Seaflower (8 page)

At
that moment the boatswain and his two mates came round from the other side of
the boat. 'Sticks in m' craw,' he rumbled, *but yez are stood down f'r the
day.' He took off his hat and mopped his brow. 'An' I have a berth for yez -
yer'll be livin' wi' a Johnny Crapaud 'n' his family. 'E'll tell y' where,' he
added, thumbing at one of his boatswain's mates.

'Poxy
Frogs!' sneered Luke scornfully. 'Not you, skinker,' said the boatswain, 'you
comes along wi' me.'

It
wasn't far from the dusty waterfront; in fact, it was a shop in a street
leading off the quay. In its neat, small windows Kydd saw tobacco pipes, bone
snuffboxes and rows of caddies disappearing into the gloom. Outside stood a
small moustachioed Frenchman, his desiccated wife behind clutching
spasmodically at him.

'Nah,
then, Fronswah, these 'ere are yer guests fer now,' the tall boatswain's mate
said kindly. 'Kydd 'ere, an' Renzi that one. Compree?'

'Ah,
oui,
^y
the man said doubtfully.

The
boatswain's mate looked at Kydd. 'So I c'n leave yer with 'em, then?'

Kydd
lifted his sea-bag. 'Aye. We've nothing t' fear fr'm these folks.'

The
sailor grinned and left. The Frenchman looked up and down the street nervously
and made shooing gestures to the two sailors. ‘A//ez — allez he said.

'Mais,
mon brave, nous sommes
.
..' began Renzi, in mellifluous French, sparking a visible leap in the man's
spirits.

'J'ai
l'honneur d'etre Henri Vernou, et voici ma femme?
Careful nods were exchanged after Renzi had
translated. His wife began guarded rapid jabber at him, but Renzi turned to
her, bowed elegantly and murmured polite words. Her expression relaxed a
little.

They
threaded through the shop and arrived at the back in a large
kitchen-cum-sitting-room. A rotund black woman froze in astonishment at the
intruders, but was sharply set about her business. An external flight of steps
took them to the upper storey; the wife fiddled with a key and stood back to
let them enter, her eyes following them unblinking as a crow's.

'Merci,
Madame?
Renzi said. The room
was small, but snug — a woman's room. It smelt of fragrances that made Kydd
feel his rough-hewn maleness.

‘
Le diner est servi a sept heures precises. Vois
voire cle. Ne la perdez pas.'
She
closed the door on them.

'Supper
will be at seven, you will be gratified to know,' Renzi said.

There
were two beds, one an obvious extra. 'Turn 'n' turn about,' Kydd suggested, for
the original bed was the better one. He chuckled. 'The throw o' th' dice,' he
ruminated. 'B' rights, we should be in a doss-house o' sorts — maybe there
ain't any in this town.'

'I
have my suspicions as to the hospitality,' said Renzi, but would not be drawn.
The door led to an upper veranda that overlooked the street and, with the
jalousie windows, made it acceptably cool. It was infinitely preferable to the
careless noise and drunken conviviality of a seamen's boarding-house.

They
went into the kitchen and were ushered to places on either side of that of the
head of the house, who entered last. A woman with a frosting of silver hair and
an intelligent face was seated at the other end, and at Kydd's glance gave a
slight nod and a tiny smile.

The
table was spread, the wine was open in the centre of the table and the black
maid stood by. A warning glare from Renzi was too late to stop Kydd reaching
for a stick of interesting bread, which he crunched appreciatively. 'Rattlin'
good,' he said, but was met with a chilly silence.

'I
do believe that the French set great store by the preliminaries,' Renzi
muttered. Kydd felt reproachful stares around the table.

‘
Seigneur, nous vous rendons grace pour ce repas que
nous nous appretons a partager .
.
.' The ancient words of the grace droned into the silence. Eyes lifted, and
there was an awkward pause.

‘
Et voici ma soeur, Louise'
said Monsieur Vemou reproachfully.

'And
his sister, Louise,' Renzi murmured to Kydd.

They
turned down the table to the woman, who inclined her head graciously and said,
'Plissed to mit you.'

Kydd
gave a broad smile. 'Aye, an' we too, er, ma'am!'

'I
'ave been the governess an' richer of French to ze English before.'

'Oh,'
said Kydd. 'Before what?'

At
the slight frown this brought, Renzi said firmly, 'Pray let us not be accounted
boors, my friend.' The table sat expressionless. Renzi turned to Louise.
'Madame, your English does credit to your calling.'

Kydd
let the conversation flow around him. It passed belief the situation he was now
in. The French were a parcel of mad rascals who had murdered their king and now
wanted to set the world at defiance — but here he was, on the face of it one of
the conquerors of this island, being politely entertained by them. Perhaps the
food would be poisoned? He glanced at Renzi, who seemed to take it all in his
stride. He had the attention of the whole table — except Madame Louise, whose
quiet gaze strayed from time to time in Kydd's direction.

'Tom,
Madame Vemou wishes to know what it is like living in a boat,' prompted Renzi,
keeping his face a study in restraint Kydd opened his mouth but recoiled, the
task of rendering into polite talk the stern realities of life at sea beyond
him. Renzi's smooth flow of French, however, seemed to satisfy the table.

During
the meal, a tasty stew, Kydd tried to remember his manners. He grinned
inwardly, thinking of what his mother would have to say to him, in this alien
place so far from home. The watered wine was excellent medicine for the pork
and beans, and he began to relax. 'Hear tell th't France is a pretty place’ he
tried. The comment rippled out under translation, but caused some dismay.
Mystified, he turned to Renzi.

'It
appears, my friend, that none here has ever been to France.'

Kydd
gave a weak smile. To his amazement, Monsieur Vernou, who was well into his
third glass of wine, suddenly stood up, scattering dishes. He stabbed a finger
at Kydd and broke into impassioned speech.

'Monsieur
Vernou
..
. states that he is not to
be mistaken for one of those regicides in Paris
...
who have brought such dishonour on their country
...
who have brought ruin and shame to the
land
...'
Renzi's. polite manner was
not best suited to the passion of the words.

Monsieur
Vernou stopped and, grasping the lapels of his waistcoat, glared down at Kydd.

'In
addition, Monsieur Vernou wishes it to be understood that he is proud to be
termed a
béké
—
which I understand to
be of a class in some way superior to others . . .'

The
little Frenchman was still in patriotic flow so Kydd stood up too, and said in
a strong voice, 'We never killed our king — we yet honour him. An' we say, God
save th' King!' He raised his glass and drained it.

From
the end of the table, the gentle voice of Louise cut in. 'We also, M'sieur Keed
— you are in ze company of
rqyalistes,
you un'erstand.'

A
rapid volley of French at Monsieur Vernou had the Frenchman starting in
consternation. 'Mais bien sur! Que Dieu benisse Sa Majeste Britannique’

All
rose. 'Que Dieu benisse Sa Majeste’

Renzi
returned the compliment and the table sat down to a happy babble. 'I pray the
lunacy on the streets of Paris does not cross the seas to here,' Renzi
remarked, in a low voice to Kydd. 'These good people will be its first victims.'

The
next few days passed in a blur of contentment for Kydd. The boatswain arrived
with stores — coils of good hemp rope, six blocks to replace those weakened by
tropical rot, and oakum for deck seams. The ship's carpenter put in an
appearance to tut-tut over the sprung bow strakes and left with the promise
that his mates would come later.

At
the billet Kydd setded into a pleasant domestic routine. Louise mended a
shirt-sleeve he had torn — it was her room that the sailors now inhabited. At
family meals she had taken to sitting next to Kydd, her quaint English welcome
when Renzi engaged in his long conversations in French. She would gently chide
him on his manners, which Kydd found endearing if disconcerting.

Less
than a week later, when the schooner had been brought to readiness but for the
stove bow strakes, they sat down to their meal — and unwelcome news. 'The
French have made their move,' Renzi murmured to Kydd, after the first excited
flurry of talk had settled.

Kydd's
mouth was full, but he couldn't help saying, 'This scran is rousin' good
eatin', Nicholas.' The
ragout
of fish had an elusive flavour of herbs - French
cooking was fast persuading Kydd that the English did not have it all their own
way in the culinary arts.

'It
could prove
...
unfortunate,' Renzi
pressed.

'What's
afoot?' Kydd asked, mouth full.

'They
say there are rumours that significant landings have been made to the north of
the island,' Renzi said, in a low voice.

Louise
overheard. 'So — a few soldier land! We 'ave the protection of ze Engleeesh
sheeps and soldiers too.'

Monsieur
Vernou snapped some words.

'My
brothair - he remind that we
bike
are many, and will flock to the colour of Bourbon
France.'

Renzi
dabbed his mouth. 'These are landed from a frigate. This implies that they are
regular troops on a planned invasion - by the revolutionaries,' he added, for
emphasis.

'But
you vill always prevail,' Louise said.

'That
is not altogether certain,' Renzi said carefully.

'Why
do ye say that, Nicholas?' Kydd said, with some asperity.

'Consider.
Trajan and the frigates are away attending to the reduction of San Domingo.
They cannot come at our call immediately because they are headed by the winds
and current. The garrison here in Guadeloupe is few — we have sent perhaps too
many soldiers to San Domingo. The royalists are no trouble and look to seeing
out the larger war under our governance, but they may prove unreliable if
tested too far. If the Jacobins are energetic and well led, it could be
..
.'

Kydd
turned to Louise, but her eyes were troubled so he didn't speak.

The
following morning there was even worse news. 'It seems that the Terror in Paris
has come here at last,' Renzi told Kydd, after listening to a fear-struck
visitor as they prepared to leave for their work. There was no need to lower
his voice now: there was a hubbub of frantic speculation. 'A guillotine came
with the frigate and it is doing its work out there even now.' Renzi looked
grave. 'One hundred - maybe as many as three hundred - have perished in a night
of blood. This is serious news indeed.'

A
torrent of weeping and beseeching from the women greeted the sight of Monsieur
Vernou in his ensign of reserves uniform. He made an impassioned speech, then
marched out, head held high. The ladies clutched one another. 'The royalists go
to preserve their very lives now,' said Renzi quietly.

Kydd
wandered out of the house in a daze. If there was anything in what Renzi had
said, the Vernous were in grave danger. He tried to suppress the image of
Louise's gentle face. His steps led him to the waterfront, and as he turned the
last corner he saw soldiers.

'Hey
now!' said the sergeant, coming out from behind a beached boat. 'Jack Tar on
land still.'

'Still
are,' replied Kydd. 'An' you, Sar'nt Hotham, you on y'r way t' stoppin' the
Frogs at th' landing?'

Hotham
did not reply at first. He looked about, then stepped up to Kydd and spoke
quietly. 'No, mate, we're not. Nobody is. See, we just ain't got the numbers to
face 'em, so many bein' away in Santa Domingy, so we're fallin' back on the
town.'