“Naah—sharks’ll be at their bones quicker’n silver.”
“What flam, Jeb! Where’s yer sharks in th’ north?”
“There’s other things, mate, what likes ter eat a sailor’s bones. Things ’r’ down there a-waitin’ their chance.”
“What things?” Kydd asked, apprehensive of the reply.
“Monsters, mate! Huge ’n’ bloody monsters.”
This provoked a restless stirring, but the voice was not contradicted. The cheerful slapping of ropes against the mast and the unseen plash of the wake shifted imperceptibly to a manic fretfulness. A new voice started from farther away: “He’s right there, has ter be said. Some as say there ain’t no monsters, but yer’ve got ter agree, a sea this big c’n hide more’n a whole tribe of ’em.”
“Sure there’s monsters,” an older voice cut in. “An’ I seen one. Two summers ago only. We wuz at anchor off Funchal—’n’ that ain’t so far from here—had fishin’ lines over the side, hopin’ fer albacore, so ’twas stout gear we had out.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Nearly sundown, ’n’ we was about to haul th’ lines in when comes such a tug on one it nearly took me with it inter the ’oggin. Me frien’ who was alongside me saw the line smokin’ out like it had a stone weight on it plungin’ down, an’ he takes a turn on a cleat, slows it down a bit. Then th’ line slackens an’ he hauls in.”
There was total quiet.
“Sudden-like, there’s a shout. I goes ter the side an’, so help me God, I sees there somethin’ I don’ never want ter see again!”
Kydd held his breath.
“Red eyes ’n’ fangs workin’ away, there’s this great long dark green serpent. An’ I mean long! Me frien’ worked it aft by tyin’ off on the pins one be one, an’ I’m here ter tell yez, mates, it stretched out from abreast the foremast all the way aft ter the quarterdeck. Squirmin’ and thrashin’, right knaggy it was, thumpin’ the side until officer o’ the deck told us to cut him loose ter save the ship.”
A younger voice interjected, “Yer c’n be sure that’s nowt but a tiddler, Lofty. Bigger ones down there, yer just don’t know.”
“An’ they ain’t the worst of ’em—it’s them what the Norskeys call the Kraken, they’re the worst.”
“What ’r’ they?”
“It’s yer giant octopus, mate, big as yer like, loomin’ up outa the sea at night, eyes as big as a church clock a-starin’ up at yer—an’ that’s when you knows it’s all up, ’cos it feeds on sailors what it sweeps up orf of the deck with its slimy great arms forty fathom long, with these ’ere suckers all over ’em.”
Apprehension spread over Kydd. As they spoke there might be one directly in their path, lying in silent anticipation of its meal, just at this moment noiselessly rising up from the depths. He shivered, and hunkered down in the blackness as low as he could. Renzi was out of reach, now at his trick on the wheel, but in the forenoon they would certainly talk together.
The prevailing westerlies died and from the other direction the northeast trade winds began: pleasantly warm, vigorous and exhilarating, the best possible impetus for their southward voyaging. The sea turned ultramarine under the azure sky, and with hurrying white horses below and towering cumulus rising above, their sea world was a contrasting study in blue and white.
On the sun-dappled main deck Petit paused in his seaming. “Yez knows what this means.”
Kydd looked up and waited.
“These are the trade winds, ’n’ that means we now got Africa ter larb’d.”
It was a thought to conjure with. The fabled dark continent, its interior unknown to mankind. Jungle and swamp, the whole mystery lying just over there from where the winds were blowing. Kydd was seized with a yearning to glimpse it, just once.
The weather grew from warm to hot; pitch between the deck planking became sticky to the touch where the sun beat down on it, and Kydd had to cover his torso with an open shirt; his bare feet had long ago become strong and toughened.
* * *
Below decks it was too hot to sleep. Kydd and Renzi sat on the fo’c’sle, off watch, Renzi with his clay pipe drawing contentedly and Kydd staring up dreamily. The stars were out, and of such brilliance they appeared low enough to touch. Along the eastern horizon, however, was a dark line. Curious, they watched it take shape. As the hours wore on it extended gradually on both sides and fattened to a bank of darkness. Lightning played within it, a continuous flickering that illuminated tiny details of the cloud mass in tawny gold.
The heat of the day was still with them, the air breathy, heavy. They looked toward the bank idly, fascinated by the primeval sight. It was now moving toward them from the beam. As it drew nearer the distant flashes of lightning became more separated and distinct, and after a long interval an answering sullen rumbling of thunder could be heard floating toward them over the water.
“All the hands! All hands on deck—haaaaands to shorten sail!”
There was no apparent change in the immediate weather; the wind was the same streaming easterly, but for the first time Kydd could detect a scent, a heavy humid rankness of rotten vegetation and stagnant pools—the heady fragrance of Africa.
They took in courses, then topsails. Powlett, it seemed, would not be satisfied until the yards were at the cap and all they showed were staysails fore-and-aft. Their speed fell off, and the roll of the ship changed in character: the Atlantic swell passed them by to leave the ship wallowing in long jerky movements, an unsettling sensation for a fast frigate.
Drawing closer, the dense cloud bank increased in height and width, its dark pall gradually snuffing out the stars until it loomed high over them. Men did not return below, they lined the side and watched. The lightning became more spectacular, the thunder a spiteful crack and pealing roar. Then came a darkness more intense than ever.
Kydd felt something elemental stealing over him; the towers of blackness glowered moody and threatening, fat with menace. The wind died; in the calm the flashing and banging of the lightning filled the senses. There was a breathless pause as the last stars flickered out overhead. In the ominous calm it seemed that the fluky winds were in dispute for the right to turn on their prey.
A gust, then others. The wind picked up in violent, shifting squalls, sending Kydd staggering. The wall of blackness raced across toward them—and they were hit. In an instant it seemed as if the heavens were afire. The lightning coalesced into one blinding, ear-splitting blast of thunder, which ripped the air apart. The squalls tore at Kydd’s grip in a nightmare buffeting and all he could do was stand rigid, stupefied. The ship reared and shied like a frightened horse, deafening volleys of thunder entering the fabric of the vessel, transmitting through to his feet. Worse by far than any broadside, the sound smashed at his senses. He fumbled for half-remembered prayers. They jostled in his mind but focus was impossible under the assault.
And the rain came down. Walls of warm, gusting tropical rain in quantities so huge that it forced Kydd down as though he were caught in a waterfall. Breathing was almost impossible, and he lowered his head to avoid the worst of the water tumbling down on him. Hair streaming, clothes plastered to his body, his mind went numb. It went on and on, the ship trembling and directionless, heading for who knew what inevitable destruction.
Kydd felt a grip on his arm. Through blurred vision he saw Renzi and, to his astonishment, realized that the man was laughing. He felt anger welling up, an indignant resentment that Renzi was enjoying the experience, no doubt adding it to his store of philosophic curiosities. He tore away his arm and resumed his posture of endurance, but it was no good, the spell had been broken. Reluctantly he had to concede that if modern learning could proof a man against nature’s bluster then perhaps it had some merit.
He looked up again and grinned slowly. The heavens rattled and roared but in some way the storm’s sting had been drawn, and within the hour its fury had moderated. The rain petered out, and the blackness began to dissolve, the lightning spending itself in vicio
us flickers that whip-cracked right across the sky.
The last of the darkness was passing overhead. Rueful, soaked figures fumbled about on the streaming decks.
“Haaaands to make sail!”
Kydd moved to the larboard fore-shrouds and swung himself up for the climb into the foretop. But before he had risen a dozen feet there was a single dazzling flash and a clap of thunder so tremendous that it shook the ship with its concussion.
Deafened, he clung to the shrouds, shaking his head to clear it. As his eyes tried to adjust to the dark and his ears stopped buzzing he became aware of a commotion on the opposite side. The shrouds there gave off wisps of steam along their length. Still muzzy from the shock of the discharge Kydd couldn’t understand. Then he realized—there had been one last spiteful play of lightning, and it had struck the foremast but by chance had passed down the opposite shrouds, to the iron of an anchor and into the sea.
Trembling at the thought of his near escape from an unspeakably violent death Kydd dropped to the deck and went over to see the results of the strike. The lines of rigging were randomly patterned with steaming black. Above, still clinging to the shrouds, were the silhouettes of three men, ominously still. Others climbed up beside them. There were shouts, high-strung and chilling—Kydd knew with a sinking inevitability what they had found.
By the light of a lanthorn they crowded round the stiff, discolored corpses as they were lowered down. Even the eyeballs had burst in the white heat, and the bodies had swollen to grotesque proportions. There was the sound of retching before canvas was brought to cover the indecency.
Dying rumbles followed the black mass as it fell away to leeward as rapidly as it had approached, leaving the stars to resume their calm display.
“No, me boy, we sank Africa astern three, five days ago,” said Merrydew. For him the heat was a trial, his corpulent figure sweaty, his movements slow and reluctant.
Kydd found it confusing. From his barely remembered geography lessons he recalled that Africa was a fat pear shape running north and south. If they were to round its southern tip to reach India, why were they heading away?
“Because we’re makin’ a westing, that’s why,” the boatswain explained. To Kydd it seemed as nonsensical as ever. Patiently, Merrydew carried on. “These latitudes, why, much farther the wind gives up altogether, none to be had. Bad—we calls it the doldrums. We wants to avoid ’em, so we makes a slant over to t’ other side o’ the ocean afore it gets too bad. We then crosses the Line into the south half o’ the world and slants back with an opposite wind—see?”
It was wearisome, life in the tropics aboard a frigate. The hardest thing was the intense humidity below decks, only partly relieved by wind scoops at the hatches. The next most difficult thing to bear was the food. Their molasses ran out, and the morning burgoo tasted of what it was, oatmeal months in the sack, malodorous and lacking flavor but for the insect droppings. Quashee did his best with the little store of conveniences, occasionally reaching heights of excellence. In the flying fish belt he produced a legendary gazy pie, the little fish heads peeping up through the crust all around, and flavored with hoarded garnishings.
The wind had been light and erratic for days now, a trying time when the hauling on lines had to be done under a near-vertical sun beating down, which blasted back at them from the water.
One morning the wind died away entirely, the sea disturbed only by a long but slight swell. The heat was close to intolerable, despite the awnings, and the boatswain’s red face swelled. The sails hung in folds from the yards, barely moving; the ship, with a sluggish roll, was without any kind of steerage way. Artemis drifted aimlessly in the mirrorlike sea.
Nobody spoke, it cost too much effort. At three in the afternoon, a flaw of wind darkened the water. On the quarterdeck Powlett in his thin, threadbare shirt looked meaningfully at the figure of the Master.
It was what they had been waiting for. A wind—but from the southeast! They had already reached the winds of the south. The change in spirits aboard Artemis was remarkable. Although they had to wait until evening for the winds to reach a point where the sails began to fill and the rudder to bite, all talk was on the future.
“Got our slant—gonna be shakin’ hands with them Kidderpore fillies in a month.”
“Hassuming that we get in afore the monsoon shifts about.”
Happy chatter swelled, but Petit remained serious as he cradled his pot.
“Anythin’ amiss, Elias, mate?” Stirk asked. His powerful body was, as usual, naked from the waist up, an expanse of damp mahogany muscle.
“Yes, mate,” Petit replied quietly.
The talking stopped and the group on the fo’c’sle looked over at him in the lanthorn light.
“How so, cuffin?” Stirk said softly.
“You knows, Toby, youse a man-o’-war’s man an’ unnerstands.” Stirk didn’t reply, but a frown lined his face. “Recollect, shipmate, we’re in th’ south now, and we ain’t never had a visit from ’Is Majesty.”
Stirk’s face eased fractionally. “But o’ course,” he murmured. When Kydd looked again he had disappeared.
It looked as though the wind would hold. The morning breeze had stayed and strengthened just a little, and with the lightest possible canvas spread abroad they were making progress. Powlett stood with his arms folded, squinting up at the undulating sails as they played with the breeze. The Master was next to him, willing on the winds.
Kydd was tricing up the after end of the quarterdeck awning and could hear the pleased conversations—whatever was in those secret orders, he guessed they must include every stricture for speed.
The boatswain came aft, and touched his hat. “Sir,” he said, “with m’ duty, just found this paper near the quarterdeck nettings, thought you’d want t’ sight it.”
Taking the paper, Powlett’s face hardened. The ploy was often used to allow crew members to convey discontents anonymously aft. He read on, his expression grim. “King Neptune? It’s a nonsense, Mr. Merrydew!” he roared. The boatswain stiffened. “And a damnable impertinence!” Powlett snapped, and ripped the paper in two. The pieces fluttered to the deck. The boatswain’s chin jutted belligerently: the customs of the Sea Service were not so easily to be put aside.
Turning to the Master, Powlett said loudly, “Mr. Prewse, pray tell us our position.”
Rubbing his chin, Prewse looked up at the sky. “Well, sir, near enough …”
“Our position, sir!”
“Our longitude was thirty-two degree an’ seventeen minutes west, noon yesterday.”
“Latitude, Mr. Prewse?”
“An’ nought degrees an’ fifty-four minutes—north!”
Powlett whirled back on the boatswain. “There you are. North. Do you propose, sir, that we enter King Neptune’s realm early? That is to say, precipitate, like a damn-fool set o’ canting lubbers who can’t work a sea position to save their skins?”
The boatswain’s face eased into a smile. “Aye, sir, we’d best not set His Majesty at defiance!”
* * *
Kydd could hardly wait to relay the conversation to the mess, who were taking their victuals in the shade of the main deck.
“Yair, well, it’s no small thing, mate, to enter hupon his realm,” Petit said portentously.
Cundall leered evilly at Kydd. “An’ it’s bad days fer them ’oo ’aven’t been welcomed inta it yet.”
Realizing that he would be made sport of whatever he did, Kydd just smiled.
Doud’s grin was devilish. His gaze slid to Quashee, who winked at him, and he affected a kind, considerate manner. “Could be the best fer any who don’t know the rules to steer a mite clear of the ceremonies,” he told Kydd. “’Is Majesty don’t stand fer no contempt ter his person.”
Kydd resolved to be conveniently absent when King Neptune came aboard.
“Should be hearin’ from ’im soon!” Stirk said, his black eyes glittering at Kydd. “’Oo is it that ain’t been admitted to ’is kin
gdom, then?”
That night, at seven bells of the first watch, Artemis was boarded by a messenger from King Neptune himself. Or, at least, a man looking just like a ragged sea sprite and dripping seawater suddenly appeared before the starboard fo’c’sle lookout from outboard, clambering rudely over the fife rail.
“What ship?” was demanded, and when the hapless lookout stuttered an answer, he was pelted with a rotten fish. “Down, yer scurvy shab, make yer respects to one o’ King Neptune’s crew!”
The officer-of-the-watch was summoned; it was Rowley. He doffed his hat, and courteously enquired of the stranger.
“’Is Majesty requires of yer a list of all ’oo have not yet bin truly welcomed inter his realm,” the officer was told in lordly tones. By this time curious sightseers had gathered around, including some from the wardroom.
“Of course,” said Rowley, “but I beg you, be so good as to take a glass while you wait. A rummer of brandy will, I believe, keep the damp from your bones.”
Well satisfied but grumbling mightily, the sprite later eased himself over the rail and disappeared.
On the following forenoon, the masthead lookout hailed the deck. “Sail, ho! Strange sail right ahead, standin’ fer the ship.”
“What ship?”
“More like a boat wi’ a lugsail.”
Telescopes flashed on the quarterdeck. The boatswain turned importantly to the Captain and said, “It’s very like King Neptune, sir!”
“Very well,” said Powlett. “Make ready his carriage—heave to and prepare a welcome, Mr. Parry.”
The boat was secured to the forechains and King Neptune was swayed aboard in a chair suspended from a whip rove at the fore-yardarm, followed shortly by his wife. His courtiers scrambled up the side and quickly took possession of the foredeck. They were a motley crew, rigged in a wild assortment of regalia: colored rags and old sailcloth decorated with seaweed, seagull feathers and wigs of oakum. The King’s conveyance turned out to be a twelve-pounder gun carriage, with a suitably comfortable leatherbound chair lashed to it. Neptune assumed his rightful position, acknowledging the murmurs of awe in regal fashion with his trident.
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