Seaflower (33 page)

"The
nearest port he can find there?'

'Ah
- that'd be, er, Port des Galions. Small, but has a mole f'r the sugar trade.'

'Any
fortifications, do you think?'

'Always
some kind o' unpleasantness at th' end o' the mole,' Jarman ventured, looking
at Merrick.

'Aye,
sir, if she gets inshore o' the mole, we 'ave ter give it away, I fear,'
Merrick said.

Farrell
remained pensive. The brig was too big to take on directly, they were being
drawn away from their proper route to Jamaica and there was a possibility that
a French man-o'-war was lying in Port des Galions that really did know his
business. Straightening, he made up his mind. 'We let Stirk have his amusement
for a little longer — if he brings down a spar we reconsider, but if the brig
makes port we let her go.'

The
rest of the afternoon was spent with periodic banging from the bow in a wash of
powder smoke.

Kydd
and others spelled the grey-grimed and red-eyed Stirk in his task. The
considerable swell angled across and
Seaflower's
motion became a complex combination of pitch and roll. Behind the breech the
sighting picture was jerky and swooping, and having to use a port-fire, instead
of the instant response of a gunlock and lanyard, made the job nearly
impossible. 'Makin' it a mort uncomfortable for 'em,' Stirk said hoarsely. He
gulped thirstily at a pannikin of vinegar and water.

Beyond
Cabo Falso the land trended north-west and within less than thirty miles they
entered the French waters of San Domingo. The brig's course then shaped
unmistakably for Port des Galions, a far-off thin scatter of buildings amid
palm trees and verdure.

There
was no result yet from the chase guns, which were now uncomfortably hot and
radiated a sullen heat, but Stirk's crews worked on. The mole could be made
out, a low arm extending out to enclose a tiny bay with a sandy spit on the
opposite side, and no sign of any other vessel within. 'Give 'er best, mate,'
said Farthing, as the brig prepared to enter the little harbour and safety and
Farrell prepared reluctantly to tack about and retire.

'We'll
give 'em a salute as we go,' Farrell grunted.

Seaflower
stood on for a space, then put her helm up, turning
for a farewell broadside. But it was what the vengeful brig had been waiting
for - she yawed quickly and at last had the whole length of the cutter in her
sights. Her guns crashed out: a storm of shot whistled about
Seaflower,
splintering,
crashing, slapping through sails — and ending the life of
Seaflower
's only
midshipman. Cole had cheered with the best of them when the brig had turned
tail, and his fist had been upraised when a ball took his arm off at the
shoulder, flinging him across the deck. Stupefied, he tried to raise himself on
all fours, but failed, rolling to one side in his own blood.

Farrell,
himself winded by the passage of the ball, lunged across to the mortally
wounded lad and held him gently as the life left him. He remained still as
Seaflower's own guns answered. His head fell, and
when he looked up there was a murderous expression as his eyes followed the
brig past the end of the mole to the inner harbour and safety.

Obedient
to his last command,
Seaflower
headed for the open sea, but Farrell slowly got to his feet and breathed
heavily. 'Do you mark my words, we'll make them pay for this day.'

For
half a day
Seaflower sped out to
sea, Farrell pacing thoughtfully, at times disappearing below with the sailing
master. Towards evening a plan had been hatched that Farrell laid before Seaflower’s
company that afternoon around the main-hatch. 'The port consists of a narrow
point of land, with a mole on the other side like an arm enclosing a harbour.
The brig will undoubtedly be alongside the inner face of the mole. Now, it were
vain to think of carrying her in a direct assault in the open — the longboat
can bear but fourteen men, this is not sufficient.'

He
paused, then smiled. 'But we have a chance. I mean to "borrow" a
sugar lighter from further up the coast. This is how the joggaree — the raw
lump sugar — is carried to the port to be shipped out. These are mean and
unworthy craft, having but one masterly quality: they may carry concealed as
many stout men as we choose. This lighter will approach the entrance, but it
will be a sad parcel of lubberly rogues who try to bring her in. I have no
doubt she will run a-foul of whatever unfortunate vessel is lying alongside . .
.'

A
restless murmuring and then grins broke out, followed by hearty chuckles.
Farrell held up his hands for silence. 'We still have a use for the longboat.
With her fourteen men, it is landed before dawn on the far side of the point.
The boat is dragged over the sandy point and therefore launched inside the
harbour, where it may fall upon the enemy from a quite unexpected direction.'

This
time there was silence. It was broken by Farthing, who shouted, 'An' it's three
cheers fer Cap'n Farrell, mates! One, two, six — an' a
tigerrr!’

Farrell's
smile of pleasure was unexpectedly boyish. 'It is the custom in the Royal Navy
on hazardous duty to call for volunteers .. .' Kydd found himself coxswain of
Stirk's longboat and Renzi was detailed for the lighter to assist with the
French language. Nearly the whole of
Seaflower's
crew would be involved in the venture, but five needed to be held back to keep
the cutter at sea.

'I
must request, Mr Merrick,' said Farrell, 'that you remain to take the charge of
Seaflower, therefore—'

'Sir!
This is monstrous unjust!' the boatswain protested. 'You do me dishonour—'

'I'm
sure, Mr Merrick, you will always do your duty in the best traditions of the
Service.'

The
longboat was lowered from
Seaflower
when darkness fell. The quarter-moon would last for half
the night and then would set, making it easy for the longboat to see its way to
creep in to the seaward side of the point. In
Seaflower
hands
were raised in farewell as she made off to the north to find the lighter,
disappearing silently from view in the subdued moonlight.

The
boat hissed to a stop on the sandy beach. Fourteen men around the sturdy craft
quickly had her up the beach and out of sight in the greenery. Stirk motioned
to them to conceal themselves while he and Kydd went forward to reconnoitre.

It
was absolutely quiet, a light susurration of breeze, gentle and soothing, and
no sign of human presence on the dry, sandy landscape. Sharply contrasting
black shadows on silver light made it hard to pick a way - the task was to get
the boat over the point and in position to launch just before dawn. They chose
a low saddle, sand with small rocks and little vegetation. It was harder than
it looked to drag the heavy boat across the small, gnarled scrub with feet
stubbing on rocks and sand.

Stirk's
whispered 'Two, six —
heavyyyyy'
became monotonous and hypnotic, but they made good
progress, and well before time they were on the other side among the fringing
shrubbery near the water's edge - and opposite the mole. The moon had set in the
early hours and it was difficult to make out the dark mass of the brig across
the darkling waters, but there were the two pinpricks of lanthorn light in the
rigging to mark her out.

They
rested, waiting for daybreak. It was very quiet; only the odd night noise from
the small town around the curve of the bay, the plop and splash of fish,
muffled curses at the coolness and restless movement from fourteen men. A blue
edge came to the darkness - it would be light soon, arriving with tropical
swiftness.

Stirk
called them together. 'Now, mates, we's got a good chance if we goes in fast.
An' I means fast — I want ter see yez stretch out on the oars like yer've never
seen, an' up 'er side like monkeys wi' their arses on fire.'

There
was an impatient muttering: the men had been picked for the job, and were more
than ready. As the light strengthened, features emerged in the clarity of the
morning; the mole, the brig — and movement along the length of the mole. Kydd
tried to make out what was happening. A trumpet cut into the morning, a thin
baying at this distance but its significance was undeniable. There was a force
of soldiers of unknown size on the mole.

Kydd
knew that everything had changed. He looked to Stirk. Stirk's tough expression
was set and his voice became grave. 'This is a-lookin' hickey. Our shipmates is
standin' into hazard, they don' know there's sojers a-waitin' for 'em.' He
stared across at the soldiers forming up, and his jaw hardened.

'We're
goin' ter take 'em b' surprise, the Crapauds.' He sighted along the line of
beach. A couple of small fishing boats were drawn up nearby but otherwise it
was clear along to the town, a mile or so away. 'We pelts along, through th'
town and takes 'em from th' inside. Won't know what hits 'em. An' this'll make
'em take their eyes off of the Cap'n while he cuts out th' brig.' He glared
around the group of seamen, as if daring comment.

Kydd
could see the peril that Farrell would face, coming out of the dawn to find too
late the soldiers ready to fall on his band. It couldn't be allowed to happen:
Stirk was right to take action. But a frontal assault on soldiers? It was
courageous, but against armed troops in their own positions — no, they would
have no chance except to sacrifice themselves in the hope that it would not be
in vain. The emotional switch from exhilaration, through apprehension to dogged
acceptance was cruel.

A
quiet voice announced, 'There they is".' The low bulk of a sugar lighter
crept into distant view from the north. They were committed: Farrell had no
idea of the soldiers, and when he saw them closer to he would probably press
ahead rather than let down his other party.

Kydd
forced his mind to go cool. There had to be a diversion to take attention from
Farrell to themselves. But did it have to be a full assault? Could it be
..
. 'Toby,' Kydd said. Stirk swung about
to face him. 'Might be, we c'n do it another way.'

From
Stirk's compressed lips and glittering eyes, Kydd knew that he was keyed up for
what had to be done. 'Yeah? I can't see one, cuffin.'

Kydd
persevered: an alternative was forming in his mind. 'Look, we don't have t' go
at 'em front on. We c'n just—'

Stirk
stepped up to him. 'Kydd, we do it the way I said!' he snarled. 'In case yer've
forgotten, I'm in charge.'

'Aye,
Toby,' Kydd replied carefully. 'Youse in command right enough — just sayin'
that we don't have
e
take—'

Breathing
heavily, Stirk grabbed his shirt-front by both hands. Then he spoke slowly and
savagely: 'Kydd, I didn't reckon on it, but you're a piggin' shy cock.'

Kydd
was aware of the circle of silent men around him, but felt a rising anger. 'An'
you're fuckin' blind! Why don't you want t' hear of somethin' else?'

Stirk
released Kydd's shirt slowly. 'Let's hear it,' he said finally. His eyes held
Kydd's unblinkingly.

Kydd
tried to bring a lucidity, a logical sequence to his ideas as Renzi always did.
'We've got to get the Frogs t' pay attention to us, right? Look away fr'm the
lighter, get worried about us. We c'n do that. We launches th' longboat an' has
a go at the brig.'

'That's
yer idea?' said Stirk incredulously.

'Not
yet. See, the longboat is chasin' one of the little fishin' boats, who o'
course are screamin' f'r help. Frogs'll be wantin' t' see if they c'n make it
across to them.'

Stirk's
brow creased.

'Best
part is — well, if you were them soldiers, what would ye think?'

An
indistinct murmur came from behind, but Kydd pressed on: 'You'd think that this
fishin' boat is just escaped cos the English were invadin' th' town fr'm the
other side! An' you'd want t' get there sharpish.'

Doggo's
rough voice came from the left. 'So th' soldiers get flustered 'n' rushes off
ter deal with it, leavin' it clear f'r the Seaflowers!'

'Yeah.'

Stirk
hesitated — but the lighter was in clear view and would begin its final approach
shortly. A small smile appeared, and he mock-saluted Kydd. 'What's yer orders,
then, mate?'