Caribbee (34 page)

He shoved the boat out into the waves where it bobbed gloriously.

‘Get in!’

Clutching the wide-leaved branches, Louise sat demurely while Renzi flung in the bag and launched the craft seawards. The branches were woefully poor oars but at least they made way against the waves.

Startled by a sudden slap and gout of water, Renzi knew they were under fire but refused to look back. They laboured on desperately – and then what Renzi had forlornly hoped for came true. The simple shape of the island meant that when the current offshore met the rounded coastline it diverged to clear the northern end. The boat was now being carried gently seawards on its way around the last point.

The shoreline retreated, the land became an island – and they were free.

Exhausted, Renzi slumped back. They had got away – but did this mean they were safe? No doubt the soldiers would find a boat and come after them.

But the elements were kind. The current increased, whirling them ever away from the island – and a soft sunset promised concealing dark before long.

Reaction left Renzi weak and he lowered himself down into the narrow bottom of the boat, staring at the night sky. Louise lay down next to him, the constricted space pressing them into one another. It felt natural to remain together as they gazed up at the stars.

‘How lovely they are!’ she murmured. ‘I’ve never really stopped to admire them.’

Her hand crept trustfully into his and together they drifted into an exhausted sleep.

‘Easy now!’ Kydd called to the seamen at the hoist. He looked down in great concern as first Louise and then Renzi were brought aboard. They were in a frightful state – muddy, clothing torn, almost incoherent.

Louise disappeared quickly to make herself presentable but Renzi could not be parted from a filthy bag he kept clutched to his chest, insisting they talk that very instant.

In Kydd’s great cabin he emptied its contents onto the table.

‘There!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t on Guadeloupe, but it was on Marie-Galante.’

‘Nicholas, old fellow, you’re not making sense,’ Kydd said gently. ‘And if we hadn’t been on our way back, the pair of you would b’ now be heading out well into the Atlantic – I’d have given you three days at the most before—’

‘Look at these,’ Renzi gasped, with feeling. ‘Tell me what you think!’

Kydd picked up the soiled journals and his eyes opened wide. ‘Good God! This is a dispatch book, lists down orders to intercept, times, places – and this other— Why, damn it, you were right! This is an orderly book for a fleet – I have to eat my words, m’ friend. You were right!’

‘So?’

‘These go to the admiral as fast as
L’Aurore
can fly. I’ll hear the story later.’

Hannibal
’s bower anchor plunged into the green translucency of St John’s Road in Antigua. Tension aboard had grown unbearable for there wasn’t a man who didn’t feel the ship teetering on the edge. In the next days there would be a climax – the only question being in what form.

Tyrell, clearly oblivious to all this, called away his gig and was off ashore at the earliest opportunity.

The time had come.

‘Gentlemen, I’ll remind you of your pledge,’ Griffith said heavily. ‘I’m away now to Admiral Cochrane to lay out our position. You’ll not let me down now, will you?’

Bowden knew what he was saying. Without their support he was a first lieutenant going behind the back of his captain to foment his own cause, and his heart went out to the man doing what he felt was right and at such risk.

‘We’re with you, sir,’ he said stoutly.

They left the ship in the charge of Mason who, pale-faced, stood lonely on the quarterdeck, watching as the boat took
Hannibal
’s officers away.

‘Lieutenant Griffith,’ the flag-lieutenant announced, ushering him into the admiral’s office.

‘Well? What’s so urgent, pray, that it cannot wait?’ Cochrane said irritably, looking up from his work.

Griffith took a deep breath. ‘Sir. I have a document with me. It lays out in detail certain … deviations from character in our captain that in our opinion—’

‘You’re not making yourself plain,’ barked the admiral. ‘For if you’re delating upon your superior, you, sir, stand in contempt for it.’

‘Sir, it bears upon the fitness of
Hannibal
to lie in the line-of-battle,’ the lieutenant said doggedly. ‘The readiness of the men to follow and—’

‘You’re bringing an action against your captain? Have a care, sir, have a care!’ Cochrane interrupted, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Griffith blanched, but went on, ‘This document, sir, is signed by every officer in
Hannibal
without exception. It details—’

‘Every officer?’ The admiral went rigid. ‘Then this is another matter entirely! Tell me why I should not take it that you have provoked them into a mutinous conspiracy against their lawful captain and commander?’

‘S-sir. These same officers are present and wait without. They beg to be heard on the matter.’

Cochrane slowly rose from his desk, his face tight. ‘This stinks of contumacy and I won’t have it! You have overstepped yourself, sir, and you shall hear of it from higher powers than myself.’

‘May they come in, sir?’

‘You try my patience too far, Mr Griffith,’ he rapped.

The lieutenant remained standing, stiff-faced, but made no attempt to take back his words.

‘Very well,’ the admiral said at length. ‘Tell ’em to enter.’ He stood in a grim quarterdeck brace, waiting.

The officers of
Hannibal
filed in, taking position in a line before the admiral.

‘Now, sir,
you
will tell me what this is about,’ Cochrane snapped, jabbing a finger at Bowden.

‘Sir,’ Bowden began, his throat tight, ‘Lieutenant Griffith is of a mind with us all that Captain Tyrell is, er, has a condition of humours that we believe does tend to, um, have its effect on his judgement to the detriment of his authority.’

‘You’re trying to tell me he’s mad, is
that
it?’ The pugnacious tone intimidated.

‘Not for me to say, sir.’

The admiral wheeled on Griffith. ‘Then what does your surgeon think? Hey?’

‘He claims as how he’s not qualified in this matter, sir.’

‘Then you’re wanting me to send for a head-doctor from Bermuda? This is as good as condemning the man, and I won’t do it, do you hear?’

‘Sir, if—’

‘Be silent, Lieutenant!’

Cochrane was clearly in a quandary. If he took measures against Tyrell it would bring down a storm of opposition from other captains, some senior and influential. If, on the other hand, he ignored the warnings and a cataclysm took place, it could easily rebound on his own head.

Bowden watched tensely while Cochrane paced up and down. It had gone too far: whatever was ultimately decided, it was inevitable that his career would be irretrievably affected.

‘You’re all guilty of contumacious association, you know that, don’t you? I can put you under open arrest this instant – but I’ll not. For the sake of appearances and the good of the Service, I’ll allow you to retract this nonsense and return aboard to your duties, no stain to attach to your characters, and we’ll hear no more of it.’

Griffith did not look at the others but replied calmly, ‘Sir, for the sake of our conscience we cannot do this.’

‘Then you leave me no other alternative …’

Bowden waited for the blow to fall – but there were voices, a disturbance outside.

Cochrane looked up in irritation. There was a hurried knock and his flag-lieutenant appeared. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir, but there’s news. Captain Kydd,
L’Aurore
frigate, begs for an immediate meeting.’

Kydd did not return until well into the afternoon and immediately announced that the ship was under sailing orders. ‘You’ve started a pretty moil, Nicholas.’ He chuckled. ‘Our admiral is mounting an immediate assault on Marie-Galante.’

‘Ah. Delay would have been fatal, of course,’ Renzi said with relief. ‘When?’

‘We sail tomorrow, land at first light the day after, and if this is to be anything like Curaçao, the island will be ours by midday.’

‘With what forces?’

‘That we have at hand. Frigates in the main, being for the same reason that they can close with the shore. One ship-of-the-line to lie off.’

‘And who will be leading this armament, pray?’ Renzi asked delicately.

‘Well, er, the senior captain of our little band claims the honour and will not be denied. The captain of the battleship, that is.’

‘It’s not …’

‘Captain Tyrell will lead the expedition, yes.’

‘There’s talk of unrest in
Hannibal.
’

‘At the first whiff o’ powder-smoke they’ll be away like good ’uns, you mark my words,’ Kydd said positively. ‘We’ve other things to think on. The plantocracy hereabouts have word of something in the wind concerning a stroke against the French and want to honour us with a gathering tonight afore we go.’

‘Dear fellow, would you be offended overmuch if I declined? My greatest ambition in life at this time is to sleep for a week, and this hour does seem the perfect time to begin.’

‘It would do your soul good, old trout,’ Kydd teased, but Renzi would not be diverted.

The warm tropical dusk promised much. St John’s society had gleefully turned out at very short notice to honour the sons of Neptune with the flimsy excuse that it was in fact in remembrance of the nearby battle of the Saintes in 1782, even if the anniversary was some months ahead.

Kydd had indulged Tysoe’s fuss and worry: full-dress uniform was not to be hurried and he wanted to cut a figure before the daughter of the chairman of the Association of Planters. For one of Captain Kydd’s eminence, a carriage was made available and he sat in solitary splendour as it moved off in a jingle of leather and expensive harness. At the door of the Great House, under the torch-flames, those come to welcome the heroes of the hour had assembled, among them Chairman Wrexham and his daughter.

Kydd allowed himself to be handed down from the carriage and returned Wrexham’s courtly bow with an elegant leg, conscious of Amelia’s barely concealed delight.

Pleasantries were exchanged, then the chairman murmured politely, ‘Sir, my daughter being in want of a gentleman escort, it would oblige me if you …’

They entered the brightly lit reception room together, Kydd aware of the light pressure of her gloved hand on his arm. Shyly she introduced the notables of Antigua, this planter, that commissioner, and unaccountably her aunt Jane, a knowing woman, who sized him up rapidly.

He caught the envy in a group of naval officers nearby and swelled with pride.

‘You’re finding your way in our little society then, Mr Kydd,’ Wrexham said, with a smile.

Kydd responded with a wordless bow while Amelia bobbed, her grip on his arm tightening.

The dinner was a splendid affair. The chairman, his wife, Kydd and Amelia sat at one end while at the other the commander-in-chief held court with the senior captains. Even the presence of a stiff-faced Tyrell several places down could not dampen Kydd’s happiness.

The wine was French and of high quality. The chairman eased into a smile at Kydd’s knowledgeable appreciation, a result of Renzi’s patient tutelage. He felt a twinge of guilt. How Renzi would have enjoyed this evening – perhaps he should have pressed him further.

He was about to suggest a toast to absent friends when he happened to notice a flicked glance and slight frown on Wrexham’s face. He looked down the table and saw Tyrell’s glass empty yet again, and he was glaring about for a servant to refill it.

‘Oh, Captain Tyrell. He’s a Tartar right enough, but just the man to set before the Frenchies I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said firmly.

‘I’m sure of it,’ Wrexham responded drily.

The evening proceeded in a delightful haze, thoughts of the morrow set aside in the warmth of the occasion.

‘A capital night, sir!’ Kydd beamed at a hard-faced planter a place or two down, lifting his glass in salute.

The man started, then came back warmly, ‘As it is our duty in these times to honour the warriors that defend us!’

He raised his glass and—

There was a sudden crash down the table.

Heads turned in alarm. It was Tyrell, who had slammed his glass down so hard it had shattered.

‘I’ve got it! Be damned, I have it!’ he bellowed into the silence.

All the guests gazed at him in astonishment. He continued, in fuddled triumph, ‘I never forget a face, an’ there’s many a rogue swung at the yardarm t’ prove it!’ His words were thick with drink but there was no denying their hypnotic power.

He turned slowly and pointed directly at Kydd, his red-rimmed stare ferocious and exulting. ‘You, sir! I know where I saw you before, damme!’

Kydd went cold.

‘Hah! It was the old
Duke William
around the year ’ninety-four – or was it -three? No matter! How do I know? Because as a pawky Jack Tar I had you stripped and flogged! Twelve lashes – contempt and mutinous behaviour, it was.’

He sat back in satisfaction. ‘Told you I’d get it, hey!’ He chortled, seeming not to notice the shock and consternation about him.

A wash of outrage flooded Kydd. He saw Amelia’s face pale as she clutched at her father, while further down a naval wife turned to stare at him, twitching at her husband’s sleeve and whispering. Other captains swivelled to look at him in horrified fascination, their wives agog with the knowledge that they had been present at a scene they would talk about for a long time to come. Cochrane looked down the table at him, with an appalled expression, and from outside the room he heard the excited titter of servants.

Humiliation tore at Kydd. He shot to his feet and faced Tyrell, fists clenched, his chair crashing down behind him as he fought to keep control.

‘Well? It’s true, ain’t it?’ Tyrell grunted.

Kydd’s mind scrabbled to hold on to reason. The captain of the ship had ordered the lashes, Tyrell only the first lieutenant, but in its essence it was quite correct. He had been found out – he had been a former common sailor and, not only that, evidently a bad one who had been convicted of criminal conduct and punished.