There was a growing friendliness between them, and Kydd benefited in the learning of his sea craft. Jarman's plain-thinking explanations were the rock on which he was able later to elaborate the whys from the hows and give body to his knowledge. It touched Kydd's imagination, this reduction to human understanding of the inscrutable vast restlessness that was the sea; to be able to bring a world into compass on a single chart, the legendary sights he had seen on foreign shores all rendered tactile and biddable to the will of man.
'When I learned m' figurin' it was always the three Ls, "lead, latitude 'n' lookout", an' no more,' Jarman told him. 'An' that is not t' say they should be cast, aside these modern times. But now we just adds a fourth — longitude.'
Longitude ... The deep respect Jarman accorded the two chronometers gave Kydd a feeling for what a fearsome thing sea life must once have been. No sure knowledge of their place in the trackless wastes of ocean, a starless night, a rocky coast - and it might be sudden death in the darkness. The gleaming brass and enamel devices were a true miracle of man's achieving. Now when it became local noon and the sun's altitude was taken, he knew for a certainty that in Guildford, if he could transport there instantly, the big old clock overhanging the high street would be solemnly showing four o'clock in the afternoon.
They raised the island of St Croix late in the afternoon, a low grassy seaside so much like parts of Cornwall as to be astonishing. This transformed into the usual lush rainforests further along, but the helm was put up, and they came to anchor to seaward of an island to the north-east. 'We approach Christiansted in the full light o' day,' Farrell said. It was prudent: the Danes were a proud nation and touchy of their honour. They were neutral, but could throw in their lot with the Jacobins at any time.
They lay offshore to seaward, out of sight of the main island and snugged down for the night. The sunset's golden tendrils faded to a deep blue and then soft darkness, and without a moon the stars glittered fat and tremulous. After supper, Kydd and his shipmates repaired to the upper deck with their grog, making the most of their unaccustomed inactivity. Kydd settled next to Renzi, who was enjoying a pipe of tobacco, and Stirk sat on the main-hatch.
'Amazin' that,' Stirk mused. The black, calm sea stretched into impenetrable darkness on each side, but the slap and chuckle of water around Seaflower's cable was soothing to a sailor. 'Puts me in mind o' Mount's Bay,' Stirk went on. 'Not as I'd want ter be reminded.'
'Why so?' someone asked.
Stirk sat back against the mainmast and ruminated. "Cos o' what happened while I wuz there,' he said finally.
'What was that, cuffin?' the voice persisted.
'Well, mates, if yer wants to know the full story, I warns yer, it's a tough yarn, but I tell yer, it's as true as y'r mainstay is moused!' Stirk teased.
'Cast loose yer tongue, matey,' an invisible voice urged.
'Spread more sail!' another said. Luke scuttled up and squatted under Stirk's feet, agog to hear the yarn.
‘Right, I'll fill and stand on,' Stirk agreed. 'When I was a younker, I was in another trade,' he began.
Kydd hid a smile.
'Reg'lar run fr'm St Marlow ter Penzance in brandy.
Had a shipmate aboard name o' Cornish Jack, liv'd nearby. Now, he was a right frolicsome cove, always in wi' the ladies. An' he snares a real spruce filly — Kitty Tresnack she wuz called. Trouble is, she's married, see, to old man Tresnack 'oo owns a sizeable tin mine. Didn't stop 'em - he'd step off soon as he knew 'ow, back aboard last minute, 'n' all the time off in the hills wi' this Kitty.'
Stirk gave a snort that some might have interpreted as disapproval.
'He comes back aboard jus' as we're about t' sail, but there's noos. Seems old man Tresnack goes down wi' a fever 'n' dies real quick. So Cornish Jack can't wait t' get back 'n' marry Kitty — but when we does make port agen, he finds 'is intended in clink, arrested fer murder of 'er 'usband!
'They 'as the trial, an' she's found guilty, sentenced ter 'ang. Cornish Jack can't believe it — 'e sleeps outside the prison walls till the day she's due ter be choked off. He asks permission to go with 'er to the scaffold. They agrees, an' on th' day he goes up ter the gallows 'oldin' 'er 'and and when it's time 'e clutches 'er tight. The rope goes around 'er neck, an' she asks 'im, solemn-like, "You will?" Jack gets uneasy, but says, "I will." She then goes calm and it's all over fer 'er.'
Stirk paused for effect, and continued. 'After that, Kitty's ghost wuz seen twice, three times or more on the road b'tween Penzance an' Hayle, an' Cornish Jack's a changed man. Goes pale 'n' thin, never laughs — terrible change if y' knew 'im. At th' tavern 'e was 'eard ter say, "She gives me no peace, follers me everywhere." We all knows 'oo "she" is.
'Just a year after this, Cornish Jack was back at sea wi' us, an' in the fo'c'sle. He then finally tells what it was they said on th' gallows. "She made me swear that on this day, one year more at midnight, I'd marry 'er." See, not bein' able to get wed in th' flesh, she would in th' spirit.
'An' that's where it gets right scareful, we bein' in our 'ammocks 'n' jawin' together, it all goes quiet, like. That's when we 'ear these sharp small steps on the deckhead, comin' fr'm forrard. He goes white as chalk an' gets th' trembles. They stops right above where Jack 'as his 'ammock. His face goes mad wi' terror, but he drops ter th' deck and makes 'is way topsides. We rushes t' follow - but jus' in time ter see 'im leg it over th' bulwark ter throw 'imself in th' sea.'
Stirk took a deep breath and said, in a low voice, 'We catches only a couple o' white faces in them black waves, so 'elp me, an' then 'e's gone!'
The long silence following was Stirk's satisfying reward.
From seaward, Christiansted turned out to be a cosy, settled piece of Denmark in the Caribbean, all cream-coloured buildings with red roofs, before lofty hills inland. At the sight of Seaflower's ensign a warning gun thumped from Fort Christiansvaern, marked on the chart as 'in want of repair'. Obediently, Seaflower rounded to, let go her anchor outside the reef and awaited the boat putting off from the town.
The Danish officer boarded quickly, his glance taking in the clean lines, neatness and loving detail that only a sailor's pride in his ship could evoke. 'Lojtnant Holbaek,' the man said, in crisp military tones. His-red tasselled blue uniform looked odd on the deck of a Royal Navy cutter.
Farrell advanced with outstretched hand. 'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Cutter Seaflower, er, Loytnant,' he said. Holbaek shook hands. Turning meaningfully to Jarman, Farrell said loudly, 'Loytnant Holbaek takes back to Christiansted the best wishes of His Britannic Majesty for prosperity and peace, and our hopes that the Jacobin upstarts will soon be swept from the seas.'
'Mange tak, Kommandor— thenk yo,' Holbaek said, with a clicking of heels. He seemed to brisde a little under the curious stares of Sea/lower's sailors. 'An' my packet?'
'Of course.' Farrell handed over the sealed package, which Holbaek quickly slipped inside his uniform. The dour officer did not seem inclined to linger, so Farrell handed him over the side with profuse expressions of regard, and the boat pushed off. 'Now we shall proceed. Course for Port Royal, Mr Jarman.'
'Crusty bugger,' was Stiles' judgement. He had been invited in with the petty officers, notwithstanding that as boatswain's mate his was probably the least popular job aboard. So far there had been no call on his services with the cat-o'-nine-tails, a tribute to the sense of harmony that Farrell was achieving.