Seaflower

don't lose a minute — we goes at 'em, clearin' fer action as we go, an' it's all goin't' be in th' dark.' Kennet looked about to see if he had their attention before he went on. 'We pass the Frenchie - she's called Pique we finds later — on the opposite tack, an' we has a broadside at each other.' His voice lowered. 'An' that's when m' mate lost the number of 'is mess.'

He stared into his grog. 'Sam Jones, second cap'n o' the foretop ...'

Kydd stood up and gestured with his tankard. 'Here's t' Sam Jones, then, mates, an' if we don' remember him, he won't have anyone else will.' In the willing roar that this brought, Kydd drank deeply, remembering the emotions battering at him after his own battle experience, the faces that suddenly weren't there any more, the world's indifference that they had ever existed — but they would continue to live in men's memories just as long as they were brought to remembrance like this. He took another gulp.

Kennet looked up at him, his grim face softening at Kydd's empathy, then continued, 'But then, we tacks about, but Pique, she's t' weather, an' wears ready to give us a rakin' broadside, but Cap'n Faulknor, he's wise to 'em, an' we continues on t' wear ourselves. So there we was, mates, broadside t' broadside fer two an' a half hours, thumpin' it inter each other.' The cruel smashing match in the darkness, dim battle-lanthorns inboard, leaping gun-flashes outboard, unseen horrors in the blackness — it held the circle of rough seamen spellbound.

'But then we shoots ahead. Pique 'as taken a drubbin' and's at our mercy! We turn ter rake her an' finish it — when our mizzen an' mainmast both go by th' board. In a trice we runs afoul of her, an' she rakes us, then she goes f board, but we're ready an' send 'em screamin' inter the sea.'

Kydd noticed that Kennet's eyes had gone glassy and his hand had a tremor: these terrible events could only have taken place less than a single day ago. 'Pot!' he shouted, against the hubbub, and personally topped up Kennet's can then added to his own. The rum had a potent fragrance.

'So it's a stalemate, lads. We drifts, then runs aboard her agen by the bow — but Cap'n himself rushes for'ard an' puts a lashin' on our bowsprit t' hold on ter the Frenchman. But - an' it grieves me t' tell it - he takes a ball fr'm a musket, an' falls .. .'

There was murmuring all round. Kennet waited for it to settle, then offered a toast to his captain, which Kydd could see was being repeated in other groups of seamen around him. He raised his tankard in salute, tears pricking at the bravery he had learned about that night.

'Lashin' gives way, we drift off, firin' all the time, o' course. B' now it's comin' on daylight 'n' we're dog tired — bugger m' days but we was knackered!'

Around him Kydd saw bodies topple in the capstan house, but whether from hard drinking or exhaustion he didn't know.

'Wind drops, we fin' ourselves stern to, an' no guns what'll bear, 'cos we got no stern chasers, no gunports, even. So what does we do then?' Kydd couldn't think what — the rum was deepening his emotions but doing nothing for his concentration.

'Well, lads, we heaves some twelve-pounders around in th' Great Cabin t' face astern, then after we puts men wi' firebuckets on ea' side .. .' he paused dramatically, holding their eyes one by one '. .. an' then we blasts our own gunports through the stern timbers!'

There was no comment, only shocked faces.

'We then has 'em! We pounds away wi' them pair o' guns, one hour, two. Not until we brings down their masts an' finishes more'n two-thirds o' their crew do they give up, an' then they strikes their flag.'

A growl of satisfaction arose, but no cheers: too many sailors — on both sides — would never know another dawn.

Kydd stood still. He couldn't return to his dark, silent lodging. He felt a surging need for the sea, the slam of excitement at the challenge of sudden peril, the close companionship after shared dangers — the kind of thing that had men rollicking ashore together. There was fire in his blood. The pot-boy hurried past, but Kydd stopped him and snatched a bottle, which quickly went gurgling into his tankard.

He swung round and spied a couple of able seamen arguing together. 'That scurvy crew ahoy! Come drink with me t' the Blanche, mates, as trim a frigate as ever grac'd the seas — barrin' only th' brave Artemis!’