‘Nicholas, I’ve a sense we’re not long to enjoy this paradise and I mean to make the most of our situation.’
‘Odd. I have the same sentiment,’ Renzi murmured. ‘And the same hankering.’
Kydd smiled. ‘Ask the boatswain to lay aft, if you please. I have plans.’
At dawn the first boats headed inshore, over the pellucid water, to hiss to a stop in the bright sand. Laughing delightedly, barefoot sailors splashed ashore with gear and, under directions from a jovial Oakley, began setting up for the day.
First there was the pavilion: a masterly contrivance that saw a topsail spread to vertical oars and robustly stayed, with, inside, tables of barrels and planks. Then, in deference to the officers, another was constructed at a suitable distance with the softer cotton of boat sails, and well equipped with chairs, a table and items of civilised ornamentation suspended decorously from the leech cringles of the sail.
It was time: the signal went up and the remaining L’Aurores swarmed ashore. Wearing togs of every description, they were ferried to the beach where they broke loose, like children, running up and down, splashing each other and behaving as utterly unlike man-o’-war’s men as was possible. Some had brought their hammocks, which they tied between palm trees, while others lay in the shade, smoking their clay pipes and yarning.
The inevitable cricket pitch was laid out and a noisy game of larboard watch against starboard began, while still others simply wandered along the near-mile length of the beach, revelling in the break with discipline.
When Kydd arrived, Rundle the cook was in despair at the arrangements. ‘How’s I going to bring the scran alongside without I have m’ coppers?’ he groaned.
Trooping back aboard to be fed was not to be contemplated by free spirits. ‘Toss the salt pork on a fire,’ one sailor offered.
‘Burgoo an’ bananas,’ came in another.
‘Well, what do the folks around here do for a bite, then?’ a third said in exasperation.
Nobody seemed to have an answer – but Kydd knew someone who would. ‘Where’s Mr Buckle?’
‘Why, he’s officer-of-the-watch in L’Aurore, sir!’ As junior that was of course where he was, lord of a near-deserted vessel.
‘He’s to step ashore and report.’
Buckle soon saw what was needed. ‘It’s a barbacoa as is used, sir. May I …?’
‘Certainly – you’re in charge.’
In the centre of the beach seamen were set to excavate a pit and light a fire to which was added a number of large stones to get white hot. Others trotted respectfully behind Buckle as he approached the curious villagers, who had collected to take in the diverting sight of ‘koonermen’ rollicking ashore. In fluent native Creole, he negotiated the purchase of a pig and had it slaughtered, dressed and wrapped in banana leaves.
It was placed in the pit and thick maguey leaves were piled on top. By the time the morning had developed into a beautiful day, mouthwatering aromas were already drifting about the beach.
That wasn’t the end of Mr Buckle’s talents. He endeared himself to the seamen when he fashioned a strop around his girth and used it to shin up a palm tree to cut down coconuts for all hands.
After that it seemed churlish to Kydd to send him back to exile in the frigate, so Buckle took delight in instructing the stewards on the most delectable ingredients for a punch and how the old-time pirates had made a buccan, the wooden frame on which meats were smoked to preserve them.
As Kydd lazed in his chair he felt that life needed little more to achieve perfection. The enveloping warmth of the sun, tempered by the breeze over the sea, worked on his body and he eased into a delightful torpor. He had only to open his eyes and there was his trim frigate no more than a couple of hundred yards before him; the thought that he was actually being paid and honoured to take the lovely vessel across the ocean, away from the rain and cold of England to this Elysium, tugged his lips into a smile.
Renzi had a book, which he was reading with a smile of contentment, and on the table was their punch and exotic tropical fruits.
Left alone with his thoughts Kydd drifted off to sleep as the heat increased to midday and the noisy rollicking on the beach subsided.
As the afternoon sea-breeze began gently to blow, the pig was at last declared well and truly cooked. It was quickly surrounded by ravenous sailors, but Buckle had it well organised: following Kydd’s lead, the wardroom nobly declined their droits of the joint and took equal shares with the men. The pig’s left side was declared for the larboard watch, the right for the starboard. Further, in accordance with parts-of-ship, the fo’c’sle hands took the forward portion, the waisters the midships and the afterguard the rump end. To even things out, choicer cuts were smaller in size but could be bartered for larger but less favoured pieces.
The entertainment this provided lasted for some time, helped by a ceremonial issue of two-water grog from a tub decorated with exotic blossoms. The beach, facing directly into the setting sun, was then treated to the majesty of another Caribbean sunset. The evening drew quickly in, a warm and sensuous tropical dusk tinged with violet. All too soon shadows deepened and it was time to return to the ship before it became too dark to see.
As Kydd had intended, it had been a time to remember, to be put away tenderly for future times when their mortal existence itself would be under threat.
The following morning L’Aurore readied for sea.
Kydd was prepared to be generous in the interpretation of ‘daybreak’ but when the sun was well up, the ship gone to sea-watches and the first lieutenant pointedly checking his fob watch, it was time to take action.
It was unlike Tysoe to be late – he, who would berate the steward for bringing up the breakfast a minute past six bells: it was incomprehensible that he would be adrift from leave.
‘I’ll not sail without the villain,’ Kydd swore. A quick note was written, politely requesting the plantation owner of Breadnut Island Pen to remind Tysoe of his duty to be back aboard and this was given to a midshipman to deliver.
Hours later he had not returned. ‘This is insupportable, sir,’ Gilbey complained. ‘A King’s ship held on account of a laggardly servant and dawdling reefer! We have to get about our business – leave ’em both to cool their heels until we’re next this way.’
‘You’re forgetting yourself, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd retorted. ‘Mr Tysoe is ashore on a mission.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ There was disbelief in his tone that rankled with Kydd.
‘Yes, he is! If there’s to be a slave revolt, who better to send in to discover it?’ This was at least half true; Kydd had conjured up the excuse for later, if any at the admiral’s office queried his resting at anchor in this distant quarter.
Nevertheless there had to be a limit. Mentally resolved to weigh anchor at midday he was relieved to see the boat return shortly before, but it held only the dusty figure of young Searle.
‘I’m to give you this,’ the lad said, handing over a note.
It was short, but to the point.
On the matter of this Tysoe, I thank you, Captain, for your politeness in returning my property, one Quamino
.
Yr obedt etc. Daniel Thistlewood, owner
.
‘What does he mean by this?’ Kydd said in astonishment. ‘Did you see Tysoe, at all?’
‘I did, sir. In the house only for a moment, then he was sent away, sharp like.’
For some reason Tysoe had been mistaken for a runaway slave and had been taken up. Time was short and this needed settling quickly at the highest level. Kydd saw there was only one way to get it done: to go himself.