Free Caribbee by Julian Stockwin

immediately.
L’Aurore
is to be attached to the Jamaica Squadron in exchange for
Nereide.
Clear?’
    Kydd felt a pang of disappointment: he was doing well on the station – but the needs of the service …
    ‘Aye aye, sir.’
    ‘You’ll convey my dispatches to Admiral Dacres and I expect you to sail without delay.’
    ‘Sir.’
    ‘Oh, and I’ll relieve you of your junior lieutenant. I have a vacancy through sickness I must fill.’
    Bowden.
    It would be a wrench, for he’d known the young man since he’d come aboard the old
Tenacious
as a stuttering midshipman. They’d seen a lot together and he’d become a fine lieutenant who would be a credit to any ship. Now was not the time to object, though.
    ‘I’ve appointed another, whom you may have as he recovers, fit to serve.’
    ‘Then he’s in hospital, sir?’
    ‘Yes. I haven’t spare officers in my pocket, damn it!’
    ‘Very well, sir.’
    ‘Then I’ll not trouble you further. Good day to you, sir.’ Cochrane returned to his papers.
    ‘Sorry, sir, he’s already gone, like,’ the quartermaster said, as Kydd returned aboard, his regret clearly sincere. Bowden was well liked by the hands.
    ‘Thank you,’ Kydd said heavily, but it was the way of the sea service. ‘Any word from the shore, let me know directly.’
    They were to sail within the hour but without a third lieutenant, and all that that implied for redistribution of men at quarters and divisions, as well as the obligation now of the first lieutenant to stand watches. Their replacement was still apparently in hospital, and when they reached Jamaica it was most unlikely that a spare lieutenant could be found.
    ‘Hands to unmoor ship, if you please,’ Kydd ordered.
    The move to Jamaica would be welcomed by the seamen: the rambunctious buccaneering reputation of the last century’s Port Royal had not entirely disappeared, and Kydd brought to mind some famous times in the past had by seamen flush in the fob with prize-money.
    ‘Fo’c’slemen mustered correct, sir.’ They were last to report – with the capstan manned they were ready to depart.
    Kydd looked at his watch. ‘No sense in delaying. Weigh anchor, if you please. Cast to starb’d, Mr Kendall?’
    ‘Aye, sir.’
    Topmen swarmed aloft to stand by to loose sail to take the wind on the starboard side when the anchor had been won, and the age-old quickening of the heart of an outward-bound ship touched them all.
    ‘Thick an’ dry!’ came the yell from forward. The cable was taut up and down and with the ‘heavy heave’ that broke the anchor’s grip on the seabed they would be free of the land, their voyage begun.
    ‘Gunfire, sir!’
    Kydd had heard it as well, the distinct crack of a small gun. Someone pointed: a low-built cutter of the kind that swarmed by the score in Carlisle Bay was crowding on sail directly towards them, the smoke of the shot dissipating as they watched.
    It was inconceivable that they were under attack but unauthorised gunfire in a naval anchorage was forbidden. A civil advice-boat with news or dispatches?
    ‘Avast at the capstan!’ Kydd snapped, but he was too late: a shout from the fo’c’sle and a simultaneous sliding of the bows downwind showed they were under way.
    He thought furiously. ‘Belay the last – get that anchor in!’
    It could not have come at a worse moment. With the unusual on-shore south-westerly there was no time to take the turns of cable off the capstan, releasing the anchor to plunge down again, and therefore their only course was to get sufficient way on the ship to claw off.
    ‘Make sail!’
    Canvas dropped and the topmen raced in as the yards were braced around to catch the wind, but instead of an orderly and relaxed departure
L’Aurore
was sent close-hauled across the busy roadstead to clear anchored ships.
    Another shot came from the cutter.
    ‘See if we can heave to, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said tightly, eyeing the shore. There was less than a mile of usable water for