‘It’s been a long time …’ Kydd said, unsure how to bridge the distance between the captain of a King’s ship and his valet – and also how to reach out to someone whose parents might still be slaves.
‘Yes.’
‘Um, your parents … are they still, er, slaves?’
Tysoe tore his gaze away and said softly, ‘No, sir. The older Mr Thistlewood in his kindness manumitted them. They have a small patch to grow and sell foodstuffs and they are content.’
Relieved, Kydd said more briskly, ‘Well, I find that the boatswain requires time to, er, rattle down the larboard main-shrouds, which will mean we must delay sailing a further day. Be sure to be back aboard by the daybreak after next. Will that be enough?’ he added, in a softer tone.
‘It will, I’m sure. And I’m beholden to you for your thoughtfulness, sir.’
‘Well, here’s something I want you to give them from me,’ he said, handing over a small package. ‘Off you go – you know the way?’
There was a gentle smile. ‘I do.’
He boarded the boat, and as the crew bent to their oars, he looked back once. Kydd was startled to see the glint of tears in the eyes of the man he had known for so long, and at the same time had never known.
‘A fine thing you did today, dear fellow,’ Renzi murmured.
‘A good man, it was nothing, really.’
Collecting himself, Kydd said, ‘On another matter entirely, it seems to me a damned waste of splendid scenery were we not to do something about it. I have it in mind to call a Ropeyarn Sunday for the hands tomorrow, and shall we step ashore? I’ve a yen for a spell on land.’
Was it the wafting breeze carrying the warm scent of sun-touched flowers or was it the sight of the lazy sweep of pristine beach beyond the crystal depths? Kydd was gripped by the sudden feeling that he and his ship were under notice – that these days of idyll and beauty couldn’t possibly last and were about to be cut short by the brutality of war. It brought to his mind the ironic name of this place of tranquillity and allure: Bloody Bay.
‘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.