Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

But then he recalled the usual method of dealing with giant scorpions dropping from above — hot wax from a candle: there was none lit, so he reluctantly draped the net again, and sank back into the goose down.

There was no denying that he had enjoyed the evening — too much. And he could feel himself weakening. It would not take much for an active mind to rationalise a course of action that would release him from his self-imposed exile. Such as the fact that, with his dear friend no longer at hand to share his burden, it might be thought excessive durance; he would then be released, free even to join his brother in the plantation . ..

Morning arrived. Renzi had slept little, but when he awoke he found that his brother was out on the estate. When he was ready he presented himself at the dining room. A tall black servant offered a chair and a small table outside on the veranda, obviously following Laughton's practice.

A breakfast arrived — but nothing Renzi could recognise. 'Ah, dis callaloo an' green banana, sah,' he was advised by a worried buder. Renzi smiled weakly and set to. The coffee, however, was a revelation: flavoursome and strong without being bitter.

As he was finishing, Laughton came into sight astride a stumpy but well-muscled pony. He slid to the ground and strode over to Renzi with an easy smile. 'Do I see you in good health?'

Renzi had never shied from a decision in his life, and the moral strength to stand by its full consequence was deeply ingrained. 'Brother, may we talk?' he responded quietly.

* * *

It was done. Although he knew he had made the only decision possible, the resumption of his exile was hard, and time slipped by in a grey, dreary parade. The probability was that he would not visit his brother again: the contrast was so daunting.

Day succeeded day in monotonous succession, the work not onerous, or demeaning but stultifying. While on one hand he would never need to turn out into a wild night, on the other he would not know the exhilaration of sailing on a bowline, the sudden rush of excitement at a strange sail, or touch at unknown and compelling foreign shores.

After the morning's work there was already a respectable pile dealt with and ready for signature. He picked up the next paper: another routine report, a list of names and descriptions of new arrivals from somewhere or other available for local deployment. His eyes glazed: he would need to advise the appropriate departments separately for each individual, a lengthy task. Sighing, he put down the paper, then snatched it up again. It was impossible — but the evidence could not be denied. On the fifth row, in neat copperplate, was the name Thomas Paine Kydd.

Feverishly, he scanned the line. Apparently a Thomas Paine Kydd, dockyard worker, was being transferred from the Royal Dockyard at English Harbour as surplus to requirements. The odds against two men with the same name being in the same part of the world must be colossal — but, then, this one was indisputably a dockyard worker. And probably a bad one at that. Renzi knew by now the code for offloading a useless article.

On a mad impulse he stood up. He gathered together the pile of papers, hurried outside and found Jacobs. 'These are for signature, Mr Jacobs. I have been called away by Admiral Edgcumbe again’ he said, and hastened away. If he was quick, he could ride on the noon mail and be at the naval dockyard in an hour or two.

Chapter 9

The boat skimmed over the spacious harbour, on its way from Kingston town to the naval dockyard at the end of a seven-mile sandy spit of land, the Palisades. This was Port Royal, the notorious pirate lair that had been destroyed spectacularly by an earthquake a century before. But Renzi had no eyes for this curiosity. Furious with himself for his impulsive and unreasoned act, he was yet in a fever of expectation and hope that had no foundation in logic — just a single name on a piece of paper.

He waited impatiently while the boat came alongside the wharf, then swung himself up and strode ashore. Ignoring the close-packed victualling storehouses, he followed the road through the sprawling ruins of the Polygon battery, the odd grey-flecked sand of the spit crunching loudly underfoot.

As he passed the stinking pitch-house and the bedlam of the smith's shop he had no real idea how to find his quarry — the employment return had merely said that this man was a dockyard worker, no indication of what type. It would be useless to ask any of the dockyard men about a new arrival: no one would know him. Over there was a rickety row of negro houses — Renzi had found that, generally, sailors got on well with slaves so perhaps .. .

He stopped dead. An unmistakable figure was coming round the corner at the dockyard wall with his head down. Kydd. Renzi stood still, noting the droop of the shoulders, the preoccupied air. He called softly, 'Avast there, brother! Spare an old friend a glance.'

Kydd stopped as though struck in the face. Incredulity, then joy lit his features. He hurried over and shook Renzi's hand until it ached.

'Do ye leave me my hand, Tom. It is the only one I have left on the right side,' Renzi said.

Port Royal town was old, a sea town with a gaudy past, and its superfluity of sailor taverns gave pleasing choice for their reunion. The early hour of the afternoon ensured they would not be disturbed, and they selected the Shipp Inn on Queen Street: it had a table in a bay window overlooking the calm of the inner harbour.

'You are safe — preserved!' Renzi said, with great feeling.

Kydd looked up, surprised. 'Oh, yes. Twas nothin', really. L'tenant Calley told us t' march out to Putty Borg on Bass Tair, but there they had th' fever, so we went to t' other side, Fort Mathilda, an' were picked up b' Trajan'

Renzi had shared too much with Kydd to believe that this bare account was all there was to tell, but it could wait. 'You're in the dockyard line now?' he asked.

'Aye,' said Kydd, his brow creased, 'but I'd give a bag o' guineas t' get back t' sea.' 'How—'

'Trajan was surveyed 'n' condemned, I had th' chance f'r a spell in a reg'lar-goin' dockyard.' 'And—'

'An' I ran afoul of a blue-light shipwright. Seems m' spirits were too — who should say? — ardent with the ladies,' Kydd explained, without rancour.

Renzi contemplated this. He knew that Kydd was not a concupiscent and signalled to the pot-boy. 'The punch here is considered of the first class,' he offered.

'Thank ye, no. I had th' yellow fever not a month past. Lost m' taste f'r grog lately.'

'Then we have your lemonadoes, rap, cacao-drink—'

'A small beer will answer,' Kydd said.

It was indeed satisfying to see Kydd again, and once more Renzi realised that here was his only true friend. He dreaded the parting that must come. Rebellion forced itself on his consciousness, but he conquered it. 'What are you about at the moment?' he asked, unwilling to confess to his impulse in coming.

'Scullin' about - seems I have t' wait for assigning,' Kydd said moodily. 'What're you doin' for y'rself?'

'Oh, somewhat in the character of a clerk. My small French is of value here, it seems. I labour in Spanish Town.' It was depressing, the very thought. 'Shall we not view the ruins of the old pirate town?' he went on quickly. 'I have a yen to see the very streets of Captain Morgan.'

They walked along the narrow streets of Port Royal. It was small and compact, occupying the tip of the Palisades; and it didn't take long to discover that there was no trace at all of the notorious city.

'Ah, dearie, ye have ter unnerstan' — all th't was wicked and godless, one arternoon, jus' ups and slides down inter the sea! All th' people fallin' into great cracks in th' ground an' screamin' an' being carried ter their doom — a judgement on 'em all,' the old washerwoman told them, with relish. 'They're still dahn there!' She cackled.