Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

Gun practice was piped immediately after the noon meal, the hard-bitten seamen making child's play of their weapons. Farrell kept them at it, and just as Morant Point drew abeam he ordered that live firing would take place. Seaflower's decks were cleared, and the pieces manned. Kydd took his place at the helm and silence fell as all eyes turned to Farrell.

At that precise moment the quiet was split by an urgent hail from the lookout on the crosstree. 'Sail hooooo!’ Above the low-lying point could be seen first the topgallants and then the topsails of a square-rigged vessel, and shortly after, the barque slid into view. At least twice their size and a sinister black, she quickly spotted Seaflower and her length foreshortened as she turned to intercept.

'Ready about!' Farrell snapped, his telescope up searching her masts for a flag. They slewed round and closed the distance, Farrell seeming to have no hesitation about closing the larger vessel.

There was an apprehensive quiet about Seaflower 's decks. 'She's a twenty-eight at least, lads,' Doud murmured. 'Saw her ports.' Several faces popped out of the fore-hatch and gazed over the blue seas to the black-hulled vessel. The barque altered her heading to a broader angle. It served to show her gunports opening all along her hull, cannon rumbling into place at each. Still there were no colours aloft. A cold trepidation came over Kydd — the worst situation, with the banks to seaward and the unknown craft closing in to weather.

'Give her a gun, Stirk,' Farrell said quietly. A six-pounder crashed out forward, sounding toy-like after a frigate's 24s. There was a minute or two's delay, as if the stranger was amused at the small ship's presumption, before a flutter of colour at her mizzen peak appeared, shaking out into the stripes and stars of the United States.

'Thank Gawd!' laughed Farthing. 'I thought we wuz in fer a hazin'.' The barque's sheets eased, and she braced around slowly to diverge, clearly not deigning to dally with an Englisher. Relieved chatter broke out along Seaflower's deck.

'Sir, if y' please ...' Jarman had not joined in the general relief, and took Farrell's Dollond glass. 'Ah! As I thought. There's no Yankee I know of wears a red cap 'n' petticoat breeches. Sir, she's a Frenchie!'

Farrell snatched back the telescope and swept the barque's decks — only Jarman's suspicions and a careless French sailor had given the game away. 'Brail topsails!' he snapped. Under fore-and-aft sail only, Seaflower sped towards the enemy. She fell off the wind a little and her intention became clear — to pass close astern of the other vessel to send her puny balls smashing through the unprotected stern and down the length of her enemy.

Stirk raced from gun to gun. Fortunate to be at quarters, they were at the ready, but Farrell roared, 'Larboard — firing to larboard!'

This was away from the enemy. Kydd was baffled by the order. Then the barque responded. The United States flag whipped down arid the French flag rose to replace it in jerky movement. At the same time the vessel came around sharply into the wind, to stay about. Well before Seaflower could come up to deliver her blow, the bluff sides of her antagonist were swinging around on the other tack to parallel the little cutter and present her full broadside.

Kydd's throat constricted — a crushing weight of metal would be slamming into them in seconds. He glanced at Farrell who, to his astonishment, wore an expression of ferocious glee.

'We have you now, Mr Frenchman!' he roared triumphantly. The barque's swing had been a mistake. Farrell snapped, 'Ready about! Lee, oh!' and Seaflower pirouetted prettily to leave her with her larboard guns laid faithfully on the barque's stern. They passed close enough to see pale faces over the taffrail and sails slatting in confusion as, no doubt, orders were being angrily countermanded.

There was nothing to miss. The line of windows at the stern gallery dissolved as gun after gun on Seaflower's deck crashed out, the balls' brutal impact causing ruin along the length of the enemy. Kydd felt a furious exaltation — it was the first smoke of battle he had smelt since the great frigate struggle between Artemis and Citoyenne.

The last gun banged out and Seaflower was past. With her crew cheering madly, the guns were served, but there was a new peril — a square-rigged vessel would back topsails and stay where she was, battering the helpless victim into submission, but with her fore-and-aft rig there was no way Seaflower could do the same. She continued on her course, her only hope to get out of range before the enemy could recover, but the black hull was already turning. Seaflower lay over under her press of sail, but there was no escape. Kydd's hands sweated at the helm — but he was tied to his place of duty and must stand and take whatever fate had in store for him.

The enemy broadside came. But in ones and twos. Paltry puffs of powder smoke, the thin crack of four-pounders. And a whole gundeck of cannon staring silently at them. 'Caught 'em on the hop goin' about!' growled Stirk in disgust.

'They got the yeller fever an' can't man the guns!' someone shouted. Kydd's mind raced; this was no explanation for small-calibre guns.

Jarman smiled. 'She's a Mongseer merchant jack, puttin' on a show,' he said, with satisfaction. It was a pretence: the open gunports sported only quakers, wooden imitation guns that could not fire. Her bluff was called. The tiny Seaflower had not run for her life as intended, and had dared to attack. Incredulous shouts and cheers broke out while the trim cutter closed in exultantly on her prey.

* * *

'Damme f'r a chuckle-headed ninny, but that was rare done!' Patch said, lowering his cutlass to finger the quality of the cordage on the deck of their prize. 'Knoo the exac' time she'd weather th' point, and was there a-waitin',' he continued admiringly. 'Keeps it to 'imself, he does, an' four hours out we has a fat prize.' The French sailors sat morosely on the main-hatch while Farrell and the sailing master inspected below decks.

It was a matter of small hours to escort the prize back to Port Morant; the talk was all on the astonishing intelligence their sagacious captain must have had, and happy anticipation of prize money to claim later.

Farrell did not appear affected by his fortune. He appeared punctiliously on deck at appropriate times in the ship's routine, courteous but firm in his dealings with his ship's company, and considerate and businesslike with Jarman and Merrick, who stood watches opposite each other. Seaflower seemed to respond with spirit. Square sails set abroad and her prodigious fore-and-aft canvas bowsed well taut, she slashed purposefully through the royal-blue seas at a gallop, her deck alive with eager movement.

By the last dog-watch, deep into the Caribbean, Kydd joined Renzi at his customary pipe of tobacco on the foredeck, ignoring the occasional spatter of spray. They sat against the weather cathead, the better to see the gathering sunset astern. Renzi drew an appreciative puff at his clay pipe and sighed. 'This prime Virginia is as pleasing to the senses as any I have yet tried.'

Kydd was knotting a hammock clew. His nimble fingers plied the ivory fid he used for close work, the intricate net of radiating knittles woven into a pattern that ostensibly gave a more comfortable spread of tensions, but in reality were a fine display of sea skills. He had never caught the habit of tobacco, but knew that it gave Renzi satisfaction, and murmured something appropriate. 'We're right lucky t' take the barque,' he said. Patch had been considerably mollified and was now warily respectful of Kydd.