Seaflower

cabin stores for him.

'If yer please, sir,' Doud asked humbly, 'I got a mate as is a spankin' good cook, lookin' f'r a berth . . .'

'Get him,' Farrell said. Doud's friend had entertained the old cook for hours until he was dead drunk, and was now waiting with his sea-bag for the signal.

Just as the topmen laid out on the yard to loose sail, the windlass taking up the slack of the cable and Kydd was standing at the tiller, a black face wearing an infectious smile climbed over the bulwarks and the familiar figure of Quashee stepped aboard. He of the Artemis, the legendary star-gazy pie and his 'conweniences' — herbs and spices. With him aboard they would not starve.

With a fine Caribbean day promising, a fair wind for the south and as happy a ship's company as any, Seaflower made for the open sea.

They sailed south, threading through the islets and shoals lying off the harbour, through unruly seas kicked up by a forceful land breeze, and into the wider Caribbean. It was there that they spread full sail, letting the craft show her true breeding. Farrell had made it clear that he would not be reporting Seaflower ready for sea until they had shaken down into an effective company, worthy of trust in any mission.

At the helm Kydd found himself working hard. A tiller had the advantage over a wheel in that it was in direct contact with the sea with all that this meant in instant response, but was without the damping and mechanical advantage of a wheel and tackle. Seaflower, under her big driving mainsail and eager foresail and jib, swooping and foaming at speed, was as skittish as a thoroughbred horse. Kydd felt the hammering rush of the sea in the tiller and leaned against the pressure of the marked weather helm - the trim of the cutter might need looking to. Going about was a dream. Unlike the minutes that even a frigate took, Seaflower shot around in a moment, sheaves squealing, seamen bringing in tacks and sheets hand over hand as if their lives depended on it — an exhilarating ballet of sea skills.

The square sails were then set; by this a topsail cutter had sailing options not open to her bigger brethren, and Kydd felt a stirring of excitement. Seaflower leaned happily to her topsail and topgallant, hissing along at a speed that sent a wake streaming like a mill-race past the low deck edge.

Right forward Renzi was having a busy time taking charge of the headsails, the distinctive huge sails spearing out ahead of the vessel. It was a very different situation from the stately pyramids of canvas of a square-rigger, and his cheerful wave.to Kydd was just a little harassed.

Farrell stood just forward of Kydd on the weather side of the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, feet braced against the lively movement. His voice as he set the craft about her paces was crisp and authoritative. Jarman stood to leeward; Kydd sensed some reserve between the two men. Farrell gave his orders directly. This left the master with nothing to do but observe, but perhaps this was the Captain trying the mettle of his company.

Merrick, the burly boatswain, stomped.about Sea/lower, his eyes flicking aggressively this way and that. His style was hard and uncompromising. Kydd had been lucky in his previous ships, he knew; no boatswain had really used his position to the sadistic limits possible that he had heard of in other ships.

'Stand down, if you please,' said Farrell, formally, to Merrick.

'Aye-aye, sir,' said Merrick, turned to Stiles, his mate, who was fingering his silver call in anticipation, and snapped, 'Hands turn to, part-o'-ship f'r cleaning—'

'Belay that,' Farrell interrupted. 'Secure the watch below and set a sea watch, was my meaning.' Significant looks went about: Farrell was going to stand by his men before the boatswain.

The last vestiges of sunset were fading over the Hellshire hills as they picked their way back to Port Royal, weary but satisfied. This time they anchored close by the Fleet — Farrell was clearly going to report his ship ready for sea.

'An' take a turn 'n' clinch at that,' Kydd ordered Farthing. He and Stirk were going to make themselves as comfortable as possible below; the senior petty officers berthed right aft within the large space below decks. Farthing finished the knittle line with a seizing, and there they had a taut canvas 'wall' screening off their space. In leisure time they would paint the partition with some suitable scene - mermaids, perhaps, or a lurid battle. Kydd surveyed the little space. 'Not as who would say over-sized,' he murmured, head bent under the low deckhead.