At the fore-hatchway the squeal of a boatswain’s calls cut through the sociability. Reluctantly the sailors rose.
Evening quarters was exercised every day at sea in Artemis. At four bells in the last dog-watch, the entire ship’s company closed up for action to the stirring sound of “Hearts of Oak” on the fife and drum.
Lieutenant Rowley had the gundeck, and stood impassive at the fore-hatch. Kydd noted the puffs of white lace that emerged at each sleeve and the luxuriant hair, carefully styled in the new Romantic vogue. His fashionable cynical mannerisms gave the impression of hauteur, heightened by the faultlessly cut uniform. His orders were resonant enough, however. “Exercise of the great guns—gun captains, in your own time …”
Stirk mustered his gun crew. His previous ship experience had ensured a rate of gun captain, and with Kydd and Renzi there were three other Royal Billys, Wong, Pinto and Doggo.
That left two of the original frigate crew on this gun—Gully, a bushy, round-faced man, and Colton, the second gun captain, a shrewish man with an uneven temper.
The twelve-pounder was only belly-high where the great thirty-two-pounders aboard the lower gundeck of Duke William were chest-high. Other than that, the cannon were nearly identical, and Kydd saw that the only real difference was in the number of men. Up to twenty men were needed to serve the big guns. Here, there were but three, together with a gun captain and his second, and the powder monkey.
Stirk was equal to the challenge. “Right—different ships, different long splices. This barky likes it b’ numbers, so ’ere’s how we go.” He considered his men. “Doggo, you’re number one, load wad an’ shot. Kydd, number two, want you to sponge ’n’ ram. Renzi, number three, get the wad an’ shot to number one. Gully, is it? Number four on the side tackle, please, mate, with Pinto an’ Wong as number five ’n’ six on the tackle. Oh, yeah—five an’ six as well works the handspike, ’n’ everyone bears a fist on the tackle falls runnin’ out the gun.’”
“An’ me, Mr. Stirk!” called the gangling boy at the hatch gratings amidships.
“An’ Mr. Luke, ’oo’ll be doin’ the honors with the powder,” he added gravely.
He stepped back, bumping into Colton. There was a moment of tension as Stirk stared him down. “An’ the second captain overhauls th’ trainin’ tackle.”
The routine of loading and firing was simple enough—the gun was run out and fired, then recoiled inboard. The cannon was sponged out, and a cartridge and wad rammed home. A ball was slammed in the muzzle, another was followed, rammed firmly in place, and the gun was run out again ready for firing. It was teamwork that counted, not only with the danger of naked powder brought close to gun blast, but the whole effectiveness of the gun depended on knowing what to do, and keeping out of the way of others when they did their part.
“We does it slow time first, lads,” ordered Stirk.
This was Kydd’s first time on the rammer. It was confusing that the rammer and sponge were at either end of the same stout wooden stave. He laid the stave down, sponge inboard, and joined at the side tackle. The gun was run out. The noise seemed more of a heavy rattle than the bass rumble of the three tons of the larger gun.
“Gun ’as fired,” Stirk said laconically. He looked pointedly at Colton, but Wong and Pinto thrust past and seized the training tackle at the breech end of the gun to make it “recoil.” Kydd had the sponge ready in the bucket, and lifted the dripping sheepskin. Passing the rammer end out of the gunport to get more room, he plunged it into the muzzle.
Renzi, across from Kydd, had an imaginary “cartridge” and “wad” ready for Doggo, who stuffed them into the muzzle. Kydd quickly had the cuplike end of the rammer stabbing down inside the muzzle; Doggo took the shot and another wad and slammed them into the maw. Kydd repeated his ramming and the gun crew hauled together on the tackles to run out; Stirk performed his priming and pointing, and the cycle was over. “We does it now in quick time!” he growled.
They did it again, causing Stirk to groan with frustration. Kydd, in his enthusiasm, had his rammer flailing straight after Doggo’s cartridge but before his wad could be applied, and Wong, used to the huge inertia of larger guns, tripped over at the side tackle and sent his side down in a tangle of cursing men. At that moment a single squeal from a boatswain’s call pierced the din.
“Still!” cried Rowley, striding aft to meet the Captain with his first lieutenant. Rowley removed his hat as Powlett stepped onto the gundeck. All movement ceased.
“Where are our Royal Billys, if you please, Mr. Rowley?” Powlett demanded.
“This way, sir,” Rowley replied, and with a graceful gesture moved forward.
Kydd watched them approach. Rowley was short enough to stand upright and stepped carefully, as if distrustful of where he trod. Powlett stooped slightly and ranged like a wary lion. Spershott hurried on behind.
“Duke Williams, sir, Tobias Stirk, gun captain.”
Kydd sensed a cold ferocity behind Powlett’s eyes and felt his back stiffening.
“Your men up to service in a frigate, Stirk?” Powlett rasped.
Stirk hesitated.
“Very well—We’ll have the measure of you nevertheless.” Powlett drew out his watch. He swung round to the twelve-pounder next along. “Symonds!”
“Aye, sir?” the other gun captain said carefully.
“You and the Royal Billys will exercise together.”
He turned back to Stirk. “Run out. On my mark!”
Stirk spat on his hands and glared at his crew.
Powlett consulted his watch. “Now!” His arm swept down and the gun crews leapt into action.
With Wong’s great strength at the training tackle the recoil was accomplished rapidly. With nervous energy Kydd sponged and withdrew, Doggo’s cartridge instantly ready at the muzzle. Kydd returned with the stave—but Doggo hissed savagely, “Fuckin’ rammer!” Kydd had made a stupid mistake. He had not reversed the stave and the wet sheepskin was still inboard with the rammer gaily poking out of the gunport. He tried to turn the stave outside the port but he fumbled and it fell away, tumbling noisily against the ship’s side and into the sea, sinking in the wake astern.
Symonds and his crew laughed cruelly. Spershott stepped over, scandalized. “Crown property! This will be stopped from your pay, you rascal.”
Powlett held up a hand. “No. Royal Billys will carry on with their exercise. And the rest of you may secure and stand down.” He spared just one glance for the furious Stirk and returned up the ladder.
Liberated from duty, the Artemis hands gathered for the entertainment, and for the rest of the dog-watch the red-faced Stirk drove his crew mercilessly to the jeers and laughter of the others.
The days that followed were not easy for the Royal Billys. Things moved faster in a frigate. It needed agile feet to get out on a slender yard and back, and her speed of response at the helm took even Stirk by surprise. It was sailoring on a different and more challenging plane, but stung by the element of competition they responded nimbly.
It was six weeks he had been in Artemis, and Kydd now felt he had found his feet. The middle watch was going slowly. As lookout, Kydd could not pass the time companionably with Renzi, and must occupy himself for an hour staring out into the night. Kydd drew his grego closer about him, the coarse wadmerel material warm and quite up to keeping out the keen night winds. The fitful moon was mostly hidden in cloud, leaving an impenetrable gloom that made it difficult even to discern the nearby helmsman. Kydd gazed out again over the hurrying seas, fighting a comfortable drowsiness.
Something caught his eye, far out into the night. A blink of paleness, suddenly apparent at the extremity of his vision then gone. He stared hard, but could not catch it again. There it was once more! A momentary pallid blob appearing and disappearing in one place.
“Officer o’ the watch, sir!” Kydd called. A voice replied from the other side of the deck, and a dark figure loomed next to him.
“Kydd, sir, larb’d af
ter lookout. Saw something way to loo’ard, flash o’ white or so.”
“Where away?” It was Parry’s hard voice.
The pale object obliged by winking into existence in the general direction Kydd indicated, remaining for a brief space before it disappeared.
Parry had his night glass up instantly, searching. “Damn it—yes, I have it.” He snapped the glass down. “Pass the word—my duty to the Captain, and a sail is sighted.” With a captain like Powlett there could only be one response. They would close on the sail, and take their chances.
In the short time before Powlett hastened on deck Artemis had braced around and begun bearing down on the strange sail. “I’ll trouble you to take in the topsails, Mr. Parry—no point in alarming them unnecessarily.” The pale blob steadied and remained. “We keep to windward. Stand off and on until dawn.”
After an hour it became clear that the stranger had sighted them and changed course toward them. Artemis followed suit to retain her windward position. The stranger soon tired of this and eased away off the wind, and the two ships spent the remaining hours of darkness running parallel under easy sail.
The stirring rattle of the drums died away, and with every man closed up at his post, they waited for the darkness to lift. Artemis always met a new day with guns run out and men at quarters: they would never be caught out by the light of day revealing an enemy alongside ready to blow them out of the water.
The stranger was still there at daybreak five miles under their lee, the summer dawn languorously painting in the colors of the day—darkling sea to a vivid cobalt, lilac sky to a perfect cerulean with vast towers of pure white clouds to the south. It also revealed the sleek low black and yellow lines of a frigate, quite as big as they, and in the process of shortening sail.
Artemis bore down on the vessel, every glass trained on her. The quarterdeck grew tense. “She does not throw out her private signal, dammit!” grunted Powlett. If this were a Royal Navy ship there was a need to establish the relative seniority of their respective captains. But on the other hand she might well have thought that Artemis, end on, could be a French ship and feel reluctant to deter the approach by showing her true colors too soon.
The sailing master, Mr. Prewse, took off his hat to scratch at his sparse hair. “Don’t know as I recognizes her as a King’s ship at all.”
The boatswain took a telescope and stared at the stranger for a long time. “Could be a Swede, but my money’s on her bein’ a Frenchy.”
Powlett’s response was quick. “Why so?”
“’Cos, sir, she has squared-off hances, much less of a sheer, an’ as you can see, sir, the fo’c’sle rail is never carried forrard of the cat-head—she’s French-built right enough.”
“Thank you, Mr. Merrydew,” Powlett said quietly.
“If you please, sir.” Parry stood patiently before Powlett, his expression as uncompromising as ever.
“Mr. Parry?”
The second lieutenant motioned forward a sailor.
“What is it, Boyden?”
“Sir, that there’s the Sit-oy-en” he said definitively.
“The what?”
“Sit-oy-en. Seen ’er in Toulong. We was alongside, takin’ in wine, we was, sir, last days o’ the peace, ’n’ she takes a piece outa us comin’ down with the tide.”
Powlett stiffened. “The Citoyenne, you mean. You’re sure? What is her force, man?”
“Thirty-six long twelves, sixes on the quarterdeck, don’t remember else. Ah—she’s big, an’ has a consid’rable crew—”
Powlett nodded. Unlike the world-ranging British frigates, French vessels could re-supply at any time and as a consequence were crowded with fighting men. This one was also smart and confident, and presumably did not have prize crews away.
“And, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Her cap’n is a right tartar, beggin’ yer pardon, like, sir. Our second lootenant, he ’eard him ter say that if the new crew didn’t shape up sharpish, he promises ter turn ’em over inta the galleys—an’ that more’n six months ago.”
Lieutenant Neville cleared his throat and said lightly, “Then we can expect a warm welcome.”
No smile broke Powlett’s expression.
“Eyes of the world, I rather fancy.” Rowley’s musing was ill-timed, but ignoring Powlett’s glower he pursued the thought. “For the first time in this war—here we have a match of equal force. The only thing to tip the scales will be the character of the nation. Will hot-blooded revolutionary zeal triumph over the lords of the sea? Or does right prevail? It will be a tournament that I rather think will mean more to the country than a single lonely battle far out at sea.”
Parry turned on Rowley. “Are you in any doubt of the outcome, sir?”
“I would be a fool were I to think other than that it will be a hard-fought contest—but it will go hard for us at home should fortune deny us the victory.”
Powlett broke clear of the group. “Give ’em a gun and tell ’em who we are, Mr. Parry.”
A gun to weather banged out. Overhead the battle ensign broke out, its enormous size streaming brazenly in the breeze.
Powlett bared his teeth. “Rig the splinter nettings, Mr. Parry, and we’ll have barricades in the tops.” He glanced at the heavy frigate riding the waves ahead. “We’re going to have to earn our honors today.”
Leaning out of the gunport below, Kydd and Stirk tried to make out the ship ahead. “He’s a Frog, ’n’ we’s invitin’ him to a tea party,” Stirk said, pulling back inboard. “An’ it looks to be a right roaratorious time, he bein’ at least our weight o’ metal.”
Kydd looked at the enemy again. There was activity at the braces as the ship began a turn. Her profile shortened as she fell away off the wind, showing her ornamented stern and gathering way as she fled from them. Kydd was incredulous. “She’s running!”
Renzi’s cool voice from behind answered him. “As she should, of course, dear fellow. Her captain knows his job is to fall upon our merchant shipping, our commerce—that is the greatest harm she can do our cause. We are of the same force. If he engages, the best he can expect is a costly battle. He will be damaged and cannot proceed to his real work. He must preserve his ship.”
Stirk looked at him in contempt. “Preserve ’is ship? No man preserves ’is honor by runnin’. Not even a Frenchy!”
Renzi shrugged.
“Haaands to make sail!” Powlett wanted royals loosed. Citoyenne was shaping a course that took the breeze on her quarter, but Artemis was not accounted a flyer for nothing. Taut and trim, she sped along.
Kydd joined the others on the foredeck, watching the chase. Foam-flecks spattered up from the slicing stem, streaming air thrumming gaily in the rigging. The weather was perfect for Artemis, and she drew closer; Citoyenne was now some small miles ahead and downwind.
Without warning Citoyenne angled over, to come as close to the wind as she could lie. Artemis followed suit immediately to keep to her weather position, and the two sped over the lifting seas. Powlett rapidly had bowlines fast to their bridles, stretching the forward edges of the sails to their utmost in a hard straining of every stitch of canvas.
“Haaands to quarters!”
Kydd clattered down the fore-hatch and closed up at his gun, heart thudding. He pulled down the rammer stave from its beckets at the deckhead and stood clear while Stirk checked gear.
Renzi looked calm and flexed his shoulders. Others finished folding and tying their kerchiefs over their ears. Most stripped to the waist, while some tested the wet sanded deck to decide whether bare feet would give the better grip.
Stirk made a fuss of securing Luke’s ear pads. The boy stood wide-eyed on the hatch gratings and from the tone of Stirk’s murmuring Kydd guessed that he was doing his best to ease the lad’s fears. He wondered what he could think of to say in like circumstances. The gundeck settled, the guns long since run out ready for the first broadside. Stirk waited patiently at the breech with the lanyard from th
e gunlock coiled in his hand.
Kydd, now perfectly competent at his task after long hours of practice, was icily aware that this was not an exercise. He remembered his previous brush with the enemy, but that had been in a powerful ship-of-the-line; he had seen blood and death but it had ended brutally and quickly. Now, he wondered how he would perform in a much smaller ship, at closer quarters. He shuddered and looked about him. Doggo, his station at the muzzle, was leaning out of the gunport, gazing steadily ahead. Renzi stood with his arms folded, a half-smile playing on his lips. On the center-line, Luke waited with his cartridge box in his hands, anxiously watching Stirk. Kydd knew that he was more worried about letting down his hero than possible death or mutilation.
The gundeck was strangely quiet, odd shipboard noises sounding over-loud, the cordage tension in working so close-hauled producing a finely tuned high frequency in the wind. Suddenly dry in the mouth, Kydd crossed to the center of the gundeck, and scooped at the scuttled butt of vinegar and water.
Relatively shorthanded, they had crews to fight the guns on one side only, but with a single opponent this was no disadvantage. Rowley paced at the forward end of the gundeck with a London dandy’s nonchalance. His action clothing was plainer than usual, but Kydd noticed just a peep of lace at the sleeves, and his buttons gleamed with the glitter of gold. His sword, however, held an air of uncompromising martial serviceability.
“What’n hell?” Doggo shouted.
They crowded to the gunport.
Citoyenne was shortening sail and slowing. As they watched, she relaxed her hard beat to windward into a more comfortable full and bye, and soon lay quietly under topsails. She was ready to turn on her tormentor.
“No—you will await my order!” Powlett’s roar was directed at Parry, who had drawn his sword and was pacing about like a wild animal. Artemis surged on, the distance rapidly closing. “Shorten sail to topsails, Mr. Prewse. Lay me within pistol shot to windward of her, if you please,” Powlett ordered.
The big courses were brought to the yards and furled, seamen working frantically as if determined not to miss the excitement to come. Artemis slowed to a glide.
Artemis Page 2
