Seaflower

Kydd gave a weak smile. To his amazement, Monsieur Vernou, who was well into his third glass of wine, suddenly stood up, scattering dishes. He stabbed a finger at Kydd and broke into impassioned speech.

'Monsieur Vernou .. . states that he is not to be mistaken for one of those regicides in Paris ... who have brought such dishonour on their country ... who have brought ruin and shame to the land ...' Renzi's. polite manner was not best suited to the passion of the words.

Monsieur Vernou stopped and, grasping the lapels of his waistcoat, glared down at Kydd.

'In addition, Monsieur Vernou wishes it to be understood that he is proud to be termed a beke — which I understand to be of a class in some way superior to others . . .'

The little Frenchman was still in patriotic flow so Kydd stood up too, and said in a strong voice, 'We never killed our king — we yet honour him. An' we say, God save th' King!' He raised his glass and drained it.

From the end of the table, the gentle voice of Louise cut in. 'We also, M'sieur Keed — you are in ze company of rqyalistes, you un'erstand.'

A rapid volley of French at Monsieur Vernou had the Frenchman starting in consternation. 'Mais bien sur! Que Dieu benisse Sa Majeste Britannique’

All rose. 'Que Dieu benisse Sa Majeste’

Renzi returned the compliment and the table sat down to a happy babble. 'I pray the lunacy on the streets of Paris does not cross the seas to here,' Renzi remarked, in a low voice to Kydd. 'These good people will be its first victims.'

The next few days passed in a blur of contentment for Kydd. The boatswain arrived with stores — coils of good hemp rope, six blocks to replace those weakened by tropical rot, and oakum for deck seams. The ship's carpenter put in an appearance to tut-tut over the sprung bow strakes and left with the promise that his mates would come later.

At the billet Kydd setded into a pleasant domestic routine. Louise mended a shirt-sleeve he had torn — it was her room that the sailors now inhabited. At family meals she had taken to sitting next to Kydd, her quaint English welcome when Renzi engaged in his long conversations in French. She would gently chide him on his manners, which Kydd found endearing if disconcerting.

Less than a week later, when the schooner had been brought to readiness but for the stove bow strakes, they sat down to their meal — and unwelcome news. 'The French have made their move,' Renzi murmured to Kydd, after the first excited flurry of talk had settled.

Kydd's mouth was full, but he couldn't help saying, 'This scran is rousin' good eatin', Nicholas.' The ragout of fish had an elusive flavour of herbs - French cooking was fast persuading Kydd that the English did not have it all their own way in the culinary arts.

'It could prove ... unfortunate,' Renzi pressed.

'What's afoot?' Kydd asked, mouth full.

'They say there are rumours that significant landings have been made to the north of the island,' Renzi said, in a low voice.

Louise overheard. 'So — a few soldier land! We 'ave the protection of ze Engleeesh sheeps and soldiers too.'

Monsieur Vernou snapped some words.

'My brothair - he remind that we bike are many, and will flock to the colour of Bourbon France.'

Renzi dabbed his mouth. 'These are landed from a frigate. This implies that they are regular troops on a planned invasion - by the revolutionaries,' he added, for emphasis.

'But you vill always prevail,' Louise said.

'That