Artemis k-2

by Julian Stockwin

‘It seems I have been raised to the felicity of captain of the mizzentop,’ Renzi continued, in a more normal tone, ‘and thus might aspire to more congenial quarters.’

  The mess was more snug than Kydd thought possible. Instead of being lost in the gloom of the open mess deck, the lanthorn light now shone cosily on the inside of the canvas partitions, revealing on the forward one a painted scene of a furious battle at sea in which Artemis was easily recognisable, and on the after one several mermaids combing each other’s hair. The racks of mess-traps were more elaborate, and Kydd guessed that in other things there would be similar improvements. He slung his ditty bag with the others along the ship’s side and took his seat.

  ‘Quartermaster’s mate — which watch are youse then, Kydd?’ the tall dark man asked.

  ‘Starbowlines, and it’s Tom,’ he said warily.

  ‘Crow, Isaac Crow,’ the man said. ‘Cap’n of the maintop. So that’d be Hallison, then, Joshua Hallison who’s yer quartermaster.’ He chuckled. ‘Yer’ve picked a right taut hand o’ th’ watch there, cully.’

  Another petty officer Kydd knew was Mullion, larboard captain of the foretop. He had reason to — Mullion was never without his colt, a braided rope’s end, which he used impartially on his men in the belief that it was the undoubted origin of their markedly faster times. He looked at Kydd steadily, then nodded and grunted, ‘Jeb.’

  The canvas flap was thrown aside and a short but sharp-faced man entered and crashed down the grog kid on the table, taking his place on one side. Kydd knew him only from afar as one whose temper was best avoided.

  ‘Parry, God rot his bones!’ he said in a grating voice, and noticed Kydd. ‘Who’re you?’ There was a visceral challenge in the tone.

  ‘Kydd - Tom Kydd, quartermaster’s mate o’ the starb’d watch,’ he said, and felt colour rising. ‘An’ who are you, then?’ he said boldly.

  The man paused, fixing him with colourless eyes. ‘Haynes.’

  ‘Yer glass, Kydd,’ reminded Crow, holding out his hand over the grog monkey. Kydd had his old pot ready, then remembered that petty officers had the privilege of taking their rum neat, not diluted to grog.

  A glass was returned full of the dark mahogany liquid, the powerful odour of rum heavy on the air. Kydd raised it in a general salute and swallowed. The liquor was pungent and strong.

  As they drank, Kydd began to feel the pattern of comradely warmth of his new mess. Crow asked him more about his time in a line-of-battle ship, and others put in their contribution. The lanthorn was trimmed up, and meal-time conviviality set in.

  Just as the food arrived, Renzi appeared, silent and watchful. ‘Renzi,’ said Stirk briefly. ‘Tie-mate o’ Kydd’s,’ he added, referring to the service close friends did for each other in turn — plait and tie off the pigtail.

  ‘Yeah, heard of ‘im, Toby,’ grated Haynes. ‘With yer when you boarded the Cttqyong through the gunports.’ He gave the smallest of nods to Renzi, but impaled him with his eyes.

  Renzi sat, but remained quiet.

  ‘Got a headpiece on ‘im, ‘e ‘as,’ Stirk added. ‘We listens ter what ‘e ‘as to say, like.’

  The table held its reserve — a sea-lawyer was not a popular character to be.

  Mullion broke the quiet. ‘So it’s Manila - what’s this, then?’ The question was plainly directed at Renzi, and the others kept their silence.

  Renzi’s half-smile appeared. ‘We show the Dons we have the force to protect our interests, in the event a good plan while we have a prime frigate in the area.’ He flicked a glance at Haynes. ‘The Spanish are a proud race, but they have let this part of their empire decline. We will have no difficulty in impressing them here. But if we are already at war …’

  ‘The Manila Galleon - we knows about that,’ Crow said, but in a not unfriendly tone. He opened the door across the racks at the ship’s side and drew out crockery and pewter spoons.

  ‘Then as we have no strategic interest in the place, we will quietly withdraw.’

  Haynes’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yer sayin’ …’

  ‘If we take the town, then garrison, defend it — to what purpose? What have we won? What are we defending? There is no sense in this.’

  Crow looked over at Haynes with a smirk. ‘He’s right, an’ all.’

  Kydd was happy that no one had commented on Renzi’s cultured accent. But he had his misgivings. How would Renzi fare shouting orders to his men in the mizzentop? And for that matter, he himself?

  Hallison was a dour man whom Kydd remembered as having a short way with helmsmen who failed to measure up. He looked at Kydd doubtfully. ‘Now, lad, your main dooty is the helm, but there’s a mort more t’ being a quartermaster.’ He automatically looked up to the weather leech of the mainsail, just beginning to catch the first of the weak dawn sun. ‘Steer small, damn you,’ he growled at the helmsman, and turned back to Kydd. ‘All kind o’ things, fr’m stowing the ballast to leadin’ the boarders who are cuttin’ out an enemy, ‘cos we’re the ones who always know how, see?’ He stared directly at Kydd.

  ‘Aye, Mr Hallison.’

  At that moment sailors began to appear on deck, some bleary-eyed, others surly. Kydd knew very well what this meant but never again would he be expected to join them in scrubbing the deck.

  ‘After end o’ the quarterdeck,’ Hallison told him. Kydd started; then recollected himself and strode to the taffrail.

  He glared about him but inwardly he was flinching. ‘Get a move on, you heavy-arsed dogs,’ he snarled. At the resentful looks of the sailors he realised that perhaps this was going too far. The men stood in front of him, shuffling their feet, resigned. ‘You,’ he snapped, picking one at random, ‘wash-deck hose.’ The man didn’t say anything but went forward obediently. ‘Sand,’ he said to another. The holystones were issued and he set the line of men abreast the helm to work their way aft to the stern.

  ‘Get those men going, th’ maudling old women.’ Parry stomped on deck: he was in a bad mood, and wanted to take it out on the men.

  Kydd had seen it before. He called, ‘Parry!’ in a low voice to the men, who took his signal and feigned fear at Kydd as they worked hard with their holystones.

  Parry glowered at the group of men who knelt amid the cold gushing water and gritty sand. At Kydd’s questioning gaze he turned away to stamp forward.

  Kydd knew he was under eye from Hallison, and conscientiously applied his men, knowing the little tricks they could be up to so well himself.

  When they had reached the full extent of the deck, Hallison nodded and waited while the swabbers did their work drying the deck before calling Kydd over. ‘Good. I don’t hold with startin’ m’self - you’ll do.’ Kydd couldn’t conceive of wielding a rope’s end on good men either. He beamed, but Hallison went on, ‘Cap’n will be after yer skin, lad. He wants all his petty officers in blue jackets ‘n’ buttons when they’re on deck.’ He looked meaningfully at Kydd’s striped shirt and knotted kerchief.

  Kydd nodded. Hallison glanced again at the weather leech and said, ‘Go ‘n’ have some breakfast - be sure an’ relieve me at one bell.’

  It was greatly satisfying, the way that seamen gave way to him at the sight of his blue jacket and twinkling brass buttons. His confidence soared as he bounded up the ladder to relieve Hallison. He had skipped his burgoo and hard-tack, quickly stitching the buttons with their stout anchor to his best and only blue jacket. He would not be found wanting in any particular.

  Hallison raised his eyebrows in surprise at Kydd’s transformation, but did not comment. He crossed to the binnacle and reached below for the log-board. Opening it out he referred to the chalked entries. He looked at the hanging traverse board to check that it agreed and turned to Kydd. ‘Course sou’-east b’ east, good breeze fr’m the nor’-west. Mr Party ‘as the deck, Evans on the wheel. You has the conn.’

  ‘I have the conn,’ Kydd repeated, with beating heart.

  ‘Petty Officer Kydd has the conn, sir,’ Hallison called to Parry, who l
ooked around at the hail, but only grunted and turned back.

  ‘Are ye ready, lad?’ Hallison said gravely. If anything went wrong there would be no time for Kydd to rush below and call him - and the blame would be entirely his.

  ‘Yes,’ Kydd said.

  ‘Right. I’ll have me breakfast an’ be up here after.’ He disappeared down the after hatchway leaving Kydd with direct responsibility for ensuring the ship actually sailed where it was supposed to.

  Nervously Kydd looked over the helmsman’s shoulder at the binnacle. The due course lazily swam under the lubber’s line. ‘See she stays that way,’ he growled, and stepped back. The whites of the helmsman’s eyes showed briefly as they followed Kydd. A hard quartermaster could make a trick at the helm a misery.

  Unable to prevent a grin of sheer elation, Kydd paced over to leeward, and looked down the ship’s side at the wake, bubbling and hissing its way aft. He followed it as it slid away past the stern to merge in a ruler-straight line that stretched away in the distance. He drew a deep breath, strolled back to the helm and stood, arms akimbo, the picture of a taut petty officer.

  Hallison returned, and took the conn. Again there was no comment, the traverse board had been properly kept up, the pegs in their holes stepping out from the centre telling of the ship’s progress every bell of the watch. In the swelling warmth of the sun it was proving to be a fine morning; the sea was in the process of changing from the grey-green of temperate latitudes to a deep tropic blue.

  Hands for exercise was piped for the forenoon, and while Kydd watched idly from the quarterdeck, topsails were loosed and furled at a great rate. He would still be required to haul on ropes, but only at times when skilled seamanship was needed, such as when tacking ship.

  Hallison touched his hat, and Kydd saw that Mr Prewse, the sailing master, had come on deck. ‘This is Thomas Kydd, been rated quartermaster’s mate,’ said Hallison. Kydd doffed his hat and stood respectfully.

  ‘Just so,’ said the Master, looking at Kydd keenly. ‘Have you your letters?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ It would probably not be to Kydd’s advantage to mention that he had acquired an intimacy of the works of both Mr Diderot and Mr Locke recently.

  ‘Then this afternoon, I desire you should assist the mate of the hold when he opens it. You shall take the reckoning.’ He paused, watching Kydd pensively. ‘Have you an acquaintance of the sea chart? No? Perhaps you shall do so presentiy. Attend me in my cabin at four bells this forenoon.’

  Mr Prewse had his cabin opening on the wardroom, along with all the officers except the Captain. This was the first time Kydd had entered the area. The Master had personal custody of the ship’s charts, with the responsibility of entering unusual observations such as uncharted islands or breakers betraying a reef.

  ‘Do you take the pen, and make a fair copy beneath,’ Prewse said, sliding across a hatched representation in minute detail of a section of coastline from the seaward. His extensive notes and sketches revealed the painstaking care he brought to his responsibility.

  Kydd took the chair in the cramped cabin, and pulled the lamp closer. It was charged with spermaceti oil and gave a pure, clean flame, well suited to the close work. He lifted the pen and inspected it. It was the smallest quill he had ever seen, the carefully shaped nib ending in a tiny hair’s breadth. He dipped it into the stone well and set to work.

  ‘I shall return in one bell,’ Prewse said.

  With keen eyes and hands unaffected by grog-tremor, Kydd executed a neat and clean drawing, as near as he could judge to the original, well before the Master’s return. He sat quietly waiting, but his eyes were drawn to the chart underlying his sketch. ‘The Great China Sea’, it said in large curlicued words in the tide cartouche, and in smaller print was ‘From Lye Moon to the Philippine Islands’. Modestly beneath in plain letters was, ‘By James Boyde, a Master in the Royal Navy, mdcclviii.’

  There was a scale at the edge and it was covered with tiny numbers, but the expanse of China and a spill of islands were clear enough. Complex star concentrations of lines were scattered randomly across the chart, lines that to Kydd made not the slightest sense. At the bottom were several views of coastlines similar to the one Kydd had just done and he bent with interest to look at them.

  ‘The great Captain Cook never sailed these seas — yon is a poor enough thing to compare.’ Kydd had not heard Prewse return, and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. ‘No, lad, sit y’self down.’ He picked up Kydd’s work. ‘Hmm - a fair hand ye have. I think we can make use of you. Kydd, is it not?’ ‘Sir.’

  Kydd’s eyes strayed back to the chart. The Master’s eyes softened. ‘I lost a good man in Macao t’ the bloody flux, you show willing and you c’n take his place.’

  ‘By y’r leave, sir, I need t’ get m’ learning as quartermaster first,’ Kydd said respectfully. He didn’t want to be tied to sedentary work below while the action was on deck.

  ‘You shall,’ Prewse said sharply.

  There was no need for the raucous thunder of the drum at the main hatch. Everyone knew they would approach the Spanish possession of the Yslas Philipinas in this cool dawn at quarters, guns run out and battle ensign swirling defiantly. If war had already been declared there was every chance that Spain would send out a squadron to their territory. That would make it a risky business to approach the deeply enclosing Manila Bay. When far inside, if there were powerful enemy men-o’-war within, a rapid escape could prove problematical.

  Artemis raised land at three bells, the northern tip of the enclosing arm of the great bay. The opposing southern tip was visible a bare ten miles away, but ahead it was as if they were passing into open sea. Closer to the passage, first one, then many small fishing-craft appeared. With their double outriggers and nipa sails they skimmed like pond insects in the calmer seas, keeping the occupants’ brown skins wet with spray. They kept effortlessly with the frigate, which was under easy sail, some waving, but all clearly curious at the big warship arriving.

  There was a scattering of small, lowlying islands in their path, a number with isolated white buildings glistening in the strengthening sun, and an indeterminate flag flying on one.

  Lookouts were posted at each masthead, and two at each top; even so the highest could not detect the inner limits of the bay within the far horizon. They passed into the wider expanse, tension mounting. They might well be fighting for their lives within the hour.

  ‘Sail hooooo!’ the fore masthead lookout yelled. His outstretched arm was flung out to fine on the leeward bow. Parry hastened to clamber up the foreshrouds, his telescope awkwardly under his arm. In the foretop he had it up instantly, trained on the bearing.

  For a space, nothing, then — ‘Deck hooo! An aviso!’ A fast government despatch boat: she would have had no warning of their approach. As her single sail grew in definition, they saw it angle towards them. Artemis held her course, and the aviso closed to within clear visual distance, then pirouetted about and foamed back the way she had come.

  The die was now cast. They approached the far side of the bay, where the city of Manila was clearly distinguishable. Every spy-glass was up and trained, straining for the sight of men-o’-war.

  The minutes dragged.

  At last it became clear there was no danger. The long anchorage off the sleepy tropical city was dotted with a scattering of merchant ships and native craft scudding about, but not even a minor warship was to be seen.

  Powlett swept his glass up and down the coast, then back to the squat, sprawling fort that was becoming prominent on the flat land. ‘They do not appear to be concerned, Mr Fairfax,’ he grunted.

  ‘No, sir,’ Fairfax said, not easing his habitual worried expression. ‘Then we take it they have no news of a war?’

  ‘Keep the men at the guns, but prepare a salute on the fo’c’sle,’ Powlett ordered. ‘It would be a folly to trust the Dons, I believe.’

  The frigate, by far the biggest vessel in the anchorage, slowed in its approach.

&nb
sp; ‘It would be their folly to take us for fools,’ growled Parry. ‘We can take the whole lot o’ these should we please.’

  Powlett’s sardonic smile was hedged with exasperation. ‘Have a care, Mr Parry. You will remark the flags of these ships. I see but one with Spanish colours — ah, there we have an English, our proof there is no war.’ He snapped his glass closed.

  A heavy thud drew attention to the fort. Smoke drifted from the embrasures. Another gun fired.

  ‘Prepare our salute, Mr Fairfax.’

  ‘Don’t look up t’ much,’ Doud said doubtfully, looking shorewards at the low, somnolent landscape with its fringing palms, muddy river oozing into the bay, and the maze of rickety huts on the outer fringes of the small city. Above all was the smell of the warm, heavy odour of pigs and tropical vegetation.

  Around the ship hovered a dozen or more of the distinctive twin-outrigger boats, hawking strange fruits, fish and vegetables. They were kept at a respectful distance by a vigilant watch-on-deck.

  ‘Don’ ye worry, mate, it’d have ter be the first sailor’s port ever without it’s got its cunny burrows.’ Cundall had his back to Kydd, deliberately excluding him from the conversation on the fo’c’sle.

  This would be the last port of call before they re-entered the Indian Ocean on their way back to England that could in any way be classed as ‘civilisation’ and Powlett would be sure to grant shore-leave.

  ‘Ye’re missin’ a fuckle, are ye, Cundall?’ said Doud contemptuously. He winked openly at Kydd past Cundall.

  Kydd felt awkward, unsure of how he should relate to his old friends in his new rating. He winked back and gave an uneasy smile.

  Doud sauntered past Cundall and stood companionably next to Kydd at the fore shrouds. ‘What’s his grandevity think o’ this, Tom?’

  Gratefully Kydd took up the lead. ‘Nicholas? Thinks we’re wastin’ time. If it was war, this time o’ year we’d have no chance t’ catch the Manila Galleon and the prizes we’d take wouldn’t be worth sailin’ all the way back.’

  Grimacing, Doud nodded. ‘Thought as much. Sooner we head back, better it is fer all.’