Seaflower (23 page)

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.

Chapter 9

The
boat skimmed over the spacious harbour, on its way from Kingston town to the
naval dockyard at the end of a seven-mile sandy spit of land, the Palisades.
This was Port Royal, the notorious pirate lair that had been destroyed
spectacularly by an earthquake a century before. But Renzi had no eyes for this
curiosity. Furious with himself for his impulsive and unreasoned act, he was
yet in a fever of expectation and hope that had no foundation in logic — just a
single name on a piece of paper.

He
waited impatiently while the boat came alongside the wharf, then swung himself
up and strode ashore. Ignoring the close-packed victualling storehouses, he
followed the road through the sprawling ruins of the Polygon battery, the odd
grey-flecked sand of the spit crunching loudly underfoot.

As
he passed the stinking pitch-house and the bedlam of the smith's shop he had no
real idea how to find his quarry — the employment return had merely said that
this man was a dockyard worker, no indication of what type. It would be useless
to ask any of the dockyard men about a new arrival: no one would know him. Over
there was a rickety row of negro houses — Renzi had found that, generally,
sailors got on well with slaves so perhaps .. .

He
stopped dead. An unmistakable figure was coming round the corner at the
dockyard wall with his head down. Kydd. Renzi stood still, noting the droop of
the shoulders, the preoccupied air. He called softly, 'Avast there, brother!
Spare an old friend a glance.'

Kydd
stopped as though struck in the face. Incredulity, then joy lit his features.
He hurried over and shook Renzi's hand until it ached.

'Do
ye leave me my hand, Tom. It is the only one I have left on the right side,'
Renzi said.

Port
Royal town was old, a sea town with a gaudy past, and its superfluity of sailor
taverns gave pleasing choice for their reunion. The early hour of the afternoon
ensured they would not be disturbed, and they selected the Shipp Inn on Queen
Street: it had a table in a bay window overlooking the calm of the inner
harbour.

'You
are safe — preserved!' Renzi said, with great feeling.

Kydd
looked up, surprised. 'Oh, yes. Twas nothin', really. L'tenant Calley told us
t' march out to Putty Borg on Bass Tair, but there they had th' fever, so we
went to t' other side, Fort Mathilda, an' were picked up b' Trajan'

Renzi
had shared too much with Kydd to believe that this bare account was all there
was to tell, but it could wait. 'You're in the dockyard line now?' he asked.

'Aye,'
said Kydd, his brow creased, 'but I'd give a bag o' guineas t' get back t'
sea.' 'How—'

'Trajan
was
surveyed 'n' condemned, I had th' chance f'r a spell in a reg'lar-goin'
dockyard.' 'And—'

'An'
I ran afoul of a blue-light shipwright. Seems m' spirits were too — who should
say? — ardent with the ladies,' Kydd explained, without rancour.

Renzi
contemplated this. He knew that Kydd was not a concupiscent and signalled to
the pot-boy. 'The punch here is considered of the first class,' he offered.

'Thank
ye, no. I had th' yellow fever not a month past. Lost m' taste f'r grog
lately.'

'Then
we have your lemonadoes, rap, cacao-drink—'

'A
small beer will answer,' Kydd said.

It
was indeed satisfying to see Kydd again, and once more Renzi realised that here
was his only true friend. He dreaded the parting that must come. Rebellion
forced itself on his consciousness, but he conquered it. 'What are you about at
the moment?' he asked, unwilling to confess to his impulse in coming.

'Scullin'
about - seems I have t' wait for assigning,' Kydd said moodily. 'What're you
doin' for y'rself?'

'Oh,
somewhat in the character of a clerk. My small French is of value here, it
seems. I labour in Spanish Town.' It was depressing, the very thought. 'Shall
we not view the ruins of the old pirate town?' he went on quickly. 'I have a
yen to see the very streets of Captain Morgan.'

They
walked along the narrow streets of Port Royal. It was small and compact,
occupying the tip of the Palisades; and it didn't take long to discover that
there was no trace at all of the notorious city.

'Ah,
dearie, ye have ter unnerstan' — all th't was wicked and godless, one arternoon,
jus' ups and slides down inter the sea! All th' people fallin' into great
cracks in th' ground an' screamin' an' being carried ter their doom — a
judgement on 'em all,' the old washerwoman told them, with relish. 'They're
still dahn there!' She cackled.

They
passed back along the other side of the spit, seeing its inner prospect of the
fleet at anchor in all its puissant presence, the Admiral's pennant floating
proudly atop the 74-gun flagship. Renzi saw Kydd's forlorn attention on the
ships as they paced along.

Kydd
stopped. He lifted an arm and pointed to a small vessel anchored much closer,
in Chocolate Hole. 'There!' he said. 'Like a yacht, 'n' with saucy lines. If
ever I get th' chance t' ship out again, she'd be m' choice.'

'Is
she not overmuch small?' Renzi teased.

'Be
damn'd t' that! She'd be everywhere, all over th' Caribbee, never rottin' at
anchor 'n' seein' parts o' the Main where y'r ship-of-the-line would never
touch in a hunnerd years!' Kydd went on. 'An' th' best chance o' prize money
ye'll ever get.'

Shielding
his eyes, Renzi tried to make out the vessel.

'She's
Seaflower cutter,' Kydd said, in a low voice. 'With a commander new promoted,
an' he can't fin' a crew,' he said, finally tearing away his eyes.

An
idea came to Renzi in the wagon to Spanish Town. A stupendous, fantastic idea.
He elaborated and tested it on the rest of the way and, during the night,
planned his move.

Requesting
the muster lists of all the ships in the Fleet was easy — they were filed together
and no one questioned his sudden use of them for undisclosed purposes. He sat
down and started work, scanning the names and making the occasional note.