Caribbee (4 page)

‘Had to end this way, o’ course.’ Pym stood beside him, with a face of stone.

‘How’s that?’ Kydd asked quietly, grateful for the human contact, his heart full of pity for the man whose lifespan was now being measured in minutes.

‘You don’t know Tyrell. Man’s a martyr to discipline since ’ninety-seven, when he lost his first command to mutineers at Spithead.’

So that was what was riding him, had intensified the driving obsession with rule and punishment.

‘That’s not to say he’s shy in battle – he’s the heart of a tiger and shows it. Just been unlucky, never in any fleet engagement worth the name and fears he’s to be overlooked. Like in San Domingo here not six months back. A foul bottom and last into action when it was all but over.’

‘Still and all,’ Kydd said, in a low voice, ‘to have the men follow out of fear will never be my way.’

A sharp slap and crash of muskets caused them to wheel round. It was the Royal Marines guard acknowledging the captain emerging from his cabin spaces. With a suspicious look that turned into one of controlled ferocity, Tyrell stumped to the quarterdeck.

‘Bring up the prisoner!’ he roared.

Hannibal
’s ship’s company was assembled aft, massing in a silent press of barely concealed hostility. Their captain mounted the poop ladder and advanced to the rail, standing aloof in a belligerent quarterdeck brace and looking down on the hundreds of men.

No one moved. Tyrell continued to survey them grimly, saying not a word, letting the tension build.

There was a stir at the hatchway and the prisoner came slowly on deck, blinking in the bright sunlight, ahead of him the chaplain in black, behind him the master-at-arms and two corporals. He was halted at the break of the poop, then turned to face his shipmates.

It was the duty of the captain to muster the hands and pronounce before them why the prisoner’s life was forfeit, all part of the ceremony of death that was intended as a dread spectacle of deterrence. Tyrell read out the relevant Article of War in savage, ringing tones before the ship’s company standing, heads bared. In sharp, harsh sentences he set out why the man must die: the stern code of the sea had been breached and he must be made to pay.

He concluded and descended from the poop, nodding to the Royal Marines officer. A single drum, muffled by black crêpe, sounded a roll, then a measured beat as Smythe began the last journey, forward to the yardarm.

Kydd joined the line of officers who followed, just behind Cochrane’s flag-captain, who was representing him. They assembled at the foredeck, and the grim ritual was ready to be enacted.

‘Prepare the prisoner!’

The chaplain moved to Smythe and they knelt together. Kydd could hardly conceive of the despair and anguish that must be rushing through the man’s mind – the boatswain mere paces away waiting with the end of the yardarm whip worked into a halter, on the other side the six-pounder gun-crew with their piece ready charged to signal the moment the prisoner was launched into eternity. And, all around, ships with their silent lines of men looking on.

The seaman rose, deathly pale, a studied blankness his only expression as he moved to the appointed place of execution. The halter was brought and put in place around his neck, followed by a black hood. Smythe had only to step on to the cathead and, at the signal, it would be over.

‘Sir,’ the boatswain’s voice croaked.

Tyrell took his time, looking up and then along to where the prisoner’s shipmates waited, the long line of the hangman’s rope in their hands.

‘Carry on!’

But a loud cry broke into the awful stillness: ‘Hold!’

Tyrell wheeled about in astonishment. The flag-lieutenant hurried up and held out a paper, sealed and beribboned.

‘What’s this, sir?’ he snapped.

‘Admiral Cochrane desires you should read this publicly at this time, sir.’

Kydd’s heart leaped. Could it be …?

His voice savage, Tyrell was obliged to announce to all the world that, of the commander-in-chief’s mercy, the said prisoner was reprieved at the scaffold’s foot.

‘Take him down!’ he snarled.

The hood was lifted, the rope removed from his neck – and, with a muffled groan, Smythe crumpled senseless to the deck.

‘I
hear the man was pardoned,’ Renzi said, as Kydd entered. ‘As is the right of a commander on his station,’ he continued. ‘It does have its curiosities, however.’

‘Not now, Nicholas, I’m not in the mood.’

‘You see, in law he is a dead man at the moment sentence is pronounced – a reprieve therefore means he is a new man, debts dissolved but property disowned. I wonder if this extends to the state of marriage. His wife is a widow. Must she marry him again or is she free to seek another?’

Kydd shuddered, as if to shake off the stark memory of the rope. ‘Leave it be, old fellow.’

He accepted some wine from his confidential secretary and friend of many years, then added, ‘And who do you think was his captain, as near drove the man to it?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I wager you’re going to tell me.’

‘Tyrell.’

At first it didn’t sink in. Then Renzi sat back with a tight smile. ‘
Duke William –
first lieutenant.’

‘The same.’

‘Well, well. Fearless as a lion but cold as a hanging judge.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Did he recognise you at all?’

‘Sitting in judgment as his equal on a court-martial? Never a chance,’ Kydd answered, with a dry chuckle. ‘He’s now captain of
Hannibal
, 74, and thinks his crew the worst kind o’ scum. I do pity ’em with all my heart.’

‘A noble sight,’ Kydd said, to the well-turned-out captain of foot next to him. The proud reply was nearly carried away by the gust of sound as the military band reached the raised dais. It stamped about with a showy twirl of drumsticks and tossing plumes, then retreated, to split neatly about columns of advancing redcoats marching to the oblique before forming line in review order, all in scrupulous time.

In Highland regalia, the governor of Barbados stood at attention, Kydd and lesser dignitaries respectfully at his side. The levee was drawing to a close in the warm evening and there was to be a grand dinner in the old St Anne’s Fort.

The parade ground, the Savannah, was overlooked by the Main Guard, an imposing dusky red building with the white blaze of King George’s cipher prominent and substantial stone barracks beyond.

The ordered scene lifted Kydd’s spirits after the chaos and ragged misery of the south. The fact that they lay under the threat of a vengeful Napoleon striking at the vitals of Britain’s wealth began to recede into the realm of fantasy at this stirring display of military pomp.

The proceedings came to a climax with the entire parade marching forward, six sergeant-majors screaming hoarsely to bring them to a simultaneous halt and ceremonial salute.

Honours of the day complete, the parade moved off, and Kydd and the others followed the governor through the tropical dusk past the drill hall and barracks to the Long Room, fronted by massive square columns.

Inside, it was a blaze of light, the massed brilliance of hundreds of candles in candelabra glittering on gold appointments. The illumination played, too, on the lustrous mahogany about the room and the polished silver set out on the U-shaped table formation. A small military orchestra struck up as the governor took position at the centre.

‘Captain Kydd? Over here, sir, if you would.’ Grudgingly, Kydd allowed that the young subaltern in his elaborate epaulettes over the scarlet and gold of his uniform was a splendid vision. It had always been a source of resentment to the Navy with their austere dark blue and sparse gold lace; a naval officer needed to be at least a ship’s captain before he was allowed even a modest epaulette, never the frogging and other ornamentation of even the lowliest army officer.

Kydd found himself on one wing seated beside an amiable officer, who introduced himself as Richard Wyvill, major in the First West Indian Regiment of Foot. ‘You’re new out from England?’ he enquired politely.

‘No, from Buenos Aires,’ Kydd said, ‘as first came from the Cape of Good Hope.’

At Wyvill’s puzzled look, Kydd told of how the one had been taken, the other lost, in the daring recent feats at the fringe of empire.

Over a capital dish of okra and flying fish, Kydd learned more about the Leeward Islands and their place in the scheme of things, how the untold wealth generated by King Sugar was streaming to England to finance the war and on no account might be jeopardised. And how every effort was being made to deprive the French of the same, and the very real danger of their determined retaliation.

‘Might the station still be called, as who’s to say, a sickly one?’ Kydd asked. In earlier times, a murderous toll in disease had been inflicted on the white soldiers and he had only narrowly survived yellow fever himself.

‘It still vexes, but now we’ve whole regiments of blacks who are not troubled by such concerns.’ That left the white officers, but they would take their chances in the hope that those surviving would be in position for a speed of promotion that could never be matched at home. ‘And, of course, you sailors have only to keep the seas to find yourselves well clear of the marsh airs that bring fever.’

‘The governor – he looks a right sort of cove. Another of your Scotsmen, then?’

‘Indeed. Francis Mackenzie, First Baron Seaforth, chieftain of the Clan Mackenzie, no less.’ When Kydd nodded amiably, he added, ‘As takes no mind of the curse of the Brahan Seer!’

‘Ah, yes,’ Kydd answered blankly, to be enlightened that this was the dire prediction of the eventual downfall of the Seaforth Mackenzies by a shadowy figure more than two centuries back.

Lifting his glass, he saw Tyrell, four places up, forcefully making a point to a hapless colonel who sat back wincing under the tirade.

Kydd glanced across the table to Pym, who raised his glass and offered, ‘If you’re looking for a cruise to line the pockets, m’ friend, then you’ve come to the wrong place for that.’

‘How so?’ Wyvill came in.

‘Our Sir Alexander, he’s not your prize-capturing sort. Takes it to heart since San Domingo that the Frenchies might desire to return and claim what they lost. You frigates’ll be out keeping station on the rest o’ the fleet all hours that God gives, sweeping up ’n’ down to wind’d atwixt here and Bermuda. You’ll see.’

‘He was at San Domingo?’ Taking place earlier in the year, off the not-so-far-distant Hispaniola, it was said to have been the greatest fleet action since Trafalgar.

‘He was – and for his pains had his hat blown from his head by a great shot on his own quarterdeck in
Northumberland
. Never forgave ’em.’

There were appreciative chuckles while they did their duty on the spicy pepperpot.

By the time the cloth was finally drawn and the brandy had appeared, Kydd had mellowed considerably, the memories of the south continent now in full retreat. Cigars from Spanish Cuba were brandished, and in the blue haze he listened lazily to the ebb and flow of conversation. They were all post-captains and senior field officers at this august gathering, he reflected with pride, and he was here by right, damn it.

He pondered yet again on the turn of fortune that had taken him back to the Caribbean as a frigate captain. It seemed so distant, his time as a young seaman, almost like another life. Only in the Royal Navy was it possible to break through in society as he had done, from the common sort to gentleman with all that it meant in terms of respect, politeness and comforts. In fact, if he did well …

‘Dear fellow – do I see you content with life at all? That your elevated situation here at the centre of empire is not altogether a burden?’

‘Just so, Nicholas,’ Kydd said, in satisfaction, then hurried to add, ‘Yet never so good as if my particular friend was present. How are you?’

Renzi did not reply. A strange expression crossed his face, and he rose and paced about the great cabin restlessly. ‘There’s quite a different matter that concerns me.’

‘Oh? Please to tell your friend, old trout.’

‘It touches on your professional duty, which I’ve sworn never to trespass upon.’

There was something in Renzi’s tone that sounded a note of warning, but Kydd replied warmly, ‘Fire away, Nicholas. I’m sure I’ll appreciate your words.’

Renzi breathed deeply. ‘I’ve a nightmare that will not leave my mind.’

‘I’d have thought a rational sort o’ fellow like you shouldn’t have trouble dealing with such.’

‘You say that we’re to be concerned chiefly with keeping the sea lanes free of vermin. Not to be scouted, true, but in my bones I feel that we’ll soon be faced with much worse than that.’

‘That the French will make an attack? We all know they’d go on the offensive if they could, but we’re ready for ’em! Or is it something else ails you, m’ friend?’

‘It is. Napoleon Bonaparte. I keep seeing him sitting there in the Tuileries brooding over Trafalgar and what it means to his imperial ambitions, witnessing our empire growing and
his
fading away. He knows that this is, for the most part, funded by the produce of our Caribbean islands and he would stop at nothing to put an end to it. If it’s within his power to strike a devastating blow directly at them, as will deprive us of their substance, then at one stroke he reduces his most implacable foe to penury. No more subsidies to stir up the continental powers against him, no means to sustain the great Navy that protects them – in that event he’s well aware that the only course left us is to sue for peace.’