Artemis - Kydd 02

by Julian Stockwin

  The coral fell away rapidly to an anonymous cobalt blue. The carpenter clumped up from below to report a dry hold and Parry was cordially slapped on the back as he returned on deck. Pinto touched his forehead and spoke to Powlett. 'Th' Ylongos say, he know where we go, an' it is distant nine leagues — there he visit his brother,' he said. More sail was made and, to lifting hearts, Artemis foamed away over the glittering sea.

  'A splendid sight, Captain.' Hobbes had finished his breakfast below unaware of the drama of the morning, and was now ready to take a stroll about the decks. He looked at Powlett curiously. 'I see your Spanish friend has incurred your wrath. He certainly appears unhappy at his fate, raging below that he is to be sacrificed when the ship strikes the rocks.' His expression was politely enquiring, but Powlett didn't enlighten him.

  Ahead the impassable barrier loomed, but it soon became clear that the northern part overlapped the south, and before the noonday meal was piped they had taken on substance and reality — and a steep channel had opened between them. It widened and there was a slight swell. The southern point drew back to reveal a small but definite slot of daylight between the two land masses. The channel broadened more and they began breasting the swell that could only come from a great ocean, long, languorous and effortlessly driving into the shore.

  'God be praised’ muttered Hobbes.

  Powlett came to a decision. 'Ask this fellow’ indicating Goryo, 'where there is water. We take the opportunity to wood 'n' water while we can.'

  It was a scene of tropic splendour. Kydd felt an uncouth intruder in his rough sea-clothes as he stepped out of the boat and into the sandy shallows of a sheltered bay on the inward side of the point.

  'This is enchantment incarnate’ Renzi breathed, treading softly on the sandy beach, as they headed for the shade of the fringing palm trees.

  There was a guilty thrill in stepping on to the soil of a Spanish colony - but a very real apprehension too, for if a Spanish man-o'-war suddenly rounded the point to dispute with Artemis, the small shore party would necessarily be abandoned. And apart from Goryo's assurances, there might be a Spanish fort over the jungle-topped cliffs further inland. At this very moment a party of soldiers could well be slashing their way towards them through the undergrowth.

  Armed marines hastened to secure each end of the beach. Kydd was uneasily aware that, in the event of trouble, the most they could achieve would be a small delay. But that might be enough to enable them to return to the cutter, which now lay safely bobbing to a small anchor a dozen yards out, bows to sea.

  The vivid island jungle, with its colour and noise, distracted Kydd. He keenly felt his new responsibility for his small party. 'Spread some canvas, then, you scowbunkin' lubbers!' he shouted, as much at Renzi as his own men, who stood about gaping at the profusions of nature. Renzi's party would fill the huge leaguer casks at the spring among the rocks after Kydd's party emptied them of old water remaining and rolled them up the beach, but at the moment Renzi was wasting time standing in admiration at the scene.

  Reluctantly the men began the task, stagnant water bubbling out into the golden sand. Then the cask was bullied up the beach, under the enormous palms and to the rocks a little further along.

  The leaguer would be a crushing half a ton in weight when filled, and therefore would need to be parbuckled on spars down the soft sand. There would be no laborious loading into the boat, however. Fresh water was lighter than salt and the huge casks would be gently floated out to the ship.

  Kydd put his shoulder to the barrels with the rest and the work proceeded. He couldn't help darting uneasy glances at the dense foliage at the edge of the jungle, thinking of what might lie behind the thick verdancy. This land was exotic and subdy alien. It would be good to make it back to the familiar safety of the ship.

  A preternatural disquiet seized him. Something round about him had changed, and he was not sure what. The hair on the back of his neck rose. The big barrel came to a stop, but the ill-natured mumbling trailed off when the men saw Kydd's face. He froze, trying to let his senses tell him. Then he had it. It was the quiet. The raucous racket of parakeets had subsided, their quarrels retreating into the distance and letting an ominous silence descend.

  Kydd's eyes searched the thick undergrowth — was that the glint of an eye? An unnatural shaking of leaves? They were unarmed: if there was a sudden rush it would all be over in moments. His palms sweated as he considered what to do. Delay would only allow the hidden numbers to swell until they were ready to attack.

  He yelled hoarsely at the nearest sentry, and picking up a cooper's iron stumbled towards the jungle path barely visible in the fringing growth. If he and the sentries could buy the others time . . .

  Terrified squeals broke out, and into the open burst at least a dozen nut-brown children. They clutched at each other in fear, staring at Kydd with big black eyes.

  'Fr God's sake!' he blazed, lowering the cooper's iron and letting his heart's thudding die down. His expression might have been suitable for crowding on to an enemy deck, but now . . .

  He forced a smile. 'Y'r nothin' but a bunch of rascals, d'ye hear?' he called. They stood fearfully and Kydd's eyes were caught by the spasmodic tug of a small boy at his older sister's ragged dress.

  'Come here, y' little weasels!' he said, holding his hands out and clicking his fingers.

  Nobody reacted until the small boy stepped forward half a pace and called out boldly, 'Pini-pig!’ before swiftly assuming the safety of his sister's skirt.

  The cry was repeated by others, and more, until a regular chant began, 'Pirn-pig! Pini-pig! Pini-pig!’

  The other sailors had come up with Kydd at the sight of the children, but now they growled in exasperation. "Oo are they callin' a pig, then?' a tough able seaman snapped.

  'Take a strap to 'em, I will,' said an older seaman.

  Kydd advanced on them but they kept up their chant, baiting the sailors. Suddenly Pinto appeared, followed by Goryo. Kydd had not heard their noiseless approach in the bangkha.

  'Tell 'em they're in f'r a hidin' if they keep it up,' said Kydd, but already Goryo was shouting at them, in a curious tongue, more like the babble of river-gravel in a stream. It had little effect.

  Goryo turned to Pinto and spoke to him, sheepishly.

  'He say, el ninos very rude to foreigner,' Pinto relayed on, 'an' he want t' apologise for them.'

  The sailors glared.

  'He say that when island traders come, they always give pini-pig, children think you are big, you have many pini-pig?

  Pinto prodded further to discover that pint-pig was the basis of a much prized delicacy of Visayan children, dispensed in the form of a bamboo tube stuffed with pounded toasted young rice flavoured with coconut milk and palm sugar.

  Laughing, Kydd unknotted his red kerchief. 'No pini-pigs,' he said softly, 'but this is f'r you.' He held it out to the older sister, who advanced shyly and accepted it with a bob, delightedly trying it on in different styles.

  Goryo's face softened, and he murmured a few more words to Pinto, who looked at him sharply. 'He say - plis excuse, they are all excite because tomorrow Christmas.'

  'You will, of course, be aware that this Spanish colony must be papist,' Renzi said. 'No heathens these.' As if in confirmation, the little ones' eyes sparkled and the chant changed to '' Chreestmaaas! Chreestmaaas!’

  Kydd stared at the happy bunch: their careless joy was identical to what must be happening on the other side of the world, in England. Time had passed unmarked for Kydd, but at home there would now be the frosting of December cold, stark leafless trees and bitter winds. Here there was brilliant sun and exotic colour, outlandish feast-foods - and an unknown tongue.

  When he turned to Renzi his eyes had misted. So much had happened in the year since he had been torn away from his own family by the press-gang, and he knew he could now never return to that innocent existence. He had changed too much. He cleared his throat and bawled at his men, 'Stap me, y' sluggards, I'll swea
t some salt out o' y'r bones!'

  'It's monstrous!' spluttered Hobbes. 'There is no time to lose, sir.'

  Powlett rubbed his chin. 'It is clear, sir, you have no knowledge of the Sea Service. Before we may begin our venture upon the Great South Sea we must rattle down the fore-shrouds and, er, sway up the mizzen topmast.' He turned to the boatswain. 'That is so, is it not, Mr Merrydew?'

  'Aye, sir,' he confirmed, bewildered.

  'And this will take us until near sunset tomorrow,' Powlett went on.

  'If'n you says, sir.'

  'And therefore I see no reason not to grant liberty ashore to those hands not required.' He looked squarely at Hobbes. 'You may go ashore if you wish to, sir.'

  Hobbes snorted and stalked off.

  'Pass the word for the purser. We will see if fresh fish and greenstuff can be got while we have the chance.' 'Sir—'

  'Mr Fairfax?'

  'Sir, the Spaniard, will you—'

  'Hang him, the scurvy rogue? Do you think I should?' It was a nice problem: without question he had been instructed in the deed, so who was the more guilty? 'Well, sir, I—'

  'He has failed. He did not succeed in his purpose. We leave him to return and explain himself — punishment enough?'

  'But, sir, he will implicate the savage.'

  'Not if it is explained to him that in such an event we will have no other recourse than subsequently to express our deepest gratitude to his superiors for his safe pilotage through the Strait, for the merest pittance in gold.'

  The next day most of the ship's company of Artemis padded down the jungle path, Captain Powlett and the first lieutenant leading with Goryo and Pinto, the rest following respectfully behind, all in their best shore-going rig. Stirk shouldered a sea-chest, and was flanked by Kydd and Crow, who also carried small bundles.

  There would be no danger from the indolent Spaniards on this holy day and so far from the provincial centres; Powlett could rest easy with his men ashore for a few hours — a cannon fired from the ship would have them back in minutes.

  As they walked the familiar sounds of the sea fell behind, replaced by the curious cries of geckoes, the swooping mellow call of the oriole, the screech of parrots. Sudden rustles in the undergrowth were perhaps wild pigs or other, unknown, species.

  They halted at the edge of the village and were met by the wizened cabeza. His formal speech was rendered in Spanish by Goryo and in turn to English by Pinto. The words may have suffered on their journey but the sentiments were plain. Powlett bowed and they moved on into the village. The inhabitants stood in awe, grouped in the open clearing before the nipa palm thatched huts. To one side a glowing pit was tended by the old men of the village, whose job it was to slowly turn the lechon — an enormous spitted roast pig.

  Gracefully shown to one side, the Captain sat with the cabeza at the only table with a covering, Goryo and Pinto standing behind. The rest of the men sat cross-legged on the bare earth, keenly aware of the tables on the opposite side of the clearing waiting to be loaded with food.

  Stirk placed the sea-chest strategically behind Powlett. It contained unused remnants of finery left over from Lord Elmhurst's entourage. At the right time it would be brought forth, but not now.

  Chivvied by one of the adults a file of children approached, and shyly presented to each man a little package wrapped in a charred banana leaf. Unsure, the men looked to their Captain. Powlett gingerly unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a discoloured rice cake. 'Bibtngka^ said Goryo, with satisfaction.

  Kydd did likewise, and bit into it. The taste was a chaotic mix of flavours that made him gag. Powlett recovered his composure first and politely enquired of the cabeza. It transpired they were eating gelatinous rice with fermented coconut milk and salted eggs.

  Pressed into line, the children sang. It was a remarkably unselfconscious performance, full, melodious and clear but no tune that Kydd could recognise. Renzi sat next to him, delicately picking at his bibingka. He didn't respond to Kydd's comment, wearing a faraway look that discouraged talk.

  A hush descended. Powlett got to his feet. 'Bo'sun's mate,' he growled, 'pipe "hands to carols".' Hesitating only for an instant, the man's silver whistle whipped up and the call pealed out, harsh and unnatural in the jungle clearing. 'Haaaands to carols!' he roared.

  The men stood up and shuffled their feet. '"Away In A Manger",' said Powlett. "Awaaaay In A Manger",' bellowed the boatswain's mate.

  Doud's voice sounded out first, pure and clear. A bass picked up and others followed, and soon the ship's company was singing in unison. Kydd stole a glance at Haynes. The hard petty officer was singing, his voice low and heartfelt. He wouldn't meet Kydd's eye, and Kydd felt his own eyes pricking at the buried memories being brought to remembrance.

  The children watched wide-eyed, wondering at the volume of sound the seamen produced, but when two or three more carols had been sung, they stepped forward and drew the men over to the tables where the feast had been laid.

  No matter that the comestibles were as different from their normal fare as the exotic jungle chaos from the warlike neatness of a frigate. Language difficulties happily drew a veil over the true identities of the delicious fruit-bat broth, the ant-egg caviar and the dogmeat in nipa and garlic. The men ate heartily.

  The children squealed in joy as they were carried on the shoulders of a fierce sailor, then thrown in the air and caught by those who in another world could reach effortlessly in darkness for invisible mizzen shrouds then swarm aloft. A red-faced Doody had them screaming in delight as he became a village pig and snorted and oinked at them from all fours. Others were chased shrieking about the compound by a burly boatswain's mate and a tough gun captain, but the act that stole the show and had Powlett's eyebrows raising was Bunce and Weems doing an excellent imitation of an indignant sergeant drilling a private soldier up and down, carrying a 'musket' of bamboo.

  The afternoon raced by; the drink on offer was lambunog, specially fermented for the occasion the previous evening from palm-tree sap. This was served in half coconut shells, but its pale pink viscid appearance and stomach-turning strength gave pause to even the stoutest friend of the bottle.

  Evening approached. The probable nearby presence of a volcano added violence to the red of the promising sunset, and Captain Powlett reluctantly got to his feet. 'Pipe all the hands,' he ordered. The shriek of the boatswain's calls pierced the din. With a bow, Powlett presented the contents of the sea-chest and bundles, and in the enthralled stillness the sailors left quietly.

  Artemis put to sea immediately, subdued and replete with last-minute mangoes and bananas. Men looked astern as the ship heaved to the long Pacific swells, privately contrasting the spreading gaudy sunset behind them with the anonymous dark blue vastness ahead.

  As days unbroken by any events turned into endless weeks of sameness, the sheer scale of the seas crept into the meanest soul. The winds were constant from the north-east to the point of boredom — an onrushing stream of ocean air that drove them on, still on the same larboard tack, the motion always an easy heave and fall, repeating the same rhythm, surging over the great billows in a gentle but insistent advance. Onward, ever onward, they angled south-eastward towards their vital intercept with the diametric meridian, the furthest they could possibly be from the land that gave them birth, and indeed further from any demesne that could be termed civilised.

  Renzi watched Kydd staring out over the great wilderness of white-dashed azure and the immensity of the deep blue bowl of sky overhead.

  'Dark, heaving boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity . . .'

  he intoned softly, watching for reaction.

  Kydd picked up his faded blue striped shirt, his favourite one, and resumed his stitching. The cotton had softened under the ceaseless exposure to sun and sea spray and now caressed the skin gently, but it would not take too many more patches. 'Aye, but Prewse had me at th' charts again last forenoon. You'd not be enjoyin' yourself quite s' much were I t' tell you that h
e brought down the workin' chart fr'm the quarterdeck, and - no flam - he quick sketches in that little island we saw earlier.'

  'So?'

  Kydd sighed. 'Nicholas, we have our sea-chart we navigate from, an' most of it is white, nothin' there. An' the Master is fillin' in the details as we go along. Does this give you y'r assurance they know where we are?'

  Renzi hid a grin. 'Dear fellow, pray bring to remembrance the fact that we bear two natural philosophers - eminent gentlemen I am in no doubt — whose study is the earth's form. We are embarked in the foremost man-o'-war of the age, and a captain who is an ornament to his profession. What else would you have?'

  Kydd's serious expression did not ease. He looked away over the vast waste of tumbling waters and replied, 'An' I'll bring jou to remembrance of what we say at church — "God save us and keep us — the sea is so big and our ship is so small.'"

  Renzi kept silent and let Kydd resume work moodily with his needle. He gazed up. The mastheads gyrated against the sky in wide irregular circles, describing never an identical path but always a rough circle. The bowsprit rose and fell each side of the far horizon; the hull thrust and pulled at the body in its continual sinuous forward movement. Everything was in motion, all different, all the same.

  'Grog's up soon — I'm going below,' he said, offhandedly. Kydd nodded but did not look up.

  The gloom and odour of the berth deck bore on Renzi's spirit. The wearisome constancy of their lives was not congenial to his nature. He had found it necessary to ration his reading, which made the books infinitely the more precious. He had taken up Goethe's Prometheus, Cecilia's parting gift to him, and again found the restless subjectivity not to his liking - but on occasions he had seen her face emerge, ghost-like, from the pages, troubled, concerned. He persevered with the volume.