Julian Stockwin: Seaflower

Kydd felt bleakness take hold. A lump grew in his throat as his eyes took in the land. So far! And so much had happened on the voyage! His sorrow left no room for rage.

Altering to starboard after making the open sea, the boat made for the gaunt shapes in the dusky light of men-o'-war at anchor at Spithead, but not before they had passed close to the raucous revellers in the rickety old buildings of Portsmouth Point, close enough to hear individual cheers and oaths.

Kydd's eyes fixed on the shore. Renzi tapped him on the shoulder and he looked around to see down

the massive length of a 74-gun ship-of-the-line. They passed around the stern, with its old-fashioned open gallery, and Kydd looked up. In faded gold there was a big heraldic ribbon. The name Trajan was elegantly lettered inside.

Bitterness welled up and choked him. Kydd gripped a rope at the edge of the foredeck and stared back at his homeland, unwilling to let the fast-receding land disappear. The seas lengthened as Trajan met the first Atlantic rollers coming up the Channel, sending men staggering. The two-decker was soon clawing to windward as close as she would lie, two other vessels astern and one ahead. The land finally turned to a misty anonymity and vanished, and the lump in Kydd's throat deepened.

'I must declare myself truly gulled,' Renzi said, appearing at Kydd's elbow shaking out the chinckles in a light line for coiling. Kydd was supposed to be at work on the fo'c'sle, but no one felt inclined to make a point about it. The Artemises were sadly ill-used, was the general opinion, and they were left alone to their misery.

Kydd glanced at him. 'Gulled? Not th' word I'd choose f'r it m'self,' he muttered.

Renzi paused. 'Is the loss of the flying Artemis so much on the public mind that we are all to be kept out of the way? Or is the Fleet so in need of seamen that they press even the shipwrecked mariner? No! What we have is a political act, a move to shield the reputation of one who should be brought to account. Instead, and with the exercise of interest at the highest level, Rowley has been excused of blame, your evidence is suppressed — it is only a deposition — and we ... we are an embarrassment ...' His voice trailed off for Kydd's thickening anger was apparent on his face.

'We're shipped out t' the Caribbee to save Rowley's hide!' His face white with anger, Kydd said harshly, 'T' the West Indies, fever ...'

'I fear so. But, dear fellow, it is also the Spanish Main, treasure, the richest islands in the world — and glory, too, as we mercilessly seize the sugar islands from the French!' Renzi winced inwardly at the last, but Kydd had to see some purpose in this twist of fate.

'In this old scow!' Kydd's scornful words were heartfelt. After the trim beauty of Artemis, the elderly Trajan was all that Renzi knew he despised. A ship-of-the-line, she was lumbering and massive, her timbers old and decaying — and she had big-ship discipline: Master-at-Arms and corporals, trumpeter, boatswain's mates. And his previous rate as acting petty officer had not been accepted in Trajan', she had her full complement and no need of him. He was now no more than an able seaman, even if a topman, and he had to sling his hammock with the rest instead of in the cosy privacy of a screened-off petty officer's berth.

Renzi said nothing. Kydd's words were powerful and true, and could not be denied. He had every reason to feel aggrieved. Howe's great victory had released forces for the ongoing island invasions in the Caribbean, and Trajan was on her way to assist in these — what better way to be rid of an embarrassment? His gaze lost itself in the tumbling waste of seas stretching to infinity ahead. He tried to swallow his bitterness and went below.

The noon meal was a cheerless affair — no grog this close to home, small beer only on offer. Boiled with dandelion and herbs, it had a bitterness that was intended to hide rankness, but at least it was better than water from the cask, which quickly grew stale and flat, then stagnant. After weeks at sea the beer would give out and they would revert to rum, which was much preferred, but for now Kydd's pot contained a thin brew that did nothing for his mood.

Kydd pulled forward his meal — the square wooden plate he remembered only too well from his first ship as a pressed man: no pewter and crockery here. He glowered at the mush of peas and odd-tasting pork. There was soft tommy taken aboard in Spithead, the bread only a couple of days old and useful for wiping up the last of his meal — there would only be hard tack in the weeks ahead.

'Got yer watch 'n' station, then, mate?' Doggo asked, his grog-roughened voice uncharacteristically low. His ugly, monkey-like face was long and grim.

For as far ahead as could be seen, Kydd would have to perform his sea duties as assigned this morning in his part-of-ship and watch, and this could be onerous or a satisfaction depending on the character of those in charge. And his quarters in battle — this might have been manning the helm, and therefore defenceless before the pitiless musketry of an opponent alongside, or with the ship-smashing 32-pounder cannon on the lower gundeck, or any one of a number of other dangerous duties.

'Second o' larboard, maintopman,' said Kydd gloomily, fingering his bread. 'An' the fore magazine f'r quarters.' To his great disappointment he had learned that Renzi was in the opposite watch. This meant that they would only meet for meals and the odd 'make and mend' when they could sit together on the foredeck at work on their clothing. In Artemis they had been in the same watch, and had spent many hours happily discussing life, philosophy and other conundrums.

Isaac Larcomb's pleasant, open face creased. 'Could be worse, cully, topman ain't a bad start,' he said.

Renzi nodded, but did not say anything.

'Aye, and that means I'm in yer watch, Tom!'

Kydd looked across at the tow-headed Luke, a ship's boy from Artemis. He smiled, but only briefly. Luke was eager and had come to admire Kydd, but he was no substitute for Renzi.

Kydd was slated to do his trick at the helm in the first dog-watch, and felt immediately better after he had seized control at the man-high wheel. The familiar tug and thrum of the tiller-ropes with their subde transmission of the sea's temper was medicine enough. Trajan felt ponderous but obedient to the wheel, just a little weather-helm, not enough to be a griping, calm and sure.

He warmed to the ship. Glancing up often to the weather leech of the comfortable old main topsail, he tested how far he needed to meet each boisterous sea on the bluff bows, and what she needed to correct the yaw induced when a sea passed at an angle down her length. It seemed she had no real vices — which would be verified or otherwise when the old lady was really put to the test.

He could look forward under her sails the whole length of the ship, a sight he never tired of — the lazy heave and fall of the deck, the blue horizon dropping out of sight then emerging at a slightly different angle, a continuous, comforting, satisfying motion. He nodded, and a smile broke through. She couldn't be mistaken for a racehorse, but as a homely old mare she was perfect.

'Watch yer luff!' growled the quartermaster's mate-of-the-watch. There was no need for his caution — Kydd had been completely in control of the situation and there was never any question of losing way by coming too far into the wind.

He glanced at the man. Squat, powerfully built, he wore rumpled clothing and a glower that triggered a warning in Kydd. 'Aye,' he said, to be on the safe side.

At the interchange the officer-of-the-watch looked back from his pacing. Kydd kept his gaze politely forward, aware that he was under eye. He had nothing to worry about, and continued in his duty. After a minute or two, the officer came over. 'You're one of the Artemises, are you not?' he asked. It was not at all the right thing to engage the helmsman in conversation, but this was an officer.