Julian Stockwin: Seaflower

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'Haaaaands to muster! Haaands lay aft to witness punishment!'

Reluctantly seamen ceased work to make their way aft. Emerging up from the gundecks, dropping to the deck from the rigging, they crowded on to the quarterdeck. The officers stood above on the poop-deck, looking down with grave expressions on the little party below.

Coltard stood flanked by the master-at-arms and the ship's corporal. His eyes darted among the mass of sailors; if he was looking for sympathy, it was hard to tell. Kydd caught his eyes and he responded with a sneer. Kydd started in surprise.

The awful words of the Articles of War sounded out, clear and final. Judgement was given: Coltard's head fell as he heard his captain disrate him. He was now a common sailor, turned before the mast. There was more, inevitably. Coltard made no protest as he was stripped to the waist and seized to the grating by his thumbs with rope yarns.

Kydd turned away his eyes as the marine drummer opened up on the poop. A sudden stop and sweeping down and the boatswain's mate's cat-o'-nine-tails mercilessly slammed into the paleness of Coltard's back. It brought only a grunt into the appalled quiet The second and succeeding lash brought no sound either — Coltard was going to take it all without giving his audience the satisfaction of a cry. Kydd stared at the deck and felt the skin on his back creep.

Making his way below afterwards, Kydd could join in the general hum of jollity at the humbling of a petty officer.

It was clear that the man was so much in the thrall of drink that he had risked the lash to indulge his need. It did not take much to surmise that his shipmates had tired of covering for him and, that morning, had left him to his fate.

Before he had reached his mess a small midshipman tugged his arm. 'Able Seaman Kydd?' he squeaked, breathless.

'Aye?'

'Lay aft and attend the Captain,' the reefer said importantly. Kydd stared at him. 'This instant, you dog!' the youngster shrilled.

Kydd padded aft, and made himself known to the sentry. Dare he hope?

Inside the Great Cabin the Captain sat at his desk, the first lieutenant standing near him with papers. 'Ah, Kydd?' It was the first time that Captain Bomford had addressed Kydd directly.

'Sir.'

'I understand you are one of the volunteers from Artemis." Bomford had a pleasant, urbane manner. Kydd's heart leaped.

'Aye, sir.'

'You rounded the Horn, I believe.' 'Sir.'

'And you were quartermaster's mate at the time.'

'Acting quartermaster, sir.' He would never forget that exhilarating but terrifying time in the great Southern Ocean, the massive seas and sudden squalls slamming in from nowhere ...

'And Duke William before that?' The first lieutenant exchanged looks with Bomford.

'Yes, sir.' The big 98-gun ship-of-the-line and its memories were well behind him now. No need to add that he had been on her books as a lowly landman and then ordinary seaman.

'Then I am sure that you will do well in Trajan? Bomford said smoothly. 'It is in my mind to rate you petty officer — what do you think of that?'

Yes! He had been right to hope! A cooler voice intervened: Auberon would have primed Bomford about the presence aboard of a suitable replacement well before the events of the morning; Kydd had no illusions about his good fortune. Nevertheless ...

'I'd like it well, if ye please, sir.' There was no suppressing the smile. 'In what rate, sir?'

The captain's eyebrows rose as he studied a paper. 'Quartermaster's mate.' He met Kydd's eyes again. 'If you do your duty strictly and diligently I see no reason why you should not rely on further advancement, if the opportunity arises.'

'Thank ye, sir.' It was a priceless step.

'Then you are so rated. The first lieutenant will arrange your watch and station. Carry on, please.'

Kydd strode back down to the fo'c'sle with his news clutched to his heart, and stopped suddenly. He was now a petty officer: he did not belong with the others. His excitement fell away as he realised that all his messmates were now subordinate to him, every one — even Renzi, his particular friend.

He continued down to the gundeck, but kept his announcement until after the noon meal when he quietly made his goodbyes. He left Renzi to the end. His friend had taken the news with annoying equanimity, hanging back with a slight smile while the others slapped his back and showed gratifying envy. It was time. Awkwardly he held out his hand. Renzi took it with a firm handshake, but said nothing. Kydd mumbled something, and left.

Right aft on the larboard side of the gundeck were the petty officers' messes. Each was screened off with canvas, a little world within a world. Kydd scratched on the entrance of his new home; he was answered by Toby Stirk.

'Knoo you'd waste no time a-gettin' yerself a petty officer's berth!' The hard-featured seaman grinned — with his experience he had been quickly entered as a quarter gunner — and pulled him inside. It was snug and well appointed with pewter mess-traps, and the inside of the screens were splendidly decorated with colourful painted nautical scenes.

'This 'ere is Thomas Kydd — shipmates wi' me in Artemis, he was. Right taut hand o' the watch is Tom,' Stirk said smugly, his dark eyes glittering. There was no one Kydd would have preferred to serve the compliments: Stirk's courage in battle and skill at the long guns was fabled.

He thumped his gear down on the table, looked around at his new messmates and glowed with happiness.

Chapter 3

' T" aaaand hooooP The masthead lookout's powerful hail stopped all work on deck. 'Land ahoy — one point t' loo'ard!'

In the van of the convoy, Trajan's lofty masts gave the best height of eye and they sighted Barbados first. A string of flags jerked up her signal halliards and news of her landfall spread fast around the eighty ships of the convoy. It had been five weeks since they had left England, with only a brief stop in Madeira. The .men in the maintop, engaged in the endless task of tarring down the standing rigging, broke into excited chatter. Kydd listened from his position at the aft rail.

'Where's this'n?' demanded Larcomb, his face animated.

'The Barbadoes, in course!' said Carby, an older hand. 'This 'ere is the first port o' call fer the Caribbean — ev'ry other o' the islands are t' looard. Includin' the Frenchie ones,' he added.

Kydd watched the grey blur on the horizon grow

in definition and broaden, eager white horses hurrying towards the land. 'What's ashore, mate?' he asked Carby. He was unsure quite what to expect; Renzi had elaborated on the strategic importance of the sugar islands, but that didn't seem to square with the hazy tales he had heard of pirates, the Spanish Main and the infamous Port Royal. Especially the pirates — were they still at large?

'Yair, well. Nothin' much, 'ceptin cane-fields and blackamoors,' grunted Carby. 'Yez c'n get a good time at the punch shops, an' the ladies are obligin', I'll grant yer.' His lined eyes crinkled. 'But don' expect ter be steppin' ashore like in Portsmouth town, cully.'

Within the hour Barbados had transformed from an anonymous blue-grey sprawling land to a substantial island, curiously weathered into small ridges and valleys, all looking rather brown. As they rounded the south-west tip, Kydd saw many windmills and tiny huts on the hillsides in a sea of bright green sugar-cane.

One after another the convoy tacked around the point, an endless swarm of sail that filled the sea. As Kydd stood by in the maintop for the evolution of mooring ship, he made sure that Carby was near to give a commentary.

'There, mates, that's the lobsterbacks' barracks, an' up there, big place near th' open bit, you has th' hospital. Yer goes in there wi' the yellow jack 'n' it's a shillin' to a guinea yer comes out feet first.'