Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  “Haaaaands to unmoor ship! Haaands to make sail!” The pealing of the 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 gray 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 anymore 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 Ch’ing 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 favors 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 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 gray 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 gray 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 yo
ur 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 toward 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.

  The smell of fresh powder smoke was pleasing to Kydd’s senses—it was manly, keen and spoke of duty. He kept the brutish gun muzzle squarely on the tiny red flag and waited resolutely for his turn.

  The next vicious blang and rolling gunsmoke came from the gun next to him. He tensed. The smoke cleared and a splash appeared behind the mark and seventy feet to one side, a good shot at this range.

  “Number five gun—fire!”

  At the full extent of the lanyard Kydd sighted down the muzzle. It rose slowly to a wave, so he waited. It began to fall and he was teetering on the point of firing when some seaman’s fine instinct made him hesitate. Sure enough a smaller, playful wave countered the first and the muzzle lifted slightly before resuming its downward sweep. He gave the lanyard a firm pull and after a brief hesitation his piece obediently thundered forth. Kydd arched his body and the maddened beast crashed to the rear in recoil, sending towering masses of gunsmoke downrange.

  “Stop yer vent!” He heard Stirk’s shout dimly through ringing ears, and remembered that he had to stop the flow of eroding gases through the vent-hole. It was easily enough done, but he wanted to know where his shot had gone. Staring at the jauntily bobbing flag he willed his ball on. Magically a plume rose up, almost dead in-line but sadly short.

  “Blast me eyes, but that was well done, mate,” Stirk said in admiration.

  Kydd looked at him in disbelief. His shot so far was the farthest away.

  “Never mind th’ range—yer ball will take ’im on the ricochet. Not easy ter lay ’er true like that!”

  With a swelling pride, Kydd stepped back and rasped, “Well, let’s see some heavy in it, then, y’ pawky lubbers!”

  “Yair—can’t come soon enough fer me, Ol’ England.” Cundall smoothed his shining black hair and stared morosely back at the tiny mirror, the only one the mess possessed.

  Kydd was sitting on his sea chest to allow Renzi to finish tying off the end of his pigtail, now a quite respectable length again. At sea he wore it clubbed. The gun practice had broken the spell of his morbidity and he had managed to surround his sorrow with limits that enabled him to function on a daily basis.

  “You’re quiet, Ned,” Kydd said, noticing Doud’s unusual reserve.

  Doud looked up. “What’s ter say? All th’ time we’re swannin’ around out this godforsaken side o’ the world, some other frigate is a-snappin’ up the prizes—sooner we’re back ’n’ doing what comes natural, better fer all.”

  Busily at work on a square wooden plate chopping herbs, Quashee unexpectedly spoke up. “Yer may get yer wish earlier than you thinks, Ned.”

  “How so, yer big bastard?” Doud said, instantly curious.

  Quashee smiled. “Has yer thought? We’re touchin’ at Manila. What if while we’ve bin away the Dons have gone ter war on the Frogs’ side?”

  Cundall sneered. “Then we gets ter take a few dozen fishin’ boats an’ half a dozen merchant packets—which in course we can’t take with us. Wake up ter yerself, yer ninny.”

  Quashee’s smile grew broader. “Then yer ain’t heard of …”

  “… the Manila Galleon!” finished Petit loudly. All looked at him in astonishment. “He’s in the right of it, mates!” he said, his face animated. “Fat an’ fair, sails once a year from Acapulkee in Mexico fer Manila, stuffed to the gunnels with all the gold ’n’ silver they rips fr’m their colonies.” On all sides around the mess table, eyes grew big. Petit continued, with great satisfaction, “An’ here she comes, sailin’ in, all unsuspectin’ that there’s a state o’ war, which we o’ course are obliged to tell ’em.”

  Happy babbling broke out, but it was interrupted by a shout at the hatchway. “Pass the word fer Thomas Kydd—Able Seaman Kydd, ahoy!”

  Kydd rose. “Aye!”

  “Cap’n Powlett passes the word fer Thomas Kydd!”

  The mess fell silent and stared at Kydd. It was unusual to the point of incredible that the Captain would directly notice any of so lowly a station. Kydd’s mind raced. As far as he was aware he had done nothing wrong and, anyway, daily discipline was the business of others. He hurried to the quarterdeck. “The Captain will see you in his cabin,” Parry said sharply.

  Sliding down the hatchway ladder, Kydd went aft to the broad cabin. Outside was a marine sentry. Kydd knocked carefully and heard an indistinct reply, which he took to be “Enter.”

  Powlett was at his desk, as usual without a wig—he never wore one at sea. His close-cropped hair lent intensity to his demeanor.

  The cabin was neat and spartan, the only concession to humanity a miniature of a woman on the bulkhead and below it another of an angelic child. The rest of the room was dominated by the squat bulk of a pair of six-pounders and a deeply polished chart table. Kydd stood before his captain, hat in hand, and waited.

  “Thank you, Kydd,” Powlett said, finishing writing. He jabbed the quill back into the ink pot and leant back. “I have a problem,” he said, in a tone that suggested problems didn’t annoy him for long.

  “Sir.”

  “You may know we lost eleven men at Macao, seven by sickness.”

  Kydd did not know: he had had problems of his own at the time.

  “We can’t replace men so easily in this part of the world.” He looked directly at Kydd. “I’ve a mind to rate you quartermaster’s mate. What do ye think of that?”

  Nothing had been further from his mind. And now—it was undreamt of! He would be a petty officer, admittedly one of the most junior aboard, but he had achieved a precious step up, he had …

  “Well?”

  “I’d like it fine, sir,” he stammered.

  “Then you are so rated. The first lieutenant will attend to your watch and station.” Powlett fixed Kydd with flinty eyes. “You are a fine seaman—I can see this, which is why I gave you your step. You have a future, but you can be disrated just as easily. See that you are zealous in your work and stay away from the bottle, and you may have no fear of that.”

  “Aye ay
e, sir!” Kydd said.

  * * *

  Quartermaster’s mate—Petty Officer Kydd! He left the first lieutenant’s cabin in a haze of joy. It was only a matter of stepping into a sick man’s shoes, he rationalized, but his inner self smugly replied, Who cares?

  Then Sarah’s image flashed before him, dampening his mood. He felt for her pain. Perhaps one day they could meet again in some other way …

  Slowly his thoughts refocused. Whatever the reason, he was now rated a petty officer. His main duty would be on the quarterdeck, as mate to the quartermaster who had the conn under the officer in command—responsibility for the helm and helmsmen. A quartermaster owed his loyalty to the sailing master, who was probably the most sea professional of all aboard.

  Kydd wondered if it had been his skill at the wheel that had won him the post. He enjoyed his trick at the helm, feeling the waves trying playfully to slap the vessel off course and the live vibration of the sea transmitted up through the tiller-ropes, seeing the length of deck curving in at the bow far ahead of the helm, then gently rising and falling under his urging, the whole a connected symphony of motion. He sighed, and rejoined his mess.

  “Quartermaster’s mate—that makes you a petty officer,” said Petit seriously.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Then you’ll be shiftin’ your mess tonight?” Petit asked.

  Although new-rated, his status entitled him to join one of the senior messes, which were right aft and screened off by canvas. There were only three quartermaster’s mates aboard so together they wouldn’t make a mess, but he could join the quarter-gunners, the carpenter’s crew, or even the élite captains of the tops.

  “No, mate, I think I’ll stay,” he said uneasily.

  “Yer a petty officer, Kydd,” Cundall repeated. The others remained silent, looking at him gravely. Slowly it dawned on him. As a petty officer, he had authority over every one of them including Petit. He couldn’t stay as a friend and at the same time do his duty by the ship. And it was asking too much to expect them to treat him as an equal when he wasn’t. “Yair, have to move, I guess.”