Carefully folding the parchment, he placed it back inside his coat. For a moment his eyes passed over the neat decks of the cutter, then he turned to Jarman. 'Carry on, please.' But he made no move to go to his cabin: instead, he stepped over to the side of the deck. The wherry had not shoved off, but lay alongside, and Swaine stood at the deck edge, with a frown deepening on his face. Merrick hastened over to the side with a mumbled apology - it was the last thing to be expected, that the Captain would be off ashore just as soon as he had come aboard.
'I desire that the longboat call for me at the careening wharves at nine — no, make that ten. Have you trusties enough to man?'
Merrick flicked a glance at Jarman before responding stolidly, 'We're all volunteers in Seaflower, sir.'
'Very well,' said Swaine, after a moment's pause.
Merrick's piercing call of piping the side sounded as Seaflower's new lieutenant-in-command, now entitled to special attention, went ashore.
'Means nothin', mate,' said Stirk. 'He must 'ave engagements ashore, like.'
Stiles was unconvinced. 'An' did yer see 'is coat? Lace was tatty as a whore's petticoat, 'n' brass buckles - must 'ave a light purse .. .'
Kydd bridled. 'Not everyone's flush in the fob as we,' he said. 'Three prizes wi' our name on 'em, more t' come - what we want is a good square hand who c'n show us the way to a few more.'
Stirk lifted his drink and sank it with a grimace. 'Somethin' about the cut o' his jib sets me teeth on edge — I just dunno . ..'
'Yair, somethin' slivey about 'im,' Stiles agreed. 'Wouldn't like ter trust he's on yer side, kinda thing.'
'You would grant, however, that the man should have a chance to show something of himself before judgement is passed?' Renzi's words only produced a restless grumbling.
The two double strikes of ten o'clock sounded from on deck. 'Not yet back aboard,' Stiles said. 'Not allowed ter sleep out of 'is ship, is he?' he added needlessly.
Kydd disliked the way the talk was headed and made his excuses. Jarman had the deck, but responded to Kydd's cordial conversation with monosyllables, staring at the pinpricks of light ashore where Port Royal's taverns continued their raucous trade.
Kydd made to leave, but Jarman said softly, 'Do you kindly remain with me, I'd be obliged.'
'Is there anythin' amiss, Mr Jarman?'
'Nothing you can't help b' being here.'
Uneasy, Kydd kept the deck with Jarman, seeing the lights douse on other ships, and the shore lights wink out one by one. It was after midnight when the longboat returned. And in it were two passengers.
Jarman lifted his hat to the Captain, who was followed by a figure that tripped as it came over the bulwark and sprawled headlong. 'Shit!' came a voice, as the figure picked itself up.
'Midshipman Parkin,' Swaine said, in a surly tone.
Rounding on the lad he snaded, 'Damn your eyes, an' you're a useless lubber!' before making his unsteady way to the after hatchway. A muffled roar for a steward had Jarman exchanging looks with Kydd.
Seaflower proceeded to sea the next day after completing stores. Kydd took the helm himself, keeping a wary eye on Swaine. To his relief, Swaine seemed content in the main to leave the direction of the vessel to Jarman, indicating his desires in grunts. The new midshipman was useless. Large and raw-boned, he seemed disinclined to join in with the seamen in their hard work at the running rigging of the huge sails, but on the other hand threw anxious, beseeching looks at the boatswain or others when called upon to take charge.
'Seen it all before, mates,' murmured Doggo, at the shroud batten lashings. 'Tradesman's son. Reefer's been wished on 'im b' some tailor 'e's got debts with.' He yanked at the cordage viciously. It could go either way, depending on how far the Captain shielded the lad.
They tacked about when clear of the cays to the south, and shaped course to round the east of Jamaica for the small naval base of Port Antonio on the north coast. They made the customary stop off Morant Bay to pick up packets and bags; this was easier than carrying them by mule over the almost impassable Blue Mountains inland. Shaking out their sails they rounded the turbulent Morant Point before sunset, and headed north-westward past the red cliffs of Sail Rock.
'This will do, Mr Jarman,' growled Swaine.
'Sir?' said Jarman, puzzled.
'Manchioneal Bay. Good enough holding, I'd have thought'
'We anchor?'
'For the night — no sense in risking a night passage inshore, when we can arrive early tomorrow.' Swaine looked narrowly at Jarman.
'Aye-aye, sir,' Jarman said, his face blank. The anchor went down off the muddy river between the reefs, the stream flowing fast from the recent rains. Seaflower swung to her anchor, facing into this, and the cutter stood down sea watches.
Kydd dropped down the fore hatchway to the hubbub of the mess-deck. On one side Patch was holding court, men clustered around his table. As Kydd approached he looked up, resentment and anger in his face. He spoke to Alvarez but his eyes were on Kydd. 'So where's our piggin' prizes comin' from, we lie with our hook down all th' time? This ain't work worth a spit, all hard-lyin' an' no purse at th' end of it - we're nothin' but a parcel o' scranny-pickers.'
Farthing muttered, 'Some says as how we's a Judas boat now - sittin' like this, we ain't a chance.' Others joined in.
Kydd waited patiently for them to make their feelings known. By long-hallowed custom of the sea, seamen in their mess were free to voice their grumbles to each other, short of mutiny or sedition.
It subsided, as Kydd had known it would, but when he resumed his way forward to the petty officer's mess, the privateersman pushed to his feet, locking his gaze on Kydd's. His hand dropped to his knife. Kydd froze. The knife came out. Then, in a vicious one-handed movement, the blade flickered from his palm and thudded into a deck beam between the astonished men of the opposite mess-table, pinioning a hapless cockroach.
The talking died away in an edgy silence. The reality was that they were only a King's cutter, whose duties were mainly despatches and reconnaissance; their prizes before were a lucky chance and not to be relied upon. Patch was not the only privateersman aboard — Kydd realised it could get ugly if their captain . . . 'If y’ askin' to have y'r blade cropped, I can oblige ye,' Kydd said mildly. His hands dropped loosely to his side but he tensed. Any hasty words from Patch now and he'd see him in irons: there was no other way.
At the sudden quiet, the canvas screen of the petty officer's mess at the end of the mess-deck suddenly pulled back. 'What's th' gripin', mate?' Stirk called.
'Nothin', Toby. Shipmates talkin' cat-blash is all,' Kydd said loudly, but he continued to stand, watching Patch. Slowly, the privateersman unwound and, turning away his gaze, moved to retrieve his knife. Kydd followed him with his eyes, then continued on.
'Gettin' worried they can't see us takin' prizes with this owner,' he said briefly, accepting a pot from Renzi inside their mess.
'An' ain't that the truth!' said Stiles, lifting his tankard in disgust. 'He'll be a-kissin' his dear ones just this minute, if y' believes young Luke.'
'Kissing ... ?'
'His dear ones — loves 'is bottles so much he's a kissin' of 'em every day,' Stiles grated.
Stirk gave a brief smile, then leaned forward. 'Other ways yez c'n get a taste o' gold, these parts ...'