Seaflower

of the water. These men would be accommodated ashore while their ship was in such a condition, and were making the most of the relaxing of discipline, taking their evening grog around the shore galley near the capstan house with raucous frivolity. Kydd eased into a grin at the familiar antics.

The injured mast could wait in the water off the mast-house for the morning and he could now dismiss his crew and get some supper. 'Well done, m' lads,' he said, unconsciously regarding them in the same way as a party of seamen after a hard day. Too late the thought came that possibly he should treat slaves in some other way, more at a distance, perhaps. However, they did not respond, and padded off silently together, he couldn't help wondering where.

The shore galley manned, Luke was able to get a hearty platter for him, complete with leaves of some mysterious local vegetable, and he tucked in with a will. It was hard to eat alone, though, with nothing but a candle and circling moths for company.

The conviviality flowing from the capstan house was hard to resist, and Kydd found himself strolling in the warm dark of the evening towards the sounds of merriment. The open frontage of the low building, with its three great capstans, was a favourite place to gather in the growing soft darkness. The lanthorns hung along the beams welcomed him in with splashes of golden light. Men lolled about, taking a clay pipe of tobacco or drinking deep from their pots, in time-honoured sailor fashion outdoing each other in sea yarns and remembrances.

Kydd knew none of them, but could recognise the types even though they were of another ship: the hard, confident petty officers in short blue jackets with brass buttons that glittered in the light of the lanthorns; young seamen bred to the sea, with an easy laugh and a tarry queue unclubbed so its plaited length hung a foot or more down their backs; the lined old shellbacks, whose sea wisdom it would be folly to question.

A man hauled himself up to sit on one of the capstan heads and his fiddle was passed up to him. After a few flourishes he nodded to a handsome seaman with side-whiskers next to him. The man stepped forward and sang in a resonant tenor:

'Oh! Life is the Ocean, and Man is the Boat

That over its surface is destin'd to float;

And joy is a cargo so easily stor'd

That he is a fool who takes sorrow on board!'

The well-known chorus drowned the singer, who affected vexation, stumping around the capstan in high dudgeon. Kydd laughed heartily with the rest, and raised his wooden tankard in salute.

Sensing the mood, the singer stalked to the front of the capstan, and stood akimbo, arms folded, glaring at his audience. The chatter died away expectantly.

A movement on the opposite side caught Kydd's eye. One of the seamen had a woman under his arm, a black woman. Kydd shifted his gaze back to the singer, who leaned forward as though in confidence, and there launched into the racy, driving strains of 'The Saucy Arethusa':

'Come all ye jolly sailors bold

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould

While English glory I unfold

On board of the Arethusa'

 

The sailors burst into song, and Kydd felt his cheeks glow with pleasure. The singer bowed and accepted a dripping tankard. Kydd looked about him with a grin.

'Clinkin' good singer, is our Dansey!' A seasoned petty officer grinned back at Kydd.

‘Rattlin' fine voice!' agreed Kydd. 'Are ye Avengers, then?'

'Aye — Ben Kittoe, gunner's mate,' the man replied, taking a pull from his blackjack, a dark tarred leather tankard.

'Kydd, Tom Kydd, quartermaster's mate o' Trajan as was,' he said.

'D'ye mean ... ?'