Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  Renzi was nowhere to be seen, and Kydd felt a chill of loneliness. He nodded to Petit and said, “Be on m’ way by th’ last dog-watch.”

  “Luck, cuffin,” said Doud, softly.

  Aft, next to the boatswain’s cabin, was the screened-off mystery of the quarter-gunners’ mess. He scratched on the hanging flap—a face, irritated and querulous, poked out. “What?” it said.

  Kydd blurted out his situation.

  “Not ’n here, yer don’t.” The face disappeared. The carpenter’s crew had their mess snugly fashioned for themselves and did not want another intruding. An idler’s mess—the cooper, sailmaker’s mates and the like—offered doubtfully, but they were not watchkeepers and their perspectives of life aboard were quite different. Kydd felt he must decline. He felt rootless, an outcast, much as he had felt when he had been thrust aboard his first ship as a pressed man.

  “What’re you about, mate?” Stirk’s voice behind made him jump. “Bin lookin’ fer you half the dog-watch,” he said, looking at Kydd curiously. “Gotta get yer gear shifted afore pipe down hammocks, or …” He pulled aside the canvas screen to a nearby mess and motioned Kydd in. “This here’s Tom Kydd, frien’s, quartermaster’s mate, just rated.”

  Kydd caught his breath. Around the mess table were petty officers, men he had learnt to fear and respect. They were the backbone of the Navy, hard men in charge of fighting tops, afterguard, topmen—the élite captains of “part-of-ship.” They stared up at him, some with narrowed eyes, others with a shrewd wariness. “Good t’ know ye,” Kydd said, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. He had no idea how to address these men, his claim to be a petty officer, one of them, now seeming a flimsy pretense. They did not answer.

  Stirk went on, “An’ this Kydd is the juggins ’oo sees a merchant hooker in a blow on ’er way ter Davy Jones. Gets ’imself streamed off in a raft from a ship-o’-the-line, jus’ ’cos he thinks ter save ’er.”

  There was an interested stirring. “Did yer?”

  “Yair. But got nothing out’ve it later, the shysters,” Kydd said carefully.

  A tall dark man, whom Kydd recognized as captain of the maintop, grunted and said, “Well, get yer dunnage then, Kydd—seems yer movin’ in ’ere with us.”

  He felt a jet of exultation, then turned to Stirk. “You …”

  “Quarter-gunner, jus’ rated up.” He thrust the canvas flap aside and called back over his shoulder, “An’ we got one other Royal Billy in with us—cap’n of the mizzentop.”

  Kydd wondered who it could be, but time was short and he had his gear to shift. When he got to his old mess there were few left at the table, but with a pang he saw Renzi, standing over their shared sea chest.

  “Nicholas—I, well …”

  Renzi looked at him for a long moment. Then he spoke. “Bear a fist, y’ poxy lubber!” he snapped, in a very good approximation of a petty officer’s impatient growl.

  Kydd could hardly believe his ears. He glowed with pleasure. “You?”

  “It seems I have been raised to the felicity of captain of the mizzentop,” Renzi continued, in a more normal tone, “and thus might aspire to more congenial quarters.”

  The mess was more snug than Kydd thought possible. Instead of being lost in the gloom of the open mess deck, the lanthorn light now shone cozily on the inside of the canvas partitions, revealing on the forward one a painted scene of a furious battle at sea in which Artemis was easily recognizable, and on the after one several mermaids combing each other’s hair. The racks of mess-traps were more elaborate, and Kydd guessed that in other things there would be similar improvements. He slung his ditty bag with the others along the ship’s side and took his seat.

  “Quartermaster’s mate—which watch are youse then, Kydd?” the tall dark man asked.

  “Starbowlines, and it’s Tom,” he said warily.

  “Crow, Isaac Crow,” the man said. “Cap’n of the maintop. So that’d be Hallison, then, Joshua Hallison who’s yer quartermaster.” He chuckled. “Yer’ve picked a right taut hand o’ th’ watch there, cully.”

  Another petty officer Kydd knew was Mullion, larboard captain of the foretop. He had reason to—Mullion was never without his colt, a braided rope’s end, which he used impartially on his men in the belief that it was the undoubted origin of their markedly faster times. He looked at Kydd steadily, then nodded and grunted, “Jeb.”

  The canvas flap was thrown aside and a short but sharp-faced man entered and crashed down the grog kid on the table, taking his place on one side. Kydd knew him only from afar as one whose temper was best avoided.

  “Parry, God rot his bones!” he said in a grating voice, and noticed Kydd. “Who’re you?” There was a visceral challenge in the tone.

  “Kydd—Tom Kydd, quartermaster’s mate o’ the starb’d watch,” he said, and felt color rising. “An’ who are you, then?” he asked boldly.

  The man paused, fixing him with colorless eyes. “Haynes.”

  “Yer glass, Kydd,” reminded Crow, holding out his hand over the grog monkey. Kydd had his old pot ready, then remembered that petty officers had the privilege of taking their rum neat, not diluted to grog.

  A glass was returned full of the dark mahogany liquid, the powerful odor of rum heavy on the air. Kydd raised it in a general salute and swallowed. The liquor was pungent and strong.

  As they drank, Kydd began to feel the pattern of comradely warmth of his new mess. Crow asked him more about his time in a line-of-battle ship, and others put in their contribution. The lanthorn was trimmed up, and mealtime conviviality set in.

  Just as the food arrived, Renzi appeared, silent and watchful. “Renzi,” said Stirk briefly. “Tie-mate o’ Kydd’s,” he added, referring to the service close friends did for each other in turn—plait and tie off the pigtail.

  “Yeah, heard of’im, Toby,” grated Haynes. “With yer when you boarded the Citoyong through the gunports.” He gave the smallest of nods to Renzi, but impaled him with his eyes.

  Renzi sat, but remained quiet.

  “Got a headpiece on ’im, ’e ’as,” Stirk added. “We listens ter what ’e ’as to say, like.”

  The table held its reserve—a sea-lawyer was not a popular character to be.

  Mullion broke the quiet. “So it’s Manila—what’s this, then?” The question was plainly directed at Renzi, and the others kept their silence.

  Renzi’s half-smile appeared. “We show the Dons we have the force to protect our interests, in the event a good plan while we have a prime frigate in the area.” He flicked a glance at Haynes. “The Spanish are a proud race, but they have let this part of their empire decline. We will have no difficulty in impressing them here. But if we are already at war …”

  “The Manila Galleon—we knows about that,” Crow said, but in a not unfriendly tone. He opened the door across the racks at the ship’s side and drew out crockery and pewter spoons.

  “Then as we have no strategic interest in the place, we will quietly withdraw.”

  Haynes’s eyes narrowed. “Yer sayin’ …”

  “If we take the town, then garrison, defend it—to what purpose? What have we won? What are we defending? There is no sense in this.”

  Crow looked over at Haynes with a smirk. “He’s right, an’ all.”

  Kydd was happy that no one had commented on Renzi’s cultured accent. But he had his misgivings. How would Renzi fare shouting orders to his men in the mizzentop? And for that matter, he himself?

  Hallison was a dour man whom Kydd remembered as having a short way with helmsmen who failed to measure up. He looked at Kydd doubtfully. “Now, lad, your main dooty is the helm, but there’s a mort more t’ being a quartermaster.” He automatically looked up to the weather leech of the mainsail, just beginning to catch the first of the weak dawn sun. “Steer small, damn you,” he growled at the helmsman, and turned back to Kydd. “All kind o’ things, fr’m stowing the ballast to leadin’ the boarders who are cuttin’ out an enemy, ’cos we’re the
ones who always know how, see?” He stared directly at Kydd.

  “Aye, Mr. Hallison.”

  At that moment sailors began to appear on deck, some bleary-eyed, others surly. Kydd knew very well what this meant but never again would he be expected to join them in scrubbing the deck.

  “After end o’ the quarterdeck,” Hallison told him. Kydd started; then recollected himself and strode to the taffrail.

  He glared about him but inwardly he was flinching. “Get a move on, you heavy-arsed dogs,” he snarled. At the resentful looks of the sailors he realized that perhaps this was going too far. The men stood in front of him, shuffling their feet, resigned. “You,” he snapped, picking one at random, “wash-deck hose.” The man didn’t say anything but went forward obediently. “Sand,” he said to another. The holystones were issued and he set the line of men abreast the helm to work their way aft to the stern.

  “Get those men going, th’ maudling old women.” Parry stomped on deck: he was in a bad mood, and wanted to take it out on the men.

  Kydd had seen it before. He called, “Parry!” in a low voice to the men, who took his signal and feigned fear at Kydd as they worked hard with their holystones.

  Parry glowered at the group of men who knelt amid the cold gushing water and gritty sand. At Kydd’s questioning gaze he turned away to stamp forward.

  Kydd knew he was under eye from Hallison, and conscientiously applied his men, knowing the little tricks they could be up to so well himself.

  When they had reached the full extent of the deck, Hallison nodded and waited while the swabbers did their work drying the deck before calling Kydd over. “Good. I don’t hold with startin’ m’self—you’ll do.” Kydd couldn’t conceive of wielding a rope’s end on good men either. He beamed, but Hallison went on, “Cap’n will be after yer skin, lad. He wants all his petty officers in blue jackets ’n’ buttons when they’re on deck.” He looked meaningfully at Kydd’s striped shirt and knotted kerchief.

  Kydd nodded. Hallison glanced again at the weather leech and said, “Go ’n’ have some breakfast—be sure an’ relieve me at one bell.”

  It was greatly satisfying, the way that seamen gave way to him at the sight of his blue jacket and twinkling brass buttons. His confidence soared as he bounded up the ladder to relieve Hallison. He had skipped his burgoo and hardtack, quickly stitching the buttons with their stout anchor to his best and only blue jacket. He would not be found wanting in any particular.

  Hallison raised his eyebrows in surprise at Kydd’s transformation, but did not comment. He crossed to the binnacle and reached below for the log-board. Opening it out he referred to the chalked entries. He looked at the hanging traverse board to check that it agreed and turned to Kydd. “Course sou’east b’ east, good breeze fr’m the nor’west. Mr. Parry ’as the deck, Evans on the wheel. You has the conn.”

  “I have the conn,” Kydd repeated, with beating heart.

  “Petty Officer Kydd has the conn, sir,” Hallison called to Parry, who looked around at the hail, but only grunted and turned back.

  “Are ye ready, lad?” Hallison said gravely. If anything went wrong there would be no time for Kydd to rush below and call him—and the blame would be entirely his.

  “Yes,” Kydd said.

  “Right. I’ll have me breakfast an’ be up here after.” He disappeared down the after hatchway leaving Kydd with direct responsibility for ensuring the ship actually sailed where it was supposed to.

  Nervously Kydd looked over the helmsman’s shoulder at the binnacle. The due course lazily swam under the lubber’s line. “See she stays that way,” he growled, and stepped back. The whites of the helmsman’s eyes showed briefly as they followed Kydd. A hard quartermaster could make a trick at the helm a misery.

  Unable to prevent a grin of sheer elation, Kydd paced over to leeward, and looked down the ship’s side at the wake, bubbling and hissing its way aft. He followed it as it slid away past the stern to merge in a ruler-straight line that stretched away in the distance. He drew a deep breath, strolled back to the helm and stood, arms akimbo, the picture of a taut petty officer.

  Hallison returned, and took the conn. Again there was no comment, the traverse board had been properly kept up, the pegs in their holes stepping out from the center telling of the ship’s progress every bell of the watch. In the swelling warmth of the sun it was proving to be a fine morning; the sea was in the process of changing from the gray-green of temperate latitudes to a deep tropic blue.

  Hands for exercise was piped for the forenoon, and while Kydd watched idly from the quarterdeck, topsails were loosed and furled at a great rate. He would still be required to haul on ropes, but only at times when skilled seamanship was needed, such as when tacking ship.

  Hallison touched his hat, and Kydd saw that Mr. Prewse, the sailing master, had come on deck. “This is Thomas Kydd, been rated quartermaster’s mate,” said Hallison. Kydd doffed his hat and stood respectfully.

  “Just so,” said the Master, looking at Kydd keenly. “Have you your letters?”

  “Aye, sir.” It would probably not be to Kydd’s advantage to mention that he had acquired an intimacy of the works of both Mr. Diderot and Mr. Locke recently.

  “Then this afternoon, I desire you should assist the mate of the hold when he opens it. You shall take the reckoning.” He paused, watching Kydd pensively. “Have you an acquaintance of the sea chart? No? Perhaps you shall do so presently. Attend me in my cabin at four bells this forenoon.”

  Mr. Prewse had his cabin opening on the wardroom, along with all the officers except the Captain. This was the first time Kydd had entered the area. The Master had personal custody of the ship’s charts, with the responsibility of entering unusual observations such as uncharted islands or breakers betraying a reef.

  “Do you take the pen, and make a fair copy beneath,” Prewse said, sliding across a hatched representation in minute detail of a section of coastline from the seaward. His extensive notes and sketches revealed the painstaking care he brought to his responsibility.

  Kydd took the chair in the cramped cabin, and pulled the lamp closer. It was charged with spermaceti oil and gave a pure, clean flame, well suited to the close work. He lifted the pen and inspected it. It was the smallest quill he had ever seen, the carefully shaped nib ending in a tiny hair’s breadth. He dipped it into the stone well and set to work.

  “I shall return in one bell,” Prewse said.

  With keen eyes and hands unaffected by grog-tremor, Kydd executed a neat and clean drawing, as near as he could judge to the original, well before the Master’s return. He sat quietly waiting, but his eyes were drawn to the chart underlying his sketch. “The Great China Sea” it said in large curlicued words in the title cartouche, and in smaller print was “From Lye Moon to the Philippine Islands.” Modestly beneath in plain letters was, “By James Boyde, a Master in the Royal Navy, MDCCLVIII”

  There was a scale at the edge and it was covered with tiny numbers, but the expanse of China and a spill of islands were clear enough. Complex star concentrations of lines were scattered randomly across the chart, lines that to Kydd made not the slightest sense. At the bottom were several views of coastlines similar to the one Kydd had just done and he bent with interest to look at them.

  “The great Captain Cook never sailed these seas—yon is a poor enough thing to compare.” Kydd had not heard Prewse return, and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “No, lad, sit y’self down.” He picked up Kydd’s work. “Hmm—a fair hand ye have. I think we can make use of you. Kydd, is it not?”

  “Sir.”

  Kydd’s eyes strayed back to the chart. The Master’s eyes softened. “I lost a good man in Macao t’ the bloody flux; you show willing and you c’n take his place.”

  “By y’r leave, sir, I need t’ get m’ learning as quartermaster first,” Kydd said respectfully. He didn’t want to be tied to sedentary work below while the action was on deck.

  “You shall,” Prewse said sharply.


  There was no need for the raucous thunder of the drum at the main hatch. Everyone knew they would approach the Spanish possession of the Yslas Philipinas in this cool dawn at quarters, guns run out and battle ensign swirling defiantly. If war had already been declared there was every chance that Spain would send out a squadron to their territory. That would make it a risky business to approach the deeply enclosing Manila Bay. When far inside, if there were powerful enemy men-o’-war within, a rapid escape could prove problematical.

  Artemis raised land at three bells, the northern tip of the enclosing arm of the great bay. The opposing southern tip was visible a bare ten miles away, but ahead it was as if they were passing into open sea. Closer to the passage, first one, then many small fishing craft appeared. With their double outriggers and nipa sails they skimmed like pond insects in the calmer seas, keeping the occupants’ brown skins wet with spray. They kept effortlessly with the frigate, which was under easy sail, some waving, but all clearly curious at the big warship arriving.

  There was a scattering of small low-lying islands in their path, a number with isolated white buildings glistening in the strengthening sun, and an indeterminate flag flying on one.

  Lookouts were posted at each masthead, and two at each top; even so the highest could not detect the inner limits of the bay within the far horizon. They passed into the wider expanse, tension mounting. They might well be fighting for their lives within the hour.

  “Sail hooooo!” the fore-masthead lookout yelled. His outstretched arm was flung out to fine on the leeward bow. Parry hastened to clamber up the fore-shrouds, his telescope awkwardly under his arm. In the foretop he had it up instantly, trained on the bearing.

  For a space, nothing, then—“Deck hooo! An aviso” A fast government dispatch boat: she would have had no warning of their approach. As her single sail grew in definition, they saw it angle toward them. Artemis held her course, and the aviso closed to within clear visual distance, then pirouetted about and foamed back the way she had come.