On a mad impulse he stood up. He gathered together the pile of papers, hurried outside and found Jacobs. 'These are for signature, Mr Jacobs. I have been called away by Admiral Edgcumbe again’ he said, and hastened away. If he was quick, he could ride on the noon mail and be at the naval dockyard in an hour or two.
Chapter 9
The boat skimmed over the spacious harbour, on its way from Kingston town to the naval dockyard at the end of a seven-mile sandy spit of land, the Palisades. This was Port Royal, the notorious pirate lair that had been destroyed spectacularly by an earthquake a century before. But Renzi had no eyes for this curiosity. Furious with himself for his impulsive and unreasoned act, he was yet in a fever of expectation and hope that had no foundation in logic — just a single name on a piece of paper.
He waited impatiently while the boat came alongside the wharf, then swung himself up and strode ashore. Ignoring the close-packed victualling storehouses, he followed the road through the sprawling ruins of the Polygon battery, the odd grey-flecked sand of the spit crunching loudly underfoot.
As he passed the stinking pitch-house and the bedlam of the smith's shop he had no real idea how to find his quarry — the employment return had merely said that this man was a dockyard worker, no indication of what type. It would be useless to ask any of the dockyard men about a new arrivaclass="underline" no one would know him. Over there was a rickety row of negro houses — Renzi had found that, generally, sailors got on well with slaves so perhaps .. .
He stopped dead. An unmistakable figure was coming round the corner at the dockyard wall with his head down. Kydd. Renzi stood still, noting the droop of the shoulders, the preoccupied air. He called softly, 'Avast there, brother! Spare an old friend a glance.'
Kydd stopped as though struck in the face. Incredulity, then joy lit his features. He hurried over and shook Renzi's hand until it ached.
'Do ye leave me my hand, Tom. It is the only one I have left on the right side,' Renzi said.
Port Royal town was old, a sea town with a gaudy past, and its superfluity of sailor taverns gave pleasing choice for their reunion. The early hour of the afternoon ensured they would not be disturbed, and they selected the Shipp Inn on Queen Street: it had a table in a bay window overlooking the calm of the inner harbour.
'You are safe — preserved!' Renzi said, with great feeling.
Kydd looked up, surprised. 'Oh, yes. Twas nothin', really. L'tenant Calley told us t' march out to Putty Borg on Bass Tair, but there they had th' fever, so we went to t' other side, Fort Mathilda, an' were picked up b' Trajan'
Renzi had shared too much with Kydd to believe that this bare account was all there was to tell, but it could wait. 'You're in the dockyard line now?' he asked.
'Aye,' said Kydd, his brow creased, 'but I'd give a bag o' guineas t' get back t' sea.' 'How—'
'Trajan was surveyed 'n' condemned, I had th' chance f'r a spell in a reg'lar-goin' dockyard.' 'And—'
'An' I ran afoul of a blue-light shipwright. Seems m' spirits were too — who should say? — ardent with the ladies,' Kydd explained, without rancour.
Renzi contemplated this. He knew that Kydd was not a concupiscent and signalled to the pot-boy. 'The punch here is considered of the first class,' he offered.
'Thank ye, no. I had th' yellow fever not a month past. Lost m' taste f'r grog lately.'
'Then we have your lemonadoes, rap, cacao-drink—'
'A small beer will answer,' Kydd said.
It was indeed satisfying to see Kydd again, and once more Renzi realised that here was his only true friend. He dreaded the parting that must come. Rebellion forced itself on his consciousness, but he conquered it. 'What are you about at the moment?' he asked, unwilling to confess to his impulse in coming.
'Scullin' about - seems I have t' wait for assigning,' Kydd said moodily. 'What're you doin' for y'rself?'
'Oh, somewhat in the character of a clerk. My small French is of value here, it seems. I labour in Spanish Town.' It was depressing, the very thought. 'Shall we not view the ruins of the old pirate town?' he went on quickly. 'I have a yen to see the very streets of Captain Morgan.'
They walked along the narrow streets of Port Royal. It was small and compact, occupying the tip of the Palisades; and it didn't take long to discover that there was no trace at all of the notorious city.
'Ah, dearie, ye have ter unnerstan' — all th't was wicked and godless, one arternoon, jus' ups and slides down inter the sea! All th' people fallin' into great cracks in th' ground an' screamin' an' being carried ter their doom — a judgement on 'em all,' the old washerwoman told them, with relish. 'They're still dahn there!' She cackled.
They passed back along the other side of the spit, seeing its inner prospect of the fleet at anchor in all its puissant presence, the Admiral's pennant floating proudly atop the 74-gun flagship. Renzi saw Kydd's forlorn attention on the ships as they paced along.
Kydd stopped. He lifted an arm and pointed to a small vessel anchored much closer, in Chocolate Hole. 'There!' he said. 'Like a yacht, 'n' with saucy lines. If ever I get th' chance t' ship out again, she'd be m' choice.'
'Is she not overmuch small?' Renzi teased.
'Be damn'd t' that! She'd be everywhere, all over th' Caribbee, never rottin' at anchor 'n' seein' parts o' the Main where y'r ship-of-the-line would never touch in a hunnerd years!' Kydd went on. 'An' th' best chance o' prize money ye'll ever get.'
Shielding his eyes, Renzi tried to make out the vessel.
'She's Seaflower cutter,' Kydd said, in a low voice. 'With a commander new promoted, an' he can't fin' a crew,' he said, finally tearing away his eyes.
An idea came to Renzi in the wagon to Spanish Town. A stupendous, fantastic idea. He elaborated and tested it on the rest of the way and, during the night, planned his move.
Requesting the muster lists of all the ships in the Fleet was easy — they were filed together and no one questioned his sudden use of them for undisclosed purposes. He sat down and started work, scanning the names and making the occasional note.
The 'pack' on Seaflower was not large: a swift riffle through the papers told the story well enough. A tiny unrated vessel, she was beneath notice and would be left far behind the sloops and frigates in the competition for skilled men. He picked up the latest letter from her captain, a young lieutenant in his first command. A third piteous plea for hands — she had been stripped of men while her previous commander was dying of fever and was at the moment unable to sail. The signature was in the same hand as the body of the letter: it seemed her captain had to write his own correspondence.
Renzi smiled. He picked up a fresh sheet, checked his quill nib and started.
Captain, His Majesty's cutter Seaflower. The Secretary of the Cheque views with concern your letter to this office of the 19th inst. concerning your sea readiness.
It has long been the practice on this station to render full returns in the form governed by Commander-in-Chief's Fleet Orders dated 21st Nov 1782 which provides fully for the correct procedure. Your attention to detail on this matter in the future is most earnestly requested, touching as it does on the effectiveness of this department in the carrying out of its duties.
As a closing paragraph he added, almost as an aside:
Attached a list of seamen to be sent into Seaflower to answer your deficit of skilled hands. Your obed’ servant, etc., etc.
That should suffice. Now the usual to the dockyard commissioner, answering the availability for employment return and directing the assignment of Thomas Kydd to Seaflower, quartermaster.