Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

Harsh laughter bayed from a group of sailors at their end of the loft. They were seated around an upended tub, playing cards and swigging hard from bottles. Kittoe allowed his face to go grave. 'Yeah, to a barky as any haul-bowlings c'n feel proud ter own to!' They drank together. Kydd let the rum just burn his lips: the evening might develop.

'Ye come fr'm England?' Kydd asked.

'Nah. Avenger is taken fr'm the Crapauds at Martinico,' Kittoe said briefly. It was the way of it - some clash at arms in these seas .. .

A tall woman appeared, dressed loosely in colourful red. She moved behind Kittoe and slid her arms down his chest. 'Come, Kittoe man, youse an' me make jig-a-jig,' she purred, but her eyes were on Kydd, wide and lambent.

'Away wi' ye, Sukey,' said Kittoe, but with a smile. 'We're talkin' together, yer silly biddy!'

The woman's hair was drawn back and had a hard sheen in the light. A large, polished mahogany-coloured jungle seed hung around her neck. She fingered it, regarding Kydd speculatively. Grunts and cries from the darkness beyond left little doubt about what was going on, and Kydd's senses prickled. 'Hey, youse kooner-man!' she said, her voice low and throaty.

Kittoe took up the bottle again and went to top up Kydd's tankard, but only a few drops of rum emerged. He snorted. 'Pot-boy! Look sharp, we're a-thirst!' A figure hurried over from the other side to attend them and came to a sudden halt.

'Luke!' Kydd cried. 'What're y' doing here?' It was not hard to guess — here he could earn a few coppers. The boy dropped his head as Kydd laid into him. 'You little rascal, this's not the place t' find a fine young gennelman, damn me if it is!'

Obstinately, Luke raised his eyes and said, 'Then what 're you here for, Mr Kydd?'

There was a chortling from Kittoe, but Kydd stood up, face burning. 'None o' y'r business! Now you get y’self back aboard — I mean, return t' our lodgings — this instant, y' swab!'

At the stubborn look on Luke's face Kydd knew there was no other course. 'We return now, y' blaggard! I'll have no servant o' mine corruptin' himself with drink 'n' carnality!' Kydd pushed him out into the darkness and followed. He cursed and swore under his breath. He had had no intention of being saddled with the moral responsibility for another, but in Luke's case he felt a certain obligation.

'Show more canvas, younker!' Kydd growled. An idea took shape — he shied from it at first, but it would meet the case splendidly. He sighed. He'd thought he'd left all of that behind in another life ...

As they opened the little gate he rounded on Luke: 'Have y' made up m' accounts yet?'

Luke's face dropped. 'Mr Kydd, y' know I haven't m' letters.'

'Damme! I f'got,' said Kydd, with heat. "This means I have t' spend my valuable time a-copyin' and figurin' — may have t' get a proper servant, me havin' such responsibility now.' Kydd turned his gaze from Luke's pitiable expression, and frowned grimly. 'An' that ain't going to be easy hereabouts.'

They went up the stairs. Then Kydd stopped, as though struck with a sudden thought. 'There maybe is a way ...'

'Mr Kydd?' said Luke eagerly.

'Perhaps not. You're a lazy rascal, an' won't—'

'I will so, I swear.'

'Right, me hearty! We starts tomorrow. Y' hoists aboard yer letters at last.'

'Yes, Mr Kydd,' Luke said meekly.

Just before noon, a rain squall stopped all work. Kydd and his crew hurried into the shelter of the boat-house while the downpour hammered into the ground and set a thousand rivulets starting towards the brown waters of the harbour.

'I have been hearing good reports of you, Thomas,' said Caird.

Kydd looked around in surprise. 'Mr Caird?' 'You have been teaching your servant his letters.' Kydd's face eased into a smile. 'Aye, keeps him out o' trouble betimes, the scamp.'

Caird's voice softened. 'That is what I thought. It is the Lord's work you are doing, Thomas, never forget it.'

Embarrassed, Kydd mumbled something, but was interrupted. 'If you are at leisure, perhaps you may wish to dine this evening at my house - we eat at six promptly.' Noting Kydd's hesitation he went on, 'I can well comprehend the godless depravity you are sparing the boy, and confess from the start, I had my hopes of your conduct.'

'The salt, if you please, my dear,' Caird said to the arid lady at the other end of the table, who, Kydd now knew, was his sister Isadore. She nodded graciously, with something suspiciously like a simper.

It was hard on Kydd; bad enough the enervating warmth, but worse the starched tablecloth, precise manners and formidable air of rectitude. He searched for some conversation. 'Luke's not a shab, really, it's just that—'

Isadore broke in unctuously, 'And as a sapling is trained, so does the tree grow.' She helped herself liberally to the cream sauce.

Opposite Kydd sat the delicate, timid Beatrice. Each time he looked at her she averted her eyes quickly, disconcerting him. She was a slight figure in filmy grey, which added to her air of unworldliness. She had been introduced as Caird's daughter, her mother long departed for a better world.

'Another akee, Beatrice,' Caird said, his voice tender.

'Thank you, no more, Father,' came her small voice. Caird nodded to the hovering servant who gracefully removed her plates.

'I see Rose has her foremast a-taunt now,' ventured Kydd.

Caird's eyebrows lowered. 'In deference to the ladies, Thomas, I make it a practice never to discuss at table matters they cannot be expected to know.'

'Oh - er, I mean—'

'It is Friday, my friend. On the Sabbath, Beatrice and I go about the good Lord's business in this country, ministering to his children. Do you not feel that it would lift your heart to accompany us?'

Struck dumb by the assumption of his godliness, he noticed Beatrice beaming across at him. 'Please do, Mr Kydd,' she said, meeting his eyes for the first time.

'Splendid!' said Caird. 'We shall call for you - and your servant, of course — at six on Sunday.'

When he returned to his little house, the lower part showed the light of candles: the occupant was at home. He started to climb the steps to his room, but a throaty hail stopped him. 'Avast there, cock! Come 'n' show yerself!' It was the chief caulker, his beefy frame seeming to fill the room. He was slumped in a chair holding a bottle. A black woman flitted about with a bowl.

'Has th' mullygrubs,' he said, burping. 'What's yer name, mate?'

'Thomas Kydd, Master o' the King's Negroes.'

'Savin' y’r presence, yez a young one fer a master. How'd yer come by it?'

'I had th' rate o' petty officer in Trajan , 'n' when she was let go—'

'A cryin' shame,' rumbled the man.

'—I was taken up b' Mr Caird,' he finished.

'Are ye a goddammed blue-light sailor, then?' demanded the chief caulker.

'I never take th' Lord's Name in vain, brother,' Kydd said, holding his hands in a prayerful attitude and hoping that his humble tone passed muster.

'B' gob, I never said - God rest ye, mate, an' all that!'

Kydd smiled beatifically, and made his exit, pleased at his escape from future bibulous demands. Then he remembered his mother's firm and steely Methodism, the hours of boredom in church — and winced.

Sunday morning saw them both in best attire—Luke with hair slicked back and shirt painfully buttoned up, Kydd in his best step-ashore rig, feeling utterly out of place. They waited outside the master shipwright's house. Broad, square, imposing, built of stone, the house reflected the importance of its chief inhabitant.

The Misses Caird emerged into the early sunlight, closely followed by Caird, forbidding in black — entirely black, from old-fashioned three-comer hat to severe black breeches and stockings, the whole relieved only by a plain white cravat.