Seaflower

Seaflower came to anchor a few hundred yards off. There were hardly any ships in harbour, only a small sloop alongside at the capstan house without her upper masts. Signal flags mounted Seaflower's main topgallant peak. Kydd knew what they were asking and determined to be elsewhere when Caird came aboard for his survey.

Uncaring of the still, clammy heat building below decks in the absence of a clean sea-breeze, the boatswain ordered the platforms in the crew space overlaying the hold taken up. Kydd as quartermaster had the task of re-stowing their stores — firkins of butter, barrels of salt beef, hogsheads of water — over to one side of Seaflower in order that the damaged strake could be lifted clear for repair.

When the master shipwright made his survey, unaccountably the cutter's quartermaster was not free to accompany him, but from his busy job shuffling the master's charts, Kydd was able to hear through the skylight. 'A strake 'twixt wind and water — a trifling matter,' came Caird's voice. 'As we have so few to care for at this time, my party will attend on you presently.'

Indistinct words came from Farrell, and Caird replied, 'No, I do not believe that is necessary. Our riggers will perform the task. We have skilled hands among the King's Negroes, you'll find.'

A bumping on the hull told Kydd that the dockyard boat was putting off. He waited a little before coming on deck. The shipwright's punt would be making its way out soon, and there were some he would welcome to see again, but in no circumstances would he venture ashore.

Farrell did not go ashore either. Curiously, Kydd saw him in the shade of the after awning, his attention seeming to be on the nondescript sloop tied up off the capstan house. Farthing said quietly, 'Old ships! That's Patelle, it's fr'm her that he got his step, cap'n o' Seaflower?

A distant boom sounded — Kydd looked automatically to Shirley Heights, the army post high up on the point. Smoke eddied away: strange sail had apparently been sighted far out to sea. Signal flags appeared, and were answered in the dockyard. Minutes later a boat under sail left the shore and headed directly for them. Kydd hoped that it wasn't a French squadron out there: English Harbour was particularly helpless now with only one warship — their own — available to meet them.

‘Four strange sail sighted!' hailed a seaman in the boat, 'an' Patelle unable ter shift!'

Farrell stiffened. 'Secure the vessel, Mr Merrick,' he rapped. 'Do you and Mr Jarman remain aboard — I am going ashore. Stirk, you and Kydd attend on me in the longboat.'

Reappearing in full uniform, Farrell saw Kydd and Stirk in their comfortable loose shirts and snapped, 'Jackets, at the least, please!'

They tumbled down the hatchway and Kydd grabbed at his blue jacket with the brass buttons that marked him a petty officer. 'What d'ye think, Toby?' Kydd asked, slipping it on.

'Dunno,' Stirk said flady, and they bounded up the ladderway.

Farrell took the tiller and they rapidly pulled ashore, the bowman hooking on at the stone steps while they landed. It was close by, the Admiral's House, but the absence of the appropriate flag showed it had no occupant. Mounting the steps in a hurry, Farrell bumped into a clerk. 'Who is the senior officer?'

Eyebrows lifting in astonishment, the clerk replied, 'The commissioner is with Captain Mingley in St John's at the moment - sir.'

'Then, sir, who is in command, may I ask?'

The clerk paused, as if to take his measure. 'Sir, in the absence of Captain Mingley that would necessarily be the senior officer afloat.'

'Is Captain Fox still with the Patelle?

'He is at St John's at the same court-martial.'

"Then who is in command?'

'Patelle is under the temporary command of one of her lieutenants.'

Farrell, followed by the clerk, entered an anteroom on the ground floor, and glanced about. 'I shall set up headquarters here. Desire the Shirley Heights garrison to send an officer to attend me here for an immediate council-of-war.'

The clerk looked affronted but, at Stirk's grim look, quickly left. A sergeant of marines shortly appeared and gave a crashing salute. 'Sah!' With his local knowledge, Kydd helped to pull things together, and within the hour a captain of the Royal Scots Fusiliers was in respectful attendance.

Meanwhile, Farrell had the marine messenger busy with orders: 'To the officer commanding, Shirley Heights: "It would be of some service to me should you see fit to begin heating shot as of this moment."' Guns mounted on the commanding heights above the harbour could send red-hot shot among invading ships.

'My compliments to the commander of Patelle and he is to send her longboat, mounted with a swivel, to lie at grapnel in the entrance to the harbour.'

There was a small number of marines, less the usual number of sick, but the army was in some strength in forts at Shirley Heights and Blockhouse Hill. Barracks at Monks Hill and The Ridge held an unknown number of soldiers, depending on how many had fallen victims to the yellow fever. Would it be enough?

 

'Sah!'

'Yes, Sergeant?' Farrell looked up from his desk.

The man looked ill at ease. Farrell frowned. 'What is it, man?' 'Sah!'

'Yes,' said Farrell impatiently. 'Get on with it.'

'Sah, Lieutenant Powell o' the Patelle says — er, L'tenant Powell tol’ me that 'e's unable ter comply with y'r orders, sah!'

Farrell rocked back in his chair. 'Do I understand you to say that Lieutenant Powell is unable to send his ship's boat out?'

The sergeant hesitated. ‘Er, it's like this, sah. L'tenant Powell says as 'ow he, er, don't recognise yer orders, like.'

Everyone in the room froze. The dockyard clock ticked heavily.

'Where is the officer now?' Farrell asked finally.

The sergeant, still rigidly at attention, said tightly, 'Don't rightly know, sah.'

Farrell opened his mouth, but Kydd broke in, 'You mean t' say he's in the capstan house, do ye not?'

The sergeant's eyes swivelled to Kydd. 'Could be.'

Kydd went on carefully, 'Sir, seems th' l'tenant is enjoyin' an evenin' jug, didn't quite understan' y'r orders.'

Farrell gave a wintry smile. 'As it happens, I know Mr Powell.' The smile vanished. 'Send word to the master of Patelle that Lieutenant Powell is to be confined to his cabin immediately.' The sergeant saluted and left hastily.

Stirk looked meaningfully at Kydd but said nothing. Another languid sunset was on its way, but there was tension in the air. 'Have my orders been carried out?' Farrell demanded. The unknown four sail at last sighting were lying becalmed fifteen miles away; the focus of attention was now narrowing to this vexing insubordination.

'Oil' Outside, the sergeant of marines beckoned furiously to Kydd. 'Yer L'tenant Powell - y' knows about 'im an' Farrell?'

'No?' said Kydd guardedly.

The sergeant pursed his lips. 'Well, see, they was both lootenants in Patelle t'gether, but hated each other's guts somethin' wicked. Now, I got a bad feelin' about this, I has, goin' to end in no good a-tall fer anyone.'

Kydd looked at the sergeant intently. 'Is Powell confin'd?'

'No. See — it's the sailin' master he's bin drinkin' with,' he added, 'an' now, well, yer Jack Tars are gettin' upset at their cap'n being taken in charge like, an—'

One of the dockyard men approached with a strange expression. 'Ye'd better give this t' yer officer, lads,' he said, holding out a document.