Artemis - Kydd 02

by Julian Stockwin

  Instead of hurrying ashore at noon, Kydd slowly climbed to the bare foretop. He could be sure of being undisturbed there, and the clean, seamanlike expanse spoke to him of other things. He sat with his back against the foremast and gazed unseeingly across the anchorage.

  He had lain with Sarah: that was the solid fact at issue. The question was, did he therefore owe her a moral obligation? She was a warm, passionate woman who in marriage would see to his needs and more — that was clear. But marriage, he intuitively realised, might involve more than that. A woman needed security and stability; his mind shied at the images of domesticity that this idea generated, the dreary round of politeness, social calls, suffocating conformity. And love. For some reason she had been attracted to him. But he sensed the emotional power that ruled her actions and was instinctively repelled. He himself could never relinquish control like that. He sighed, deeply. In all this, he knew that he must do what was right for Sarah, not himself. His sense of personal honour and moral duty ran deep and true — he would not be able to live with it for the rest of his life should he make a selfish choice.

  On deck Cundall stared upwards, trying to make out what Kydd was doing. 'Foretop ahoy!' he shouted.

  There was no reply. Cundall took another pull at his bottle. 'Kydd, yer sad lobcock, you mopin' after some syebuck biddy? You—'

  From the other side of the bitts, Renzi appeared, his eyes murderous. 'Stow it!' he snapped. Rowley emerged aft on to the quarterdeck. The drunken shouts had been audible over the whole deck.

  Cundall squared up to Renzi. 'An' what's it ter you?'

  Renzi's fist took Cundall in the stomach, doubling him up. The second, a moment later, hammered the chin, straightening Cundall before he crumpled to the deck. Renzi stood over him, his chest heaving, then moved back to the forebitts and resumed his vigil. Rowley deliberately turned and gazed out over the stern.

  In the foretop, Kydd pondered on, oblivious. So what was his duty? To Sarah, that was now obvious. So he should marry her and give up the sea? If that was what she wanted. But was this decision the best one for her? What if he could not give her love, security, stability? He knew, too, from his previous experience of exile from the sea that he could never counterfeit happiness in a land-based existence, and he would end up the poorest of companions for her.

  No, this was impossible, she deserved better than that. She deserved a lover who would be able to provide her with the solid, respectable marriage she needed. He felt a strange pang at the thought of another kissing her, possessing her, but the conclusion was inescapable. He felt the lifting of a dreadful cloud. In her best interests, he must be strong for both of them and refuse her. It would be hard, but any day the frigate could be released to take up her mission of war and they would part. Kydd tested the decision every way he could, suspicious that it was based on hidden motives, but it held firm. Therefore he would implement it, see it through without flinching.

  Renzi saw Kydd rise, look once at the shore then descend the shrouds briskly. He busied himself at the bitts until Kydd reached the deck. 'Do I take it that you are in possession of a decision?' Renzi enquired.

  'I am,' Kydd said, his chin lifting slightly. 'May I know?'

  'I am to refuse her, I believe.'

  Renzi looked at the deck, doubting his ability to control his emotions. His own recent reflections had led him to place their friendship out of reach of baser human urges, and he would have suffered much pain were he now to lose it.

  Kydd approached the residencia with heavy but resolute steps. He was unsure what he would say to Sarah, but he was certain of his decision, and was prepared to bear any consequences arising from it.

  Nunez frowned and smoothed his robe. 'My child . . .' he began.

  'Where is Sarah?'

  'She has a message for you. She is at present indisposed, but begs leave of a visit from you at her home.' 'Then I shall go t' her.'

  The priest stood silently, watching, but Kydd did not change into shore breeches and buckled shoes. Wearing the familiar short blue jacket and white trousers of a naval seaman he made his way to the mansion. Ah Lee answered his knock and looked in astonishment at his appearance. Behind her, Sarah appeared and seemed taken aback also.

  'Thank you, Ah Lee, I will receive Mr Kydd in the drawing room.'

  She had dark rings around her eyes, and was dressed simply. The drawing room was large and forbidding, its dusty stillness at odds with Kydd's lively sea rig.

  'Thomas, why do you not dress with more circumspection?' she asked.

  Kydd said nothing, holding his sailor's hat before him and gazing at her seriously.

  She seemed to pick up something of the gravity of his visit and straightened in her chair. 'Nevertheless, it was kind in you to visit.'

  'Sarah, I don't believe it would be a good thing were we t' marry,' Kydd said, looking at her directly.

  Only the slightest tremble of her hand betrayed her feelings. 'Stuff and nonsense, Thomas dear. You will soon get used to the land, you'll see,' she said, in a feminine way going straight to the heart of the matter.

  'I've tried the longshore life, Sarah, and it don't agree with me—'

  'Doesn't agree with you? Then consider me. Do you propose to take me out on the sea to live?' Her voice had an edge to it.

  Kydd looked dogged. 'I would be a poor shab of a husband were I t' give up the sea and take up land ways.'

  Her eyes grew hard. 'This is all a nonsense, Thomas. Other men can find it in them to settle down properly, why can't you?'

  He didn't reply at first, wishing he had Renzi's powers to render with precision thoughts into words. 'It wouldn't be fair to you, Sarah. You deserve better 'n me.'

  Her eyes filled. 'You simpleton, Thomas. It's you I want - need! You're a man, a strong and wonderful man, the only real man I've ever known.' She hurried across and knelt by his chair, imploring with her eyes. 'My love! We could be so happy together, you and I. Think of it.'

  Kydd felt his own eyes pricking with tears, but he sat rigid. 'No, Sarah. It wouldn't be right, not fair for you.'

  Leaping to her feet she screamed down at him, 'Not fair?

  Not fair for me? What about me? Why don't you ask me what I think is fair?' She stood over him, the urgency of her passion beating at him.

  He looked at her sadly. Her emotion broke and she sank to the floor in a paroxysm of tears. Kydd made no move to go to her, letting waves of sorrow course through him, choking him with their burden of grief. He stood up. There was no point in prolonging the moment — the sooner it was past the better.

  She heard the movement, stopped weeping and glared at him. 'You've ruined me. Do you hear that? Ruined me.'

  Kydd looked at her wordlessly, tenderly. The tears burned and stung. She glowered. He hesitated, then turned for the door.

  'If you go through that door, I — I shall never see you again.' He paused but did not look back. 'Never!'

  He stumbled forward. 'Thomas!' she screamed.

  He opened the door and floundered out on to the street. He could still hear her despairing cries inside as he lurched away, lost in the most acute desolation it was possible to bear.

  His shipmates left him well alone. Renzi squeezed his shoulder, once, then dropped his hand, unable to find a word to say about what was in his heart.

  The first messages came, pleading, begging, pitiful. Kydd read each one with a set face and steadfastly remained aboard. Renzi did what he could: he went ashore, but Nunez was 'indisposed' and the door of the residencia would not open for him.

  Later a small figure could be seen at the boat landing, but the Captain had strong views about women aboard. The figure remained staring out and was still there when the cold night drew in.

  For Kydd time hung heavy and bleak, but he had resolved to take the consequences of his decision without complaint. The story of his time of trial spread, and in their warm, generous manner the sailors found little services they could do for him, rough expressions of sympathy and comra
deship.

  Next morning, the Captain arrived aboard in a tearing hurry and almost instantiy a fo'c'sle gun banged out and the Blue Peter broke at the fore topmast head. Smiles were to be seen everywhere. They were under sailing orders.

  Kydd couldn't take his eyes off the lonely figure still on the quay. What agonies of mind would she endure when she learnt that the ship and he would soon be a memory in an empty anchorage? At least it was now over.

  'Haaaaands to unmoor ship! Haaands to make sail!' The pealing of boatswain's calls cut into the cool morning air, and the ship burst into life. All the well-remembered duties of a ship outward bound, the tang of sea air, the blessed imperatives of good seamanship.

  At the larboard cathead Kydd found the strop and ranged the fish tackle ready for the big bower anchor. When he looked again at the landing place, the figure was no longer there. The anchor was won from the pale mud of the Pearl river, and Stirk clapped on to the tackle with him. Far above, Renzi and others cast loose the gaskets of the topsails.

  'Tom, what's this, mate?' Doud, from his position astride the cathead, pointed aft. A sampan with two passengers in it was overhauling them from their quarter. There was no mistaking the occupants - Sarah and Ah Lee.

  Kydd didn't know whether to cry or urge them on. Every so often one of the figures stood, swaying dangerously in the little craft and waving furiously. They were coming up fast, but the topsails on the ship tumbled down from their yards and were sheeted home with a will. The frigate bowed slightly under the bellying sails and immediately the ripple of a bow wave started.

  For a time, the sampan kept with them, but as the trim frigate caught the wind, the ripple in the bows turned to a chuckle and the little boat fell frantically astern. The ship now set courses: the big driving sails flapped and banged as they dropped, but when they were set Artemis showed her true breeding. She lay to the winds and foamed ahead.

  Kydd took one last look at the tiny figure in the sampan and sank into dumb misery. The lump in his throat was choking him, and he could hardly see.

  Artemis gathered speed for the open sea.

  Chapter 9

  ‘I allow that it was my decision, but it was th' right one, - and I'm man enough I can stand the consequences,' Kydd said firmly. His eyes were dark-rimmed but there was an air of tenacious resolve about him.

  With the coast of China a diminishing grey blur astern, Renzi noted that Kydd had his eyes set ahead, to seaward. He deeply admired his friend's strength of mind, but he knew there would remain a sorrow that would take a long time to pass.

  'But I beg you will not talk any more of it,' Kydd added. Renzi nodded, and looked out ahead also. 'It seems that we are on our way home, shipmate,' he said regretfully. 'Yes.'

  'Back to the war.' 'Yes,' Kydd said again.

  'Some would say that this means prize money once more, and liberty ashore in England to spend it.'

  Kydd turned to Renzi, who saw with relief a very small smile. 'Aye, Nicholas, and you will not see y'r Peking.'

  Renzi laughed. 'True enough. I had my heart set on meeting at least one si fu at the Ching court.' But he had learnt there was no chance at all of that. Barbarians would always be held at arm's length by the narrow, suspicious Chinese.

  'We're to touch at Manila on our way back, I believe.'

  'It would appear to be a motion to take advantage of our presence in these waters, to show the Spanish that we have the means to defend our interests if need be.'

  'But we're not at war with them?'

  'Not so far as I know — and the opportunity is too good to miss, sending a first-class fighting ship to remind them . . .' His words were cut off by the urgent rattling of a drum at the main hatch aft.

  'Quarters!' Renzi exclaimed. However, it could only be an exercise. It was typical of Powlett to put the ship back in martial order before they had even sunk the land astern.

  Stirk looked up as Kydd clattered down the fore hatchway and hastened to his gun. 'You, Kydd,' he growled. 'Cap'n wants th' gun captain to choose another second ter be trained up at each gun. I choose you.'

  Kydd's stare relaxed to a surprised smile. Stirk did no one favours where his gun was concerned; he obviously thought Kydd the best man for the job. Kydd fell back to the rear of the gun, next to Stirk but to one side.

  'No, mate, yer captain fer now,' Stirk said, unslinging his gunner's pouch and giving it to Kydd. He stepped aside.

  Kydd took position, immediately behind the fat breech of the gun. It felt very different to know that the whole elaborate ballet of the gun crew would now take its time from him. The gun crew returned his gaze with differing expressions - boredom, seriousness, interest — but never contempt or distrust. Renzi regarded him gravely, with the tiniest ghost of a smile. Kydd's nervousness settled. He glanced sideways at Stirk.

  'Go on, cully, take charge then,' Stirk snapped.

  'Cast loose!' Kydd ordered. After Stirk's tough growl, his own voice seemed weak and thin, but the muzzle was obediently cut free and the crew took up their positions. Kydd looked again at Stirk, but the man stood impassive, his arms folded. Kydd turned back to the gun. Ah, yes, test the gunlock. He inspected the big lock on the top of the breech; the gunflint did not move in its clamp and the hammer eased back to full cock on its greased steel with a heavy firmness.

  He yanked at the lanyard secured to the gunlock. It gave positively and, with a lethal-sounding steely click, a suitably fat spark jumped across. His confidence increased as his orders had the gun crew sweating at their tasks, rammer and sponge flailing as they hauled the heavy iron beast in and out in simulated battle.

  At stand easy, his crew sat wearily on deck, their backs to the carriage, gossiping, just as he had done not so very long ago.

  'That'll do, Tom,' Stirk said, a glimmer of approval just discernible. 'Now listen ter me . . .' There followed a stream of advice, given in gruff monosyllables, ranging from using a thumb on the vent-hole to tell from the air when the cartridge was fully rammed, to firing just as the deck began dipping on the downward part of a roll to ensure that the ball would smash home directly into the enemy hull.

  Kydd wiped his hands on his trousers. Now they would try three rounds at a mark - his own gun, pointed and served by him.

  'Load with cartridge!' It was his first live order.

  The powder monkey already had his box containing the cartridge and Renzi helped himself to the grey flannel cylinder. He placed it carefully in the muzzle and the double-ended rammer was twirled to send it down the bore.

  There was a definite jet of air up the cold iron of the vent-hole, which Kydd felt with his thumb as the cartridge approached the breech end. When this stopped he held up an arm. Renzi and the others bent to their wad and shot, but Kydd had no time to watch. He had his pricking wire into the priming hole, stabbing down until he was quite sure he had pierced the cartridge, then out with a quill priming tube and into its passageway to the main charge.

  A little priming powder in the pan of the gunlock to catch the spark and now the piece was loaded and primed, a silent mass of black iron waiting only for his personal tug on the lanyard to bellow death into the outside world. His palms felt moist; the eyes of the others were on him as he bent to squint along the muzzle of the gun - there were no sights. These ship-smashers were designed for close-in work, but Black Jack Powlett was merciless with those who threw away their shot by not placing their fire precisely where it would do the most good.

  The sea hissed past. The waves seemed higher and more lively viewed through the gunport. They were close-hauled on the starboard tack, under easy sail, which had their side of the gundeck to weather and therefore higher. Kydd searched about the grey sea wilderness for the mark, a beef cask and flag.

  Nothing. He thrust past his crew to peer through the port. Still nothing but a vast extent of sea and swell out to the horizon. He sensed Stirk next to him. Almost immediately

  Stirk pointed. Kydd followed the line of his arm and far, far away he caught a red
flicker. 'No!' he gasped. The red flicker came and went, hidden and then revealed again by the lively swell.

  'No more'n a mile,' grunted Stirk. Kydd's experience of battle had been of the order of a few hundred yards at the most. Powlett was not going to make it easy.

  'Point your guns!' Rowley drawled. They would track the target until given the order to open fire.

  Kydd took one last look at the mark and resumed his place behind the breech, looking down the long muzzle at the bearing where he knew it to be. He pointed to the left-hand side of the gun. Wong levered the handspike, his body glistening with sweat. He heaved at the truck, skidding the gun round so that the muzzle bore more towards the mark.

  Kydd squinted down the gun — it was impossible! The gentle heaving of the frigate was enough to send the gun pointing skyward at one instant and then blankly at the sea the next. And the distant mark shot past the questing muzzle this way and that, as out of reach as a buzzing fly. He swore in exasperation.

  Stirk eased him aside and sighted down the gun. 'Not bad, be half,' he grunted, 'but yer've forgotten yer has a quoin.' Muscles bunching, he worked at the wedge under the breech, which moved the muzzle up or down. Satisfied, he stepped back. 'Has a look now, mate.'

  Kydd found the mark and noted that the muzzle now swept above and below the mark by equal amounts. But the ship was moving, and the mark was already off line. Boldly, Kydd pointed to Wong again, gesturing with small downward movements as he had seen Stirk do to indicate minor changes. The gun came on target by jerks and he could see that if he could time it well, he had a chance.

  The ship sailed on steadily, and he tracked carefully. Kydd took the opportunity of estimating when he would fire, that brief hesitation between triggering the gunlock, the priming catching, and the powder charge going off would translate to an astonishing sweep of movement at the muzzle.

  There was a distant shout then Rowley snapped, 'Number one gun — fire!'

  Seconds ticked by and then the peace was split by an aggressive bang from forward followed by gunsmoke rolling out a hundred yards or more. It was immediately blown back by the stiff wind and the gundeck was darkened by the acrid cloud. It cleared quickly and the distant plume of the fall of shot duly showed, but way to one side.