Caribbee (40 page)

‘None the less, I’d be honoured to shake your hand, sir.’

Shyly coming forwards, Amelia dropped him a curtsy and confided, ‘And I should offer you my sincerest congratulations on your recent conquest, sir.’

‘Accepted with pleasure,’ Kydd said, his spirits returning. ‘Shall I be seeing you below at dinner?’

A fife and fiddle started by the main-mast and people began to drift across to witness the singular display of a barefoot sailor executing a hornpipe.

One more boat was on its way – and it had the duty mate-of-the-watch hurrying to Kydd in consternation. ‘Sir! Admiral Cochrane to board!’

The side-party was hastily mustered and Cochrane mounted the side with all due gravity.

But as the ceremonials concluded the admiral took Kydd aside. ‘I’m sorry to take this occasion to break it to you, Mr Kydd, but I have grave news.’

He looked around, then continued sadly, ‘There are duties of an admiral that may never be termed pleasant, and this is one of them.’

Tensing, Kydd waited.

‘Captain, I have to tell you that my request to the Admiralty to take you into my command has been denied. You are to quit my station and return to England forthwith.’

Stunned, Kydd mumbled something, at the same time realising that Cochrane had had no need to inform him in this way: he had done so in order that the evening might now be seen as the ship’s last event in the Caribbean.

‘I’ll not tarry. You’ll have many you’ll want to see this night.’

He saw Cochrane over the side, his thoughts in a whirl. To leave the warmth and beauty of the Caribbean was a wrench but he suspected it had something to do with the forthcoming court-martial of Popham, the leader of the doomed Buenos Aires expedition. But, on the other hand, it meant they were going home.

He hugged the news to himself when they went below for dinner, graciously accepting the chair of honour at the head of the table.

Amelia and her father, of course, were not two places down. ‘So happy you were able to come,’ he said politely to Wrexham.

‘Why should we not?’ the man replied, with surprise.

‘Oh, er …’

Kydd recoiled once more at the vision of the shocking scene the last time they had dined together, and emboldened by
L’Aurore
’s splendid Caribbean punch he admitted as much. ‘I feared you would not wish to be seen with a … a common fore-mast hand.’

Wrexham gave a start. ‘Sir! I do believe you have misconstrued the entire affair! We were shocked, it is true, even appalled, and that is no exaggeration. But this, sir, was not at any aspersions on yourself, rather at the behaviour of one claiming the character of gentleman. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Captain Tyrell’s want of conduct in the open discussion of your past is beyond belief.’

‘So, you’re saying …’

‘Your antecedents are of no account to us. There are many, if not the majority, of society in these islands with humble beginnings, and if we were to exclude such from our fellowship then it would make for a strange situation indeed.’

Kydd was infused with a rising lightness and a flood of release.

‘Then I pray you will find it in you to attend at our society gatherings in the future with every sense of our respect and admiration, Captain.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ Kydd replied, trying not to look at Amelia.

But it couldn’t be put off for much longer.

He found a spoon and, looking down the table, tapped it sharply against a glass. The gathering fell quiet.

‘Fellow officers, new friends and old, I have to tell you that Admiral Cochrane came aboard to give me news. And it is this: in a very short while
L’Aurore
will put to sea. She will sail – for England.’

There were gasps of surprise.

‘Our secondment to the Leeward Islands Squadron has been revoked by the Admiralty and we must return forthwith.’

‘
Mes chers amis – je suis désolé.
I will miss you all so dreadfully!’ Louise drew out a handkerchief and Renzi reached to console her.

‘Damn it! We’ll catch the season if we’re quick!’ Curzon chortled, his face brightening.

‘To England?’ Buckle was anything but ecstatic, his face lengthening in what appeared to be dejection at the thought.

‘Cheer up, Mr Buckle. England’s not so bad you must despair of it!’ his captain offered.

‘
Sir!
’

The word was spoken so fiercely, so intensely, that it caught Kydd by surprise. ‘Yes, Mr Bowden?’

‘Is it possible – that is to say, should the parties be willing, um …’

‘You’re hard to catch, young fellow.’

‘I’m understanding what he’s saying, sir,’ Buckle said, with an equal passion. ‘And this party is willing indeed!’

‘Wha’?’

‘Sir, I formally request an exchange with Lieutenant Buckle into this ship, he to stay in the Caribbean.’

‘And ain’t that the truth?’ Buckle blurted.

What could he say? To have Bowden back in
L’Aurore
’s ship’s company in whatever adventures lay ahead …

With a broad grin Kydd snatched up his glass and, in a ringing voice, proclaimed, ‘We’re to be quit o’ the fair Caribbee, but God rest ye, merry gentlemen, we’ll be home for Christmas!’

I
n the Georgian age the Caribbean was one of the most truly beautiful – and deadly – places on earth where, as if counterbalancing Nature’s gifts, fever claimed countless lives.

Even now, the majority of the thousands of far-scattered islands are much as they were in Kydd’s day, hardly touched by the centuries, albeit with the more accessible destinations well visited by tourists. For me, there can be little to beat the view from high in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica (where Kathy and I stayed on location research) down to the sinuous length of the Palisades to the legendary Port Royal and the fleet anchorage within. The town itself is in a sad state of decay but I spent many happy hours in the small archives and even unearthed some brown and curling correspondence from a certain Captain Nelson written while on station, complete with a flourishing pre-amputation signature.

The most atmospheric of all Caribbean sites was Antigua – not the cruise-ship St John’s in the north, but English Harbour in the south, where a perfectly preserved eighteenth-century naval dockyard could at a pinch even now set about a storm-racked frigate there under the guns of Shirley Heights. In Spanish Town there are parts still existing that Kydd would recognise, such as the memorial to Rodney’s great action at the Saintes, with its robust portrayal of ships-of-the-line and the stricken French fleet, ironically refurbished with the aid of an EU grant sponsored by the French. Guadeloupe is as Gallic as the Riviera and as pretty still as Renzi found it. Grand-Bourg on Marie-Galante is somewhat spoiled by development, but the rest of the island has enchanting parts and enjoys a reputation for its peach-fed iguana.

The Caymans are doing well, due in no small part to the generosity of King George III who, in response to the islanders’ bravery in coming to the aid of ten ships wrecked one night in a tempest, bestowed a tax-free status that is in force to this day. Cayman Brac is a wonderful spot for scuba and, apart from scattered settlement, presents the same seaward aspect as Kydd encountered. Curaçao is still appealingly Dutch; her multicoloured houses in neat rows much as they were then. The interior waters of the Schottegat, however, are now home to oil-tankers rather than privateers, and pretty little marinas nestle under the once formidable forts.

Looked at through modern eyes it’s hard to conceive of the colossal importance of the West Indies to Britain during Kydd’s time. At the start of the Napoleonic wars, four-fifths of all overseas Exchequer receipts came from these parts, mainly sugar and sugar products. More than two million gallons of rum a year made its way over the Atlantic, and Renzi’s brother was not exaggerating in the slightest the voracious appetite of sweet-toothed Britain for his crop. Consequently the islands were fought over bitterly, the record held by St Lucia, which changed hands no fewer than fourteen times in the period of the wars.

Without an effective naval strategy France found it impossible to defend her own islands and secure her own imports and consequently suffered. Napoleon’s decree, the Continental System, was a clever move, for it closed off Europe not only to Britain’s sugar but also to its increasingly important manufactured goods, threatening bankruptcy and revolution. It also contained the seed of his own destruction. The continent, with a well-developed sugar habit and unwilling to forgo the baubles and ironmongery produced so cheaply by the industrial revolution, fell victim to widespread smuggling and it failed in its object, again for want of an effective military sea arm to compel it. When Napoleon turned on his ally Russia in 1812, for not enforcing it vigorously enough, the end was in sight for him and his system. At the peace of 1815 most of the islands were returned to their previous owners, Danish, Dutch and even Swedish; each still retains its distinctiveness, but all were involved in the ever-vital sugar trade.

America, however, did handsomely out of the war as neutral, freighting for both sides, but when months later the British responded with their own decree Cousin Jonathan found his business opportunities sharply declining, his fast-growing merchant fleet now idle. This, no doubt, contributed to the frustration that boiled over into the war of 1812, the first conducted with an economic objective openly at its heart.

And in another important historical development less than one year following the end of this book, Kydd’s valet Tysoe would see the slave trade not only stopped by Britain but actively opposed by this nation, which nobly employed its naval supremacy in the cause of its suppression. Acting under a legal framework that regarded slave-trading in the same light as piracy, the Royal Navy chased and seized ships under any flag that carried on the odious trade, but it was not until 1834 that slavery itself was abolished. The irony is that by this time industrial methods of extraction from sugar-beet in Europe had been found and the Caribbean had lost its importance.

Readers who have followed the series will note that this is the second book set in the Caribbean. I am not sure yet when the two friends will return to this sultry clime but I can promise an important personal milestone for Renzi in the near future.

It is the writer’s name that is on the cover but many people contribute directly and indirectly to any literary endeavour. To everyone who assisted in some way in the research for this book, I am deeply grateful. I am also appreciative of the electronic charts produced by the Hydrographic Office of the Admiralty at Taunton, which have replaced the paper ones I used when I first began writing the series, and which have made navigational computations just a matter of a few clicks of the mouse. And I would like to pay special tribute to my publisher Hodder & Stoughton – editors Oliver Johnson and Anne Perry, publicist Poppy North, copy editor Hazel Orme, and all the other consummate professionals at 338 Euston Road, London.

As ever, my heartfelt appreciation goes to my wife and literary partner, Kathy, and my agent Carole Blake, who this year celebrates a luminous career in the book trade spanning fifty years. As the Georgians would say, I drink her health in a bumper!