Julian Stockwin - Seaflower

Kydd dabbed his lips with his napkin: those weeks up-country had not been wasted. He raised his eyes and said unctuously, ‘Y'r claret is a sensitive flower, o' course. F'r m'self a hardy Burgundy would be more t' my taste,' he added easily. 'I'd recommend a Chablis were we t' be granted a breeze-mill in the cooling. But y'r very good health, sir.'

It was worth the pain of all Renzi's patient efforts just to see the expressions around the table.

Chapter i5

' Name's Kernon,' said Doud, 'an' I don't think we're goin' ter have the same kind o' grief fr'm him.' He finished his seaming of the jib and bit the thread. "Sides, he sets me up as yeoman of the store-room,' he added, with satisfaction. This made him a man of influence, of some moment in the small ship, for he was in charge of the boatswain's sea-stores.

'Give y' joy, Ned,' said Kydd. He'd only been back on board an hour or two, and there were definite signs of improvement about Seaflower.

Doggo smiled grudgingly. 'O' course, we lost s' many men b' deserting, Cap'n just has to fin' senior 'ands fr'm somewhere.'

Renzi came up on deck. 'What cheer, mate,' said Doggo, 'an' what's the griff?' Renzi, acting as clerk to the Captain, would know ship's secrets.

'I'm not so certain that I should allow Captain Kernon's confidences to become public property,' he said, frowning. Kydd caught his quick wink.

‘Publick? We's yer backbone o' the ship, has t' be in on th' noos so we c'n plan things out, like. C'mon, tell us what yer knows!' Doggo's hoarse wheedling brought a grin to Kydd's face.

Renzi leaned forward and said earnesdy, 'This must not get out - it's of the first importance to the future of this ship.'

'We understands, mate,' said Doggo eagerly.

'Ship is under sailing orders!'

'Yeah, we knows that'

'And tonight...' Renzi halted, looking dubious. 'Yeah?'

'Well ... it involves your own good self, you understand.'

'Strike me dead — clap on more sail 'n' get on wi' it!'

'Tonight — but we're so short-handed ...'

Doggo drew a deep breath, but before he could erupt, Renzi ended, '... that you're to lead a press-gang!'

'Press-gang?' Doggo spluttered.

Kydd grinned broadly.

'And Thomas Kydd is to assist him ...'

The grin vanished. It was now years since Kydd had been a victim of the Press; in the frigate Artemis there had been no pressed men in her famous voyage around the world. And since his lucky rescue from the dockyards to Seaflower he had had no contact with pressed men. Now Seaflower had to fall back on impressing hands from wherever she could.

'Where 're we raidin', do y' think?' Doud asked. It was well-nigh impossible to attract good seamen to a King's ship in the Caribbean — there were too many better-paid berths competing; merchant ships commanded good rates to man ships for the Atlantic run, and privateers could rely on the lure of fat prizes.

'Kingston town, I'd wager,' said Doggo, his face alive at the prospect of the entertainment. 'Port Royal’ll be awake up ter the press-gang.'

'I can't do it, Nicholas,' Kydd muttered into his grog, at the noon meal. 'I knows about it, is all,' he finished lamely.

Regarding him steadily Renzi appreciated that Kydd was exploring his feelings and needed to talk. 'So pressing men is an unmitigated evil?' he said coolly.

'I didn't say that,' Kydd retorted.

'Some would say it's nought but slavery.'

'So what's t' do if there's not enough t' man th' Fleet?' Kydd said heatedly. Then he subsided. 'You're turnin' it all around as usual, Nicholas. But you can't argue with me that tearin' a man fr'm his family an' all is a fine thing, dammit!'

Renzi lifted his pot and said, before taking a pull at his grog, 'Then may I hear what it is you propose in its place?'

Kydd's slow smile was his answer, and Renzi grinned back. 'So, we are overborne by logic. It is a disagreeable necessity while we cannot find any other means. Therefore you shall do your duty tonight, as is your bounden obligation.'

At an hour before midnight, Sea/lower's press-gang formed up on the waterfront of Kingston town. 'Do ye mark what I say,' Merrick said. 'Ye knows the rules — no violence. If they tries ter run, tip 'em a settler on th' calabash.' He seemed unperturbed by the contradiction, but nodded at the nervous civilian next to him. 'This 'ere is a sheriff's man come t' see fair play.'

Plans were laid. The Sign of the Mermaid would be their victim, away from the centre of the waterfront, and it was hoped to take hands from a merchant ship carousing after a long, hard voyage across the Atlantic. The boatswain would stand back and allow Doggo, experienced at the press-gang, to lead in when all exits had been covered.

Kydd eased his broad belt with its cutlass. This would only be drawn if things grew ugly, and then there would be an accounting to the shore authorities. The main persuaders the party carried were stretchers from the longboat, the narrow lengths of wood against which the rowers braced their feet.

A brief memory of the Horse and Groom three years ago in Guildford flashed by, when sailors of a press-gang had burst in to change his life for ever. But he had secretly to acknowledge that there was no question as to which life he now wanted.

'So let's get under weigh,' grunted the boatswain, and they padded off at the trot. A few late-night citizens out on the street stared at the sailors, and there were scurries in the shadows.

Without speaking, Merrick indicated their positions outside the well-lit seamen's tavern. From within a riot of noise surged and fell, cackles of laughter and rumbles of conversation showing they were not expected, but the operation would not be easy: this was no gathering of unsuspecting rural lads.

The boatswain winked at Doggo who threw open the door and thrust inside. 'So who's fer a life on the rollin' sea? An' we c'n even save yez the trouble o' payin' yer reckoning!' he grated, into the falling silence. His stretcher tapped slowly in his palm.

A female screech pierced the blue haze: 'The fuckin' press!' There was instant pandemonium. Tables and chairs scattered as men leaped to their feet in their race for freedom. Into the chaos poured the Seaflowers. Kydd, right behind Doggo, sprang after one likely fellow and seized his collar, managing to avoid a wildly swinging fist. The man faced him, glaring and panting.

'Now, cully, y'r taken fair 'n' square—' At this, the man charged, head down. None too gently Kydd tapped him on the head with his stretcher and he fell to all fours. Around them the scrimmage died away: there was no contest between a sober, determined press-gang and their fuddled victims.

Merrick strode into the taproom, looking pleased at the sight of the eight they had secured. 'Well, boys, it's a life in the navy fer youse now. But I'm remindin' yer, y' c'n still enter as a volunteer .. .' One of the eight saw the inevitability of the situation and accepted the offer, but the others threw bitter looks at the Seaflowers and stayed mute.

Kydd's man got to his feet slowly, murder in his eyes. Two Seaflowers began to hand him outside, but at that moment there was a scuffle at the entrance and a dishevelled woman appeared, heavily pregnant, looking around wildly. Two ragamuffin children clutched her skirts, wide-eyed with fear. 'No!' she shrieked, when she saw the man. 'Not m' Billy! You can't — God save us, leave 'im!' She threw herself at the feet of the boatswain, her sobs harsh and piteous.

'Now, then, m'dear, y'r husband's off t' join Seaflower y as fine a man-o'-war as ever swam!' Merrick stuttered, clearly put out by the woman's emotion.

One of the captives pushed forward. 'God rot it, leave jus' Billy Cundy, yer brute, yer has enough.' The two children rushed to Cundy's side and clung to him, crying brokenly.