Artemis k-2

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Haaands to muster by divisions!’ The boatswain’s calls shrieked discordantly, sending a cloud of small shrikes flying up from the thick vegetation.

  On the sinuous length of beach in the lee of the grounded vessel the ship’s company mustered under their respective officers, sailors in every sort of clothing in deference to the balmy warmth, most barefoot but all with some form of headgear against the strong sun. The officers were in the bare minimum of uniform and faded cocked hats, Rowley in shirt-sleeves and breeches, lace at his cuff and breast, while Parry’s serviceable loose shirt was unbuttoned to the stomach.

  Powlett strode up. Despite the tropic warmth he wore his blue coat and laced cocked hat, sword at his side.

  ‘Still!’ The boatswain’s calls pealed a single blast, and the talking died away.

  For long seconds Powlett held them with his eyes, the undercurrent of exhilaration among the men ebbing under his ferocious glare. ‘While Artemis is heaved down, should an enemy sail find us here, we are dead men! I will not have us so for a single minute longer than necessary. There will be no rest for any officer or man until we are there,’ he gestured seawards, ‘at anchor, stores aboard and ready to fight!’ Pausing for emphasis he continued, in forceful tones, ‘And if any man should think to straggle away, for any reason, I promise you most faithfully, I will take it to be desertion in the face of the enemy.’

  The men glanced at each other. There was sense in what Powlett was saying. There were some unknown weeks left until the scientists had performed whatever it was they were doing. The women could wait.

  ‘Master-at-Arms!’ The nuggety figure stepped forward reluctantly. He doffed his hat, an incongruous move for he wore no shirt, and with his fair colouring his body had reddened uncomfortably. Powlett’s eyes narrowed and his breath hissed between his teeth. ‘Damn you, sir, get a shirt on!’ he snapped, before ordering more loudly, ‘The purser and his steward only to deal with the women. No savage this side of the stockade under any circumstances. Post your guard inside, and any man who disobeys my orders I want to see before me instantly.’

  Despite their best efforts, nightfall saw Artemis still shore-bound; the big hawsers around her hull to tilt her over were gone, as were all but anchors laid out from the bows and stern. However, they would have to wait until the first light of day before they could safely ease the frigate once more into her element.

  In the living huts the women’s low calls reached clear and soft on the night air. They had not returned in their canoes and clearly expected some response from the strangers. Kydd lay back in his hammock and listened: the warmth of the evening, the violet clarity of the dusk, the night scents of orchids, all conspired against his peace of mind. He could see the blaze of stars peeping through chinks in the matting roof, and he knew that soon a full tropic moon would set the lagoon a-sparkle with silver behind the immense inky shadow of the ship. One of the women began a soft song — cool, dreamy, infinitely beguiling. He tossed fretfully.

  A cross voice came from the gloom in the hut. ‘Fer Cbrissakes!’

  ‘Shut yer face, Lofty,’ a second voice grumbled.

  ‘An’ all of yez, clap a stopper on it’ snarled another. The voices mumbled and stopped, but sounds of restlessness continued, the absence of deep, regular breathing betraying sleeplessness.

  ‘Be buggered!’ a voice said decisively. ‘I’ve a mind ter do somethin’ about it.’ A dark shape detached from a hammock and crouched down.

  ‘Don’ do it, Toby,’ another voice urged. ‘Blackjack means it, mate.’

  ‘See yez in the mornin’,’ the first voice replied, fruity with anticipation.

  ‘Rouse out, rouse out — all the haaands’ Heave along there, lash ‘n’ carry, all the haaands!’ The cries of the boatswain’s mates crashed into consciousness, dispelling fitful sleep and sending the sailors automatically out of their hammocks. Bleary-eyed, Kydd stood barefoot on the hut floor.

  It was dawn, only just. Outside, the night was giving way to the first shafts of light stealing across the sky. The grass was dew-dappled, a strange feeling to Kydd’s bare feet, and he shivered in the cool air. Then his brain registered that this was the first time that Powlett, always considerate of his men, had reverted to sea routine while they were out of the ship. Could it be that they had sighted strange sail in the night? Renzi’s watchful face next to him seemed equally concerned.

  Boatswain’s calls shrieked: lHaaands to muster! Haaands to muster by open list!’

  Incomprehension was swiftly replaced by insight as Kydd noticed a cynical smile pass over Renzi’s face. Powlett was using the regular routine of mustering the men against their entry in the ship’s books as a means of detecting absconders. Sure enough, Powlett stomped down to the beach and waited, grim-faced, for the officers to muster the men of their divisions. The Master-at-Arms waited next to him, Artemis’ detachment of marines in their full accoutrements drawn up behind.

  The subdued grey light of pre-dawn gave way to the first signs of the golden flood to come by the time the muster was complete. Marching forward, the officers saluted gravely and muttered something to Powlett before falling back on their men. Powlett clamped his jaw and waited. The men, shaken by his controlled fury, waited also.

  It did not take long. Down the path to the beach came all three absentees, shamefaced but with a hint of bravado in their gait. They separated to join their divisions, two to Rowley, the other to Parry.

  ‘Take those men in charge, Master-at-Arms!’ Powlett roared, above the cheerful morning chorus of the island. The Master-at-Arms gestured to his corporals who singled out the absentees and brought them defiantly forward.

  Powlett did not even glance at them. His eyes were on his ship’s company in a steely glare. ‘Articles of War,’ he thundered.

  There was a stir among the men. With that single order Powlett had transformed the occasion from a familiar routine to the awful majesty of a trial — and not only this but a trial in which the evidence had all been heard. Now sentence would be pronounced.

  ‘Article fifteen!’ Powlett’s voice was powerful and well suited to this duty, to judge and sentence the men of HMS Artemis. ‘Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others … shall suffer death …’ The words rolled on, the same grim laws they had heard read out a hundred times on a hundred Sundays. Powlett hardly looked at the words, and finished the recitation with a snarl.

  ‘Do you wish a court-martial?’ he asked, as was his duty and the sailor’s right. There could only be one answer: if they did request one, they would be obliged to remain in irons until it could be convened. That would not be until they reached Spithead, months and months ahead at best.

  ‘No?’ Powlett looked at the men in contempt. ‘Twelve lashes apiece. Strip!’ It had happened too fast. The men stood dumbly, stupefied. ‘Strip!’ Powlett’s voice cracked like a whip. The men began half-heartedly to pull off their shirts.

  ‘Sir—’ It was the boatswain’s mate; his voice was small and apologetic.

  ‘Then get one!’ Powlett bawled. Crimson-faced, the man doubled away.

  The Master-at-Arms came as close as he could behind Powlett and leant forward to whisper. Powlett did not turn but growled a response.

  The men, stripped to the waist, were led up the beach to one of the palms rearing up at the edge of the sand. The first was secured with spun-yarn by his thumbs in a parody of the gratings that would normally be rigged for punishment aboard ship.

  Powlett waited with a terrible patience for the boatswain’s mate to arrive, breathless, with his bag. He nodded, and the marine drummer began a roll. It sounded tinny and unconvincing, the martial sound deadened by the expanse of sand. The boatswain’s mate drew out the cat, and measured his swing. The drum continued furiously then stopped suddenly, just as the first blow landed to an agonised gasp. It was the first major punishment Kydd had seen in Artemis. He turned to look at Powlett and caught a flash of feeling briefly cross the hard feature
s, a complex expression, but it could be described simply in one word: grief.

  Artemis was upright well before noon, the sight of her truncated masts and hull riding high in the water driving Powlett mercilessly on. The frigate was kedged out to deeper water, all her boats afloat, every soul at work on rope, capstan or oar in the warm zephyrs.

  Before the end of the afternoon watch the ship was rigged and the stores were returning aboard in a stream. In the setting sun the job was complete. Artemis was a man-o’-war once more, riding to two anchors and ready for sea.

  ‘Mr Rowley!’ Powlett rasped, his relief only partly concealed. ‘You will take the first part of the larb’d watch and mount guard ashore over the observatory. You will be relieved in twenty-four hours.’ Looking upward at the new-clothed masts he added strongly, ‘The remainder will turn to, part-of-ship, and set this vessel to rights.’ For the first time in days, there was a thin smile on Powlett’s face.

  There was no real need, but Kydd took another rope-yarn and added it to the three he was rubbing to and fro on an old piece of canvas on his knee. His work would eventually turn out to be a dolphin for the cro’jack, a simple stout rope with two eyes to prevent nip in the massive yard. There was scope for fine seamanship in the careful pointing to finish over the plain worming and parcelling underneath, and Kydd relished its exercise. ‘Do ye not want t’ step ashore, Nicholas?’ he said to Renzi, similarly engaged next to him. Renzi raised his eyebrows, a sign Kydd knew to be the polite harbouring of a contrary view.

  Kydd saw this and grinned. He had paid attention to Renzi’s earnest exposition of Rousseau’s theories, but his heart had prevailed over his intellect when he had heard of the philosopher’s orphaning of his own children in the interests of science, and he had lost sympathy. ‘Black Jack is down on us seein’ the natives — do ye think he admires y’r Rousseau?’ Kydd asked.

  Renzi stared back frostily. ‘As well you can conceive, he selfishly consults the interests of his own ship, that its warlike powers are not imperilled.’ He laid down his yarns. ‘Yet I must own to a powerful longing to see, just for a morsel of time, the outworking of pure Nature on humankind. Only that,’ he finished lamely. Kydd suspected he was shying from the difficulty of justifying his desire to visit the shore in the face of baser motives.

  They both glanced shoreward. ‘We’re to be guard tomorrow,’ Kydd said neutrally. It had been hard seeing the first part of the larboard watch pile into the boats, laughing and boisterous, and shove off for the sweets of the land. But Rowley had called on the Master-at-Arms and three boatswain’s mates to land with them — there would be no chance of tomfoolery.

  Night drew in again. Most men chose to remain on deck in the warm tropic evening, smelling the cooking fires ashore but having to eat their own victuals, boiled to a mush by a sea-cook who had stood wondering as the unknown foods piled aboard for stowing.

  As the shore became an anonymous dark mass and lanthorns were hung in the rigging, Powlett came on deck. He didn’t waste time. ‘Cutter’s crew to muster - awaaaay larb’d cutter!’ This meant Kydd, who was bowman of the duty cutter. It was already at the lower boom, and Kydd ran out along the spar in the darkness, and swung down the Jacob’s ladder into the boat. He singled up on the painter, then hooked on alongside Artemis to allow Powlett to descend the steps and into the boat.

  There was no talking as they pulled strongly ashore. Powlett’s expression deterred even the effervescent Midshipman Titmuss. They passed through the dark, phosphorescence-streaked sea in a rush, and near to the ragged line of blue-white that marked the tide-line Kydd leapt into the shallows to guide the cutter in.

  Powlett stepped rapidly along the thwarts, and splashed down into the shallow water. ‘With me,’ he said briefly to the midshipman and Kydd, and plunged forward, heading rapidly for the path.

  They paused, just for a moment, where the grassy plateau began. Powlett glared at the men clustered around the fire, laughing and singing. Too late, the marine sentry stumbled up and made his challenge, his hat askew and musket without its bayonet. Without comment Powlett thrust past and towards the firelight. The singing died away as he was recognised.

  ‘Mr Rowley?’ he snapped. The men looked sheepishly at each other, cowed by the naked fury on Powlett’s face.

  One man, whom Kydd recognised as Hallison, detached himself and touched his forehead. ‘I’ll find him f’r you, sir,’ he said, looking around before moving off into the darkness.

  An ominous quiet descended, the crackling of the fire sounding loud, the men’s eyes flicking about nervously. Titmuss seemed uneasy at the charged atmosphere and edged closer to the Captain. With a sudden flurry of movement Rowley arrived with Hallison, breathless and in lace shirt and breeches only, his cocked hat the wrong way around. ‘Sir?’ he said, in guarded tones.

  Powlett drew a sharp breath, then said, with icy control, ‘Be so good as to report your dispositions for the night, Mr Rowley.’ There was a brief pause before Rowley began his report. ‘Damn your blood, sir!’ Powlett roared, interrupting the hesitant words. ‘You treat your duty as a vile visit to a bagnio. Where are your sentinels? Why are these men in liquor?’

  ‘Sir, I - I—’ stuttered Rowley. Powlett leant forward, piercing Rowley with his eyes. ‘You, sir, are under open arrest. Get back on board this instant.’ In the shocked silence, Powlett swung around to the midshipman. ‘Pass the word for Mr Parry. He is to assume Mr Rowley’s duties ashore.’

  Haynes was dismissive of the whole affair. ‘Rowley has t’ be a right lobcock, thinkin’ to bam Black Jack like that.’ Dice clattered to the table. Although gambling was a court-martial offence, there was no chance of a petty officer’s mess receiving the wrong kind of visitors without warning. Haynes peered at the dice in the light of the guttering rush dip and snorted in disgust.

  Picking them up and dropping them noisily into the leather cup, Mullion gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘Can’t blame a man f’r wantin’ a fuckle,’ he said, ‘an’ Rowley is a man fer the ladies, right enough. Lets his prick lead the way, ‘n’ he follows on behind.’

  His throw was vigorous, and with a grunt of satisfaction Mullion let Haynes see the result before stretching out his hand to help himself to one of Haynes’s littie store of worn dried peas. Haynes’s own hand flashed out and clamped over Mullion’s fist, crashing it to the table. Surprised, Mullion looked into Haynes’s eyes. Haynes returned the look with smouldering intensity. With his other hand he deliberately picked a pea from his own store and carefully added it to Mullion’s pile, his eyes never leaving Mullion’s. ‘Allow me,’ he grated. Slowly he released Mullion’s fist and sat back.

  Uneasy, Kydd broke into the savage silence. ‘Shipmates,’ he said, ‘what’s this that y’ quarrel over a dish of trundlers?’ He stood over the motionless pair at the mess-table until Mullion glanced up and allowed a trace of a smile to appear before relaxing back. Haynes mumbled something in his grating voice and subsided.

  It worried Kydd. It was rare for shipmates to clash in this way, and now within a short space tempers had flared again.

  For want of somewhere to go he went forward to the galley. Renzi was proving a difficult friend while they were at the island, and seemed to want to be alone more often than not. Around the galley were the usual crowd, enjoying a pipe of tobacco and listening to yarns and songs.

  Kneeling on the deck, eyes raised to heaven in mock reverence, was a young Irishman. His round face wore a mournful aspect as he chanted an endless ditty:

  Bryan O’Lynn an d his wife, and w ife’s mother,

  They went in a boat to catch sprats there together,

  A butt-end got stove and the water rushed in —

  We’re drowned, by the holy, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  Bryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  They went with the priest to a wake there together,

  And there they got drunk and thought it no sin —

  It keeps out the cold, says Bryan O’Lynn.
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  B ryan O’Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother

  They w ent to the grave with the corpse all together,

  The earth being loose they all then fell in —

  Bear a hand and jump out, says Bryan O’Lynn.

  His audience listened in happy attention, the verses following one after the other in a respectful monotone, until a slight change in tone indicated the final stanza, which was finished in a rousing climax:

  Bryan O’ Lynn and his wife, and wife’s mother,

  Resolved then to lead a new life together,

  And from that day to this have committed no sin —

  In the calendar stands now, sir, saint bryan o’lynn!

  Hearty chuckles met this, and Kydd felt better.

  At dawn Powlett went ashore again, grim-faced and irritable. Stomping up the path he nodded curtly at bored sentries and met Parry coming from the living hut. He was drawn and haggard and moved wearily. ‘Report!’ snapped Powlett.

  Parry pulled himself together. ‘I am truly sorry to say that some of the men straggled in the night.’

  ‘How many?’ demanded Powlett. ‘I’ll have the skin from their backs, the rogues!’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  Powlett stopped, aghast. This was over half the watch. His hands twitched convulsively on his sword hilt before he turned abruptly on his heel and trudged down to the boat again. He was still silent as he climbed the side of his ship. Acknowledging the boatswain’s calls as they piped the side, he disappeared into his cabin.

  Later in the forenoon Lieutenant Rowley was summoned. He was seen to enter Powlett’s cabin with a truculent expression. Words were heard from inside, hard and angry words. Rowley left with a set, pale face, stalking down to his cabin. The rest of the forenoon Powlett stayed behind his closed door.

  The atmosphere aboard Artemis became strained and moody, radiating out from Powlett’s closed door. At noon, the hands were called aft by Parry; the Captain was not present. In an expressionless voice Party told the ship’s company they would revert to three watches for liberty, one of which would be retained for guard duties, the remainder having the freedom of the island. It did not need much reflection to realise that Powlett had capitulated to the situation.