Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

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.'