Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

A sudden shout came from outside. Kydd ducked out and saw pointing arms. The Blanche had arrived. All work ceased, and men poured out to see the spectacle.

'See there, mates!' one man said, pointing out of the harbour to Freeman's Bay, where the broken masts of a substantial ship showed above the low-lying point of land. 'She has a thunderin' good prize!'

As Blanche came to anchor opposite, Kydd could see that she was sorely battered - a stump of mizzen, not much more of her mainmast. As she slowly swung to her anchor the stern came into view, blasted into gaping holes. The excited shouting died away at the sight, particularly at her huge battle ensign still floating from her foremast, but only half-way up.

Caird strode down from the direction of his office. 'Where is your crew, Kydd? And I'll need you two .. .' he pointed to two shipwrights working in the boat-house '.. . and the blue cutter in the water directly.'

With a chest of tools and the men, the cutter was crowded, but Kydd relished his luck in being able to see things at first-hand. He squinted under the loose-footed mainsail as Blanche grew nearer, and saw the frightful wounds of war: her sails were torn with holes, her sides pocked and battered by shot.

Caird led the way up the side of the frigate to the upper deck where they took in the results of a harrowing long-drawn-out grappling, a trial of fire that had tried her ship's company to the very limit. Subdued murmuring conveyed the essentials: indeed the Captain had been killed; there was a prize lying to seaward, which was in fact their opponent, a French frigate, a third bigger than themselves.

They clattered down the main-hatch. Caird needed to get a sight of the damage to the stern and any cannon-ball strikes between wind and water that might prove an immediate threat. Returning on deck they saw moaning wounded being swayed down into a boat, wrecked equipment dropped into another, and weary-eyed men staring at the shore. 'She comes alongside by sunset,' Caird said, to an officer with a bandaged head. 'I shall see the master attendant directly.'

'Yer has the right of it, mates, Cap'n Faulknor, an' a right true sort 'e was, Gawd bless 'is memory,' said Kennet, a gunner's mate from the Blanche. Kydd dragged his upturned tub closer, the better to hear him over the din in the capstan house.

'We wuz openin' Gron' Bay in Gwaddyloop, a-ready ter spy in the harbour in th' mornin' when we sees this thumpin' big French frigate a-comin' round the point.' He paused: a sea-professional audience could be relied on to get the picture. 'Now I asks yer, this can't be much after midnight, larbowlines 'as watch below 'n' in their 'ammocks, all peaceful like, an' then it's quarters, shipmates, 'n' as quick as yer like!'

Kydd could visualise the scene all too clearly: drowsy watch on deck swapping yarns, easy in the mind at the prospect of a spree ashore at the end of the cruise, and then in a flash the reality of war and death in the balmy night.

'Cap'n don't lose a minute — we goes at 'em, clearin' fer action as we go, an' it's all goin't' be in th' dark.' Kennet looked about to see if he had their attention before he went on. 'We pass the Frenchie - she's called Pique we finds later — on the opposite tack, an' we has a broadside at each other.' His voice lowered. 'An' that's when m' mate lost the number of 'is mess.'

He stared into his grog. 'Sam Jones, second cap'n o' the foretop ...'

Kydd stood up and gestured with his tankard. 'Here's t' Sam Jones, then, mates, an' if we don' remember him, he won't have anyone else will.' In the willing roar that this brought, Kydd drank deeply, remembering the emotions battering at him after his own battle experience, the faces that suddenly weren't there any more, the world's indifference that they had ever existed — but they would continue to live in men's memories just as long as they were brought to remembrance like this. He took another gulp.

Kennet looked up at him, his grim face softening at Kydd's empathy, then continued, 'But then, we tacks about, but Pique, she's t' weather, an' wears ready to give us a rakin' broadside, but Cap'n Faulknor, he's wise to 'em, an' we continues on t' wear ourselves. So there we was, mates, broadside t' broadside fer two an' a half hours, thumpin' it inter each other.' The cruel smashing match in the darkness, dim battle-lanthorns inboard, leaping gun-flashes outboard, unseen horrors in the blackness — it held the circle of rough seamen spellbound.

'But then we shoots ahead. Pique 'as taken a drubbin' and's at our mercy! We turn ter rake her an' finish it — when our mizzen an' mainmast both go by th' board. In a trice we runs afoul of her, an' she rakes us, then she goes f board, but we're ready an' send 'em screamin' inter the sea.'

Kydd noticed that Kennet's eyes had gone glassy and his hand had a tremor: these terrible events could only have taken place less than a single day ago. 'Pot!' he shouted, against the hubbub, and personally topped up Kennet's can then added to his own. The rum had a potent fragrance.

'So it's a stalemate, lads. We drifts, then runs aboard her agen by the bow — but Cap'n himself rushes for'ard an' puts a lashin' on our bowsprit t' hold on ter the Frenchman. But - an' it grieves me t' tell it - he takes a ball fr'm a musket, an' falls .. .'

There was murmuring all round. Kennet waited for it to settle, then offered a toast to his captain, which Kydd could see was being repeated in other groups of seamen around him. He raised his tankard in salute, tears pricking at the bravery he had learned about that night.

'Lashin' gives way, we drift off, firin' all the time, o' course. B' now it's comin' on daylight 'n' we're dog tired — bugger m' days but we was knackered!'

Around him Kydd saw bodies topple in the capstan house, but whether from hard drinking or exhaustion he didn't know.

'Wind drops, we fin' ourselves stern to, an' no guns what'll bear, 'cos we got no stern chasers, no gunports, even. So what does we do then?' Kydd couldn't think what — the rum was deepening his emotions but doing nothing for his concentration.

'Well, lads, we heaves some twelve-pounders around in th' Great Cabin t' face astern, then after we puts men wi' firebuckets on ea' side .. .' he paused dramatically, holding their eyes one by one '. .. an' then we blasts our own gunports through the stern timbers!'

There was no comment, only shocked faces.

'We then has 'em! We pounds away wi' them pair o' guns, one hour, two. Not until we brings down their masts an' finishes more'n two-thirds o' their crew do they give up, an' then they strikes their flag.'

A growl of satisfaction arose, but no cheers: too many sailors — on both sides — would never know another dawn.

Kydd stood still. He couldn't return to his dark, silent lodging. He felt a surging need for the sea, the slam of excitement at the challenge of sudden peril, the close companionship after shared dangers — the kind of thing that had men rollicking ashore together. There was fire in his blood. The pot-boy hurried past, but Kydd stopped him and snatched a bottle, which quickly went gurgling into his tankard.

He swung round and spied a couple of able seamen arguing together. 'That scurvy crew ahoy! Come drink with me t' the Blanche, mates, as trim a frigate as ever grac'd the seas — barrin' only th' brave Artemis!’

Chapter 7

‘Mr Kydd, you said y' wanted ter see m' work this morning wi'out fail. An' here 'tis!' Luke held out his copy-book in the early light of morning, the pages filled with spidery, childish writing. 'I done it while you was .. . away last night,' he continued proudly.