Caribbee (10 page)

There was only an unintelligible growl in response.

Clinton said mildly, ‘He’s a decent sort of chap, I find. Get him going about the Caribbean and he’s an entertainment well enough.’

‘As we need in a ship o’ war,’ snarled Gilbey, throwing down his paper. ‘How the fool got his step I’ve no clue.’

Renzi, as always in a corner chair, set down his drink carefully. ‘It might be profitable for us to consider his origins before going to judgement on the fellow.’

‘His origins?’ Curzon said warily. Renzi, with his learning, was accorded respect in their little world and all quietened to hear what he had to say.

‘Indeed. He’s born and bred a Barbadian, of a respectable family. So we must ask why, then, should he seek a life at sea?’

‘And?’

‘I believe he wishes to be at a distance from the life he was born into, even as he has a taking for his Caribbean world.’

‘A pity he thinks to be a sea officer.’

‘Er, I believe this, too, deserves our attention. Consider – his is not the life of ambition and ardour so warmly displayed in this gunroom. He harbours no desire to return, well promoted, to cold and unwelcoming England, to him a foreign shore. Therefore he contrives to see service in smaller, unnoticed vessels – your gun-brigs, cutters and similar, all of which carry little danger of unwelcome promotion.’

There were smiles of understanding around the table. ‘He’s badgered by his father for the sake of outward show to make something of this naval exile and passes as lieutenant. At this point the only way he can achieve his swab is to be appointed into a ship of size, which, unfortunately for him, is
Hannibal
, Captain Tyrell. I can only begin to imagine what he suffered before he thought to be taken by the fever.’

He ignored Gilbey’s ill-natured grunts, and continued, ‘Therefore we have before us an oddity, not to say curiosity, a naval officer whose entire existence has been within the confines of the very smallest of King George’s sail. Now I ask you to conceive of duty in such for a youngster forming habits of sea service. No big-ship ways to encourage him to a respectful understanding of our traditions, no ocean-going routines to fall in with, no taste of the puissance of the great guns. In short, he’s nearly as much a stranger to our life as the merest landman.’

‘If you saw him handle the men,’ Curzon drawled. ‘Good God! Even a—’

‘He was perhaps the only midshipman aboard,’ Renzi went on, with quiet conviction. ‘He must command hard men, some twice his age. With none to stand at his back, he finds a reasoned, mild approach more to his liking than hard-horse discipline, and I dare to say he’s well practised in the art. That our own tars do expect a more, er, hearty manner is not altogether his fault.’

The master coughed quietly. ‘It’s not unkind to say that he’s a little rum in his nauticals, as we might say. I saw him brace around wi’ men still on the yard and—’

‘It would be strange indeed if, after such an apprenticeship in coastal fore ’n’ aft rig, he’s as well practised in ocean square-rig, wouldn’t you say, Mr Kendall?’

‘You’re just takin’ the bonehead’s part!’ accused Gilbey.

‘Not at all,’ Renzi replied coolly. ‘I’m only pointing out that should you not recognise his limitations then you stand to be watchkeeping for months or years to come. The choice is yours, of course.’

‘Be damned to that jackass!’ Gilbey burst out. ‘If he don’t come it the sea officer soon, I’ll—’

‘Mr Curzon, sir,’ the mate-of-the-watch interrupted from the door, perfectly blank-faced.

‘What is it?’

‘Mr Buckle’s compliments, and … and could you come on deck instanter …’

Kydd had made up his mind about his third lieutenant well before raising Jamaica. They had neither the time nor the facilities to nurse a lame duck to something like effectiveness. If only he’d stayed in a ship-of-the-line where it was easier to absorb such a greenhorn … To be fair he’d recommend that he put in service with a bigger ship first but still discharge him in Kingston. Better to have no third lieutenant at all than a morale-sapping passenger taking up space.

He brightened. Jamaica: memories came warmly to mind of those times at the beginning of the war when he was there in the old
Seaflower
. There was no question but that this part of the world with its exotic and matchless beauty would be a splendid place for his lovely frigate to serve.

This time, though, he was an officer of distinction and quality, captain of his own ship, and he would not want for comforts. He would be revisiting with a very different pair of eyes.

A first spatter of rain brought him to reality: they were being pursued by the lofty white curtain of a line-squall advancing with the breeze, and its outliers were just reaching them. It took him back to hot afternoons in the boat-shed where he had worked, waiting for the deluge to pass, the red rivulets appearing as if by magic, staining the green transparency of Antigua harbour, and that distinctive warm, earthy smell.

It would be good to return.

Ahead, the horizon was obscured by another squall, the white drifting veil lazily moving across their vision.

‘Shorten sail, sir?’

‘No, I think not.’ He didn’t need to look at the chart: the only hazards between them and Jamaica were the Morant Cays, tiny islets with reefs over which the seas continually broke in a smother of white. In daylight, even through the rain, lookouts would spot these well in time.

The squalls thinned and lifted slowly to reveal the two-mile-long line of breakers over to starboard and well ahead.

‘Take ’em south about, a mile clear.’ As they had been so many times before, the cays were a reassuring token of where they were, a mere half-day’s brisk sail from Kingston, to the north-west.

Unexpectedly, over on the far side, the flutter of raised sail appeared. Two masts – and not square-rigged. The hull was hidden by the line of surf but it was obvious that the unknown craft had been anchored in the lee of the cays and on seeing them had cut his cable to run. Was this sudden flight the result of a guilty conscience?

‘Helm down!’ Kydd snapped. ‘Get after him!’

They were far upwind of the stranger and here the big square driving sails of the frigate would be decisive.

Interest quickened around the ship as word spread. Kydd’s swift action had placed the chase squarely ahead of them and even before they reached the islets it was clear that in the fresh conditions they could look to overhaul the vessel before dark.

It couldn’t be better: they would arrive in Kingston with a prize at their heel!

Speculation went back and forth. It was a schooner, raked masts and a black hull, no trader he – almost a caricature of a privateer and almost certainly lying in wait for inbound Jamaican traffic. It was their bad luck that the rain squall had hidden
L’Aurore
’s approach until it was almost too late.

Within a short time the schooner sheeted in for a dash to the north. Instantly Kydd had
L’Aurore
on a parallel course to keep upwind and closing slowly.

By rounding Morant Point at the eastern tip of Jamaica and staying ahead until darkness fell, it would be in a position where Kydd would be forced to guess whether it had decided to go to Hispaniola, Cuba or even out into the open sea to the west.

The move closer to the wind was not to
L’Aurore
’s advantage. With the fresh breeze now forward of the beam the schooner was more than holding its own and the two ships raced ahead, every line taut and straining. Soon after midday the flat, palm-studded Morant Point was in sight but now the schooner was well in the lead and before
L’Aurore
could come up with the low sprawl, its distinctive pink earth, the schooner had vanished behind it.

‘Sir, charts are talking of reefs offshore a mile, two?’

Kydd tried to recall when he had been last this way – but the small cutter that
Seaflower
was drew far less than a frigate. ‘Keep her away, then, Mr Kendall.’

It was giving the chase a further advantage but it couldn’t be helped. Mentally he decided on another hour or so beyond the point, and if they weren’t within striking distance, he’d drop it.

The rain squall caught up with them just before they rounded the point, the energetic downpour now an irritating inundation that dampened the spirit and hid their quarry. They pressed on resolutely through the rain-slashed sea until, after one more spiteful flurry, the air cleared.

The grandeur of the sapphire-misted Blue Mountains inland was little consolation for the fact that the schooner was nowhere to be seen. It must be ahead somewhere – or had it tacked about in the murk and even now was stretching away to Hispaniola? Very unlikely – the risk of the rain clearing to reveal them crossing ahead before the frigate’s guns was too much.

Then it must be beyond the next headland – Booby Point, according to the chart.

There was little to be gained in going to quarters – their size alone could be relied on to subdue any thought of resistance – but pulses quickened as they rounded it. Nothing.

Kydd felt a surge of irritation. ‘Clap on more sail,’ he told the master. ‘We’ll go direct and catch him before Northeast Point, only another hour or two.’ If not, he would have to accept they had made their escape.

In and out of the rain squalls
L’Aurore
sailed, but when they reached the north-east tip of Jamaica, there was still no sign.

‘Wear ship, if you please, we return,’ Kydd said heavily.

He watched Buckle fumble his duties at the main, saved only by Curzon’s bellowed intervention, and his growing annoyance that his triumphant return was spoiled took focus.

‘Mr Buckle to lay aft,’ he roared, and waited while the hapless lieutenant dithered over whether to abandon his men.

‘Sir, I’m to tell you that you’ll be landed at Kingston. You’ve no place in this ship.’

‘Sir?’

The crestfallen look that replaced his willing air nearly made Kydd weaken. ‘You’ve to learn your profession in a bigger ship first, I believe.’

‘I can get the knack, if you’ll—’

‘No. Get your gear together, Mr Buckle.’

His shoulders drooped as he turned to go. Then he stopped and said humbly, ‘Oh, could I tell you something?’

Kydd frowned.

‘It’s that I’ve heard of your reputation as a fighting captain and, er, I thought …’

If this was going to be an emotional confession …

‘Well?’

‘I, um, you see, I was worried you’d think it an almighty cheek should I tell you …’

‘What, pray?’ Kydd said, dangerously.

‘… where t’ go to hunt the chase.’

‘Oh? Where should I go, then?’

Taking a deep breath, Buckle began, ‘Y’ see, when I was a boy, we came to Jamaica and I went playing in the John Crow Mountains.’

‘And?’ said Kydd, heavily.

‘Going by raft all the way down the river. Rare fun!’ At Kydd’s look he caught himself and hurried on: ‘Right to the sea, we ends in a little harbour, not big at all – but snug in any nor’-easter.’

Buckle waited for a response, and when there wasn’t one he went on lamely, ‘When I was mid in the little
Ibis
I told Captain Hardison about it, and we always used it in place o’ Port Morant, and never the need to haul back after.’

‘And you think the schooner is there?’ Kydd snorted. ‘We’ve been close in with the land all the way up the coast and saw nothing.’

‘Ah, you wouldn’t. The spit o’ land we shelter behind is thick wi’ trees and you can see naught from seaward.’

Kydd grimaced, but decided it was worth a look. ‘Show me. You can read a chart?’

‘I can, in course,’ Buckle said, with a wounded expression. ‘I passed l’tenant! But I doubts we’ll see it there, it’s so small. Manchioneal Harbour, Mr Hardison calls it.’

‘It’s here,’ Kendall conceded. ‘No mention of holding ground, though.’

‘We’ll give it a call. What depth o’ water can we expect?’

‘Oh, not as would float a frigate,’ Buckle admitted. ‘I just thought, well, the schooner might be lying inside, like.’

Manchioneal Harbour was as he had said: from seaward it looked like an insignificant indentation in the coast, not worth the investigating.

Kydd gave orders that had
L’Aurore
heaving to well clear of the breakers driving inshore. ‘Take away a boat, Mr Gilbey, land on this side and peek through the trees. Mind you’re not seen, and return immediately with your report.’

The first lieutenant was soon back – the picture of satisfaction. ‘He’s there, sure enough,’ he called up, from the approaching boat. ‘Bung up an’ bilge free.’

‘Well done, Mr Buckle,’ Kydd conceded. ‘We have him now.’

The little harbour was as much a trap as a hideaway and they were the stopper in the bottle.

Yet one thing could bring everything to a halt. Although it was acting suspiciously, there would be no question of prize-taking if the vessel could prove it was neutral. Kydd decided that, as the officer most experienced at boarding, he would take the pinnace in himself. ‘Four marines and boat’s crew,’ he ordered. ‘And Mr Saxton,’ he added. A master’s mate rather than midshipman to take the tiller and add gravitas to the proceedings.

The boat surged in, sped on by the white combers, going beyond the spit and turning right into the harbour opening up inside.

And there was their quarry, sleek and low and lying to single anchor.

There was no identification but her lines seemed familiar to Kydd – was this a New England schooner, the like of which he had come across in his brief time in the United States as a lieutenant? As they approached, men appeared on deck, then the American flag jerked hastily up the main-mast.

This was going to be tricky, Kydd allowed: he’d had time to read only once his captain’s appreciation of the current legal situation between Britain and the United States in the West Indies. In essence, the Americans were strict neutrals by international law, allowing them to trade freely with both sides, but there had been developments that he’d not yet been able to study for their implications. If he was wrong in the details, there would not only be an international incident but he himself would be cast into ruinous damages.