-war coming round the
point with
Trajan
in
the van settled their fate in a much more agreeable way.
Chapter 5
The
deck of a ship at dawn was the most beautiful sight he could think of, Kydd
decided. Even the swish and slop of the men swabbing the deck did not intrude.
The easy, domestic sounds in the cool of the early morning were balm to his
troubled soul.
The
quality of the dawn light on the anchored ship was of a gossamer hesitancy, a
soft emerging of colour through grey; the tropical sea began its transition
from dark grey-blue anonymity to its usual striking transparent greens and
deep-water blue. Within the hour it would bear the hard glitter of the sun, and
this magical time would be dismissed into memory. A sigh forced itself on him.
The land with all its brutal ways could now be relinquished for the sea — the
pure, stern, manly sea. A smile broke through. Renzi had not yet returned to
Trajan
from the brig of refugees, but they would have much
to talk about when he did.
The
line of men had nearly reached the half-deck. The men on the poop had finished
and were stowing
wash-deck gear. Stirk sauntered over to Kydd. 'D'ye
fancy ter step ashore agen, cully?' he said, nodding to the palm-studded coast
not a mile away, the sun's light playing stronger on the mass of deep greens
and dark ravines of the interior.
'Wish
t' hell I could, Toby,' Kydd said lightly. 'Had m'self a thunderin' good time
ashore, the women an' all.
..'
Stirk
kept his smile, but his eyes searched Kydd's face. 'Did 'ear 'twas bad cess,
them Crapauds, a-killin' their own kind like they did.'
Kydd's
tone changed. 'If they does, only leaves less f'r us.' His hands whitened on
the rope he held, and his face turned seawards. 'Bolderin' weather to the
nor'east'd,' he said firmly. From the direction of the reliable north-east
trade winds the clouds were piling up, more than the usual wet-season rain
squalls. It would mean soaked shirts for all again that afternoon.
'Haaaands
to unmoor ship!'
At
last! Out to sea, away from the nightmarish memories. From his position in the
mizzen-top Kydd could see both accompanying frigates weigh and proceed, a
satisfying picture in the trade winds of the open sea.
Trajan
cast to starboard when she had won her anchor and
followed in their wake.
When
he came on deck after the midday meal for his watch at the conn, the weather
was clamping in. On the quarterdeck, Kydd took position next to the helm, and
noticed Auberon's set expression. He was gazing at the easterly horizon, at the
growing darkness — a peculiar darkness in the clouds, which had an ugly copper
tinge. There was also a swell that was out of keeping with the wave patterning,
a deepening, driven swell that told of a mighty storm somewhere, raging and
lashing. And it was from the north-east.
Auberon
rounded on the duty midshipman. 'M'duty to the Captain, and I would be happy to
see him join me on deck,' he snapped.
Bomford
did not waste time, appearing in his shirtsleeves and without his hat. Auberon
merely indicated. 'Sir.'
Bomford
paused for only seconds. 'Pass the word for Mr Quist,' he said quietly. The
sailing master knew these waters well.
The
warrant officer deliberated for long minutes. 'In my opinion, sir, it looks
very like a hurricanoe.' He used a telescope to traverse the front of the
approaching storm. 'I cannot be sure o' more, 'cepting we must shape a more
southerly course an' run.'
Bomford
looked at him sharply. 'Why southerly, if you please?'
'Sir,
in these parts, if y' faces into the wind then ye'll find the centre of the
storm nine, ten points on y'r right hand — an' this means we needs t' be
athwart it directly.'
There
was no denying the quiet authority in the man's voice. This was a man who had
prevailed in the devastating hurricane that had decimated Rodney's fleet in
these very waters less than a dozen years earlier. The master lifted an eyebrow
and looked at the Captain. 'We can't outrun it — whether we're a-swim on the
morrow or no depends squarely on the winds, gentlemen. In the next few hours,
if the wind backs, with God's protection we're safe — mauled an' bedundered but
we'll live. If th' wind veers .
..'
'Very
well,' Bomford said. A moment's flash of uncertainty shadowed his face. Then
he turned to Auberon. 'Do you bear away to the south'ard, and pipe the
starbowlines on deck. I believe we will clear away and batten down.'
There
had been other times, in other ships, when Kydd had worked to snug a vessel down
for dirty weather but this was different: an apprehensive urgency was building,
a knowledge that their very lives could depend on the tightness of a splice,
the strength of a preventer. Details now were a matter of life or death.
As
quartermaster's mate Kydd held allegiance in the first instance to the sailing
master. Quist was calm but firm. There would be nothing left to chance that
could conceivably be met by forethought and diligence. For the first time Kydd
saw extreme measures being taken at sea, and he absorbed it all.
Quist's
first care was to the rudder. If it carried away under stress of weather they
could easily broach to, broadside to the deadly combers, and the result would
be inevitable — they would be rolled over to their doom. The little party made
its way below to the wardroom flat, aft on the gundeck. There, the true origin
of control of the rudder lay: the mighty twenty-six-foot length of a tiller,
high up just under the deckhead, connected by tackle and an endless rope up
through the decks to the wheel-drum. As Kydd watched, it creaked and moved with
the motions of the unseen helmsman high above, with its powerful leverage ready
to sweep from one side of the deck to the other.
Three
seamen arrived with a spare tiller to lay along the deck. Kydd's arms ached as
he held up one side of the relieving tackles to be reeved. If the tiller-ropes
parted in furious seas, these tackles would do no less than save the ship.
'Ask
th' boatswain t' kindly step over, lad,' Quist told his messenger, a solemn
midshipman, when they had regained the deck. The boy darted off. As master,
Quist was senior to the boatswain, who arrived without delay. 'C'n we have
rudder tackles rigged, d'ye think, Nathan?'
There
were chains leading up each side of the rudder from its trailing part. They
were unshackled and taken to the channel of the mizzen shrouds. A strong luff
tackle was applied, its fall led into a gunport, and the chain becketed up
under the counter. This was pure seamanship and Kydd looked down thoughtfully
while he worked above the noisy foaming around the rudder — he had voyaged
around Cape Horn and knew what heavy seas could do.
Back
at the wheel, Quist paused as a portable compass was lashed in place near the
binnacle. Nodding approval, he said, 'And we'll have a quartermaster on th'
wheel, and his lee helmsman's going t' be his mate.' Kydd would be experiencing
his first hurricane from the helm, mate to Capple.
'And
we'll have weather cloths in the shrouds.' Quist was considerate as well as
competent: these old sails stretched along the shrouds to weather would take
some of the brutal sting out of the spindrift and blast coming in on the
helmsman.
While
they laboured Kydd kept his eye on the ominous build-up to their larboard.
They were crossing the path of the storm rather than trying to outrun it, a
rationale that made sense to the master - he would ask about the reasoning
afterwards. If there was an afterwards
...
Rolling
tackles were clapped on to the big lower yards. Vicious rolling could have the
heavy yards moving out of synchrony with the hull, tearing sail and rigging;
the whipping movement would be damped with the tackles. At the same time, at
the ends of the yards where the big braces pulled them round to meet the wind,
preventer lines were applied. If the braces parted and the yard swung back it
would probably take the mast with it like a felled tree.
It
was hard, continuous work, but there would be no complaints. Double tacks and
sheets rove, storm canvas roused out; fore, main and mizzen storm staysails
were cleared away and baggywrinkle mats seized on everywhere. In the complexity
of rigging there was a danger that cordage madly flogging in the bluster of the
storm would chafe to destruction.
Kydd
took a last look at the vast storm before going below for his meal. It
stretched now across half the sky and, labouring at her best speed as she was,
Trajan
was not going to escape. The frigates were nearly
out of sight ahead and would probably get away with a battering, but the old
ship-of-the-line would be facing the full force of the hurricane.
There
was no chatter at the mess-table. All the petty officers knew the odds, could
bear witness to tempests around the world. There was nothing to be said. Kydd met
Stirk's eye: there was an imperceptible lift to his eyebrow but beyond that the
hard-featured quarter gunner seemed unruffled. He had been with Kydd in
Artemis
when the vessel had been racked to pieces on an
Atlantic rock and lived through many other dire times that he had never
discussed. Kydd felt claustrophobic. The hatches were sealed with tarpaulin
over the gratings, which were secured with nailed battens along the sides. Thus
battened down there was no air movement and he felt breathless.
With
a terrifying creaking along the whole length of the gundeck there was a massive
unseen lurch to leeward. "Ere she comes, mates,' Stirk said, and got up.
Kydd rose also; he had an urgent need to be out on deck.
The
pealing of the silver calls of the boatswain's mates met him on the way up.
'All
haaaands
All
the hands ahoy! All
haaaands
on deck!
Haaands
to shorten sail!'
There
was now no point in trying to get away. Like a fleeing animal,
Trajan
could no longer run and had to turn, confront her
pursuer, then fight to survive. Reduced to topsails and staysails, the Captain
wanted more. First the topgallant and next the topmasts were struck on deck,
the lack of high canvas resulting in a different kind of movement, an ugly,
whipping roll that felt sullen and resentful. The sight of the truncated masts,
only reaching up to the fighting tops, added to Kydd's unease.
The
reliable trade winds fell away, then returned, but in gusts. The energetic
waves were falling over themselves and the first rain drove in, coming in fretful
squalls, chill and spiteful. Capple screwed up his eyes at the onslaught and
took up position at the weather side of the wheel, motioning Kydd to the lee
side. 'Capple at th' helm, Kydd to loo'ard,' he called to the knot of officers
on the quarterdeck, looking gravely out to the spreading darkness in the
north-east. The wheel kicked under Kydd's hands — the vigour in the seas was a
reality - and he watched Capple closely as in turn the seaman watched the leech
of the reefed topsail aloft. It would be hours before he saw his mess again.
'Dyce
— no higher.' Quist appeared from behind them, studying the bellying canvas.
Far forward, the bows lifted and smashed down in a broad swash of foam as she
came round, now going more before the increasingly blustery winds, which Kydd
gauged were already at gale strength.
Men
moved carefully about the decks, the motion making it more of a controlled
stagger. There was still more to be done, and Kydd watched the carpenter at the
base of each mast check the wedges for play, the boatswain and his men
stropping the anchors with extra painters to hold them securely against the
tearing pull of the sea as the vessel's heavy downward roll buried them once
again in a roaring mass of foam.
Braced
against the wheel, Kydd's muscles bunched and gave with the effort of keeping
the rudder straight under the impact of the seas coming in from astern. The
shock of the impacts came regularly and massively, and it was difficult to time
their movements.
The
first seas came over the bulwarks to flood the decks just as the horizon faded
in white froth and spume torn from wave-crests, but with a thrill Kydd saw from
the binnacle that the streaming blast of air was now from the north, tending
north-westerly — it was backing! As long as they could keep the seas then,
according to the master, they would pass safely through this chaos of sea and
air. He looked across the deck to where Quist stood alone, buffeted by the
still-increasing gale, his old dark tarpaulins plastered to his body. He felt an
upwelling of feeling for the man, who held in his mind so much cool knowledge
about this raging of nature, and who—