Seaflower

'T be knackered, poor ol' lady,' Kydd said, and finished his pot.

'Bad cess. So where are yez now?' 'Got m'self a berth as master.' 'What?'

'Master o' the King's Negroes, that is.' Kydd laughed. At the other's curiosity he continued, 'Seem well enough at th' work, but wouldn't trust 'em on their own.'

The numbers at the capstan house had diminished, the galley had closed its hatches, but Kydd felt in no mind to break the mood. Kittoe stood up and waved his blackjack expansively. 'Come wi' us fer a quick noggin, mate.'

The two walked back along the stone quay and into the copper and lumber house. Kydd remembered that it was here that the crews of ships being careened were quartered. Above the locked and darkened store-rooms was the loft where copper plating for the underwater hull was pricked out to shape. 'We got a good sort as Owner,'

Kittoe grunted, as they mounted the exterior iron stairs. 'Sees us right in the article of grog an' such.' They entered: one end of the loft was agreeably illuminated with lanthorns, the light rapidly falling off into darkness at the other end of the broad expanse.

'Here, mate, take a muzzier o' this.' He reached for a dark green bottle from his sea-chest and upended it in Kydd's pot. The cloying aroma of prime West Indian rum eddied up.

'To Trajan - but f'r our hurricanoe, she'd be out crestin' the briny b' now,' Kydd said.

Harsh laughter bayed from a group of sailors at their end of the loft. They were seated around an upended tub, playing cards and swigging hard from bottles. Kittoe allowed his face to go grave. 'Yeah, to a barky as any haul-bowlings c'n feel proud ter own to!' They drank together. Kydd let the rum just burn his lips: the evening might develop.

'Ye come fr'm England?' Kydd asked.

'Nah. Avenger is taken fr'm the Crapauds at Martinico,' Kittoe said briefly. It was the way of it - some clash at arms in these seas .. .

A tall woman appeared, dressed loosely in colourful red. She moved behind Kittoe and slid her arms down his chest. 'Come, Kittoe man, youse an' me make jig-a-jig,' she purred, but her eyes were on Kydd, wide and lambent.

'Away wi' ye, Sukey,' said Kittoe, but with a smile. 'We're talkin' together, yer silly biddy!'

The woman's hair was drawn back and had a hard sheen in the light. A large, polished mahogany-coloured jungle seed hung around her neck. She fingered it, regarding Kydd speculatively. Grunts and cries from the darkness beyond left little doubt about what was going on, and Kydd's senses prickled. 'Hey, youse kooner-man!' she said, her voice low and throaty.

Kittoe took up the bottle again and went to top up Kydd's tankard, but only a few drops of rum emerged. He snorted. 'Pot-boy! Look sharp, we're a-thirst!' A figure hurried over from the other side to attend them and came to a sudden halt.

'Luke!' Kydd cried. 'What're y' doing here?' It was not hard to guess — here he could earn a few coppers. The boy dropped his head as Kydd laid into him. 'You little rascal, this's not the place t' find a fine young gennelman, damn me if it is!'

Obstinately, Luke raised his eyes and said, 'Then what 're you here for, Mr Kydd?'

There was a chortling from Kittoe, but Kydd stood up, face burning. 'None o' y'r business! Now you get y’self back aboard — I mean, return t' our lodgings — this instant, y' swab!'

At the stubborn look on Luke's face Kydd knew there was no other course. 'We return now, y' blaggard! I'll have no servant o' mine corruptin' himself with drink 'n' carnality!' Kydd pushed him out into the darkness and followed. He cursed and swore under his breath. He had had no intention of being saddled with the moral responsibility for another, but in Luke's case he felt a certain obligation.

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