Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  The die was now cast. They approached the far side of the bay, where the city of Manila was clearly distinguishable. Every spyglass was up and trained, straining for the sight of men-o’-war.

  The minutes dragged.

  At last it became clear there was no danger. The long anchorage off the sleepy tropical city was dotted with a scattering of merchant ships and native craft scudding about, but not even a minor warship was to be seen.

  Powlett swept his glass up and down the coast, then back to the squat, sprawling fort that was becoming prominent on the flat land. “They do not appear to be concerned, Mr. Fairfax,” he grunted.

  “No, sir,” Fairfax said, not easing his habitual worried expression. “Then we take it they have no news of a war?”

  “Keep the men at the guns, but prepare a salute on the fo’c’sle,” Powlett ordered. “It would be a folly to trust the Dons, I believe.”

  The frigate, by far the biggest vessel in the anchorage, slowed in its approach.

  “It would be their folly to take us for fools,” growled Parry. “We can take the whole lot o’ these should we please.”

  Powlett’s sardonic smile was hedged with exasperation. “Have a care, Mr. Parry. You will remark the flags of these ships. I see but one with Spanish colors—ah, there we have an English, our proof there is no war.” He snapped his glass closed.

  A heavy thud drew attention to the fort. Smoke drifted from the embrasures. Another gun fired.

  “Prepare our salute, Mr. Fairfax.”

  “Don’t look up t’ much,” Doud said doubtfully, looking shore-wards at the low, somnolent landscape with its fringing palms, muddy river oozing into the bay, and the maze of rickety huts on the outer fringes of the small city. Above all was the smell of the warm, heavy odor of pigs and tropical vegetation.

  Around the ship hovered a dozen or more of the distinctive twin-outrigger boats, hawking strange fruits, fish and vegetables. They were kept at a respectful distance by a vigilant watch-on-deck.

  “Don’ ye worry, mate, it’d have ter be the first sailor’s port ever without it’s got its cunny burrows.” Cundall had his back to Kydd, deliberately excluding him from the conversation on the fo’c’sle.

  This would be the last port of call before they re-entered the Indian Ocean on their way back to England that could in any way be classed as “civilization’ and Powlett would be sure to grant shore leave.

  “Ye’re missin’ a fuckle, are ye, Cundall?” said Doud contemptuously. He winked openly at Kydd past Cundall.

  Kydd felt awkward, unsure of how he should relate to his old friends in his new rating. He winked back and gave an uneasy smile.

  Doud sauntered past Cundall and stood companionably next to Kydd at the fore-shrouds. “What’s his grandevity think o’ this, Tom?”

  Gratefully Kydd took up the lead. “Nicholas? Thinks we’re wastin’ time. If it was war, this time o’ year we’d have no chance t’ catch the Manila Galleon and the prizes we’d take wouldn’t be worth sailin’ all the way back.”

  Grimacing, Doud nodded. “Thought as much. Sooner we head back, better it is fer all.”

  Kydd felt grateful to Doud, not so much for the friendliness but for how he had shown Kydd that he could still be sociable with old friends, and wear a different face when on duty. The bell sounded sharp behind them, a double strike. Kydd made a brief goodbye and went aft to his part-of-ship station.

  “We has visitors, then,” murmured one of his men, waiting at the base of the mizzen. He nodded to a merchant ship’s longboat approaching Artemis from astern. It was pulled by four sailors who were making heavy weather of it. In the sternsheets was a single figure, from his cocked hat and breeches obviously no seaman.

  “Boat ahoooy!” bawled the mate of the watch, Quinlan. The boat did not lie off and hail but made to come alongside immediately.

  “Stand off, the boat!” roared Quinlan.

  The officer of the deck, Rowley, stepped over to the ship’s side. “Give him a cold shot if he tries it again,” he said. A grinning seaman helped himself to a twelve-pounder carronade round-shot and held it above his head. At the threat, the boat ceased rowing and the men lay on their oars. One of the men in the sternsheets scrambled to his feet, swaying wildly. He called out but his thin, fretful voice was impossible to catch in the slop and hurry of waves against the ship’s side. When this produced no response from the frigate, the man threw down his hat in exasperation and shook his fist.

  “Perhaps we should allow that untutored boor to approach,” drawled Rowley, easing his cuffs. “Only one to come aboard, Hallison.”

  When the man finally appeared over the bulwarks he had worked himself into a state. “You, sir!” he stormed at Rowley. “You are the Master of this vessel, this—this—”

  Rowley waited, allowing the splutters to subside. “No, sir, I am not. Lieutenant Rowley, third of His Majesty’s frigate Artemis,” he said, with a slight bow that would not have been out of place at introductions in Carlton House.

  The man stared, then resumed tetchily, “Kindly fetch him, then, if you please.”

  “Captain Powlett is not at liberty to see you, sir,” Rowley said sharply. “He is ashore paying his respects to the governor.”

  “Then, sir, I shall wait.” His plain dark gray and black garb suggested he was perhaps a member of the clergy.

  “I should be obliged if you would state your business, sir,” said Rowley stiffly.

  “No business of yours, I assure you, sir—it is your captain I wish to see, and the matter is, I might allow, of a degree of urgency.”

  Rowley hesitated. “He may well be some time. Might I suggest—”

  “I shall wait, however long it takes.”

  He folded his arms and glared at Rowley, who pursed his lips. “Get a chair from the wardroom,” he ordered. When it arrived he thumped it to the deck and gestured mutely.

  Powlett returned over an hour later, his face tight. The boatswain’s calls twittered and he hauled himself rapidly up the side. “God in heaven, what’s this?” he roared, at the sight of the figure sitting obstinately in a chair in the middle of the deck.

  “You are the Captain?” the man said icily.

  “Who the devil—?” Powlett threw at Rowley.

  “Sir, this man—”

  “Hobbes, Edward Hobbes. You may be acquainted with the name?”

  The high, hectoring voice could not have been more calculated to inflame Powlett on his own quarterdeck, but his hesitation, more at the effrontery than at an effort of memory, gave Hobbes more time. “Or perhaps not. It is of no consequence.” He fumbled inside his coat and brought out an envelope. “But I rather fancy this is.” He handed it to Powlett with a drooping wrist, the fouled anchor cypher of the Board of Admiralty prominent on the envelope.

  Powlett accepted it with bad grace and took out the contents to read.

  “You will note the provision of ‘all possible assistance from any King’s ship,’” Hobbes said, with an irritating level of assurance.

  “I see from this that you are a man of science, sir, who is at present engaged in a voyage of discovery. I do not possibly see how this can be allowed to affect the affairs of a ship-of-war.”

  “Then, sir, I will tell you.” Hobbes looked around the anchor-age, and pointed. “That is my ship, a brig of some species. It has split its front mast in a storm and until it gets a piece of the right kind of wood from somewhere or other it seems it cannot venture farther on the high seas.” His nostrils pinched in exasperation. “My purpose, sir, is astronomical. It is essential for me to be at a point on the meridian diametrically in opposition to that of Greenwich on a date not far hence for a crucial observation, the nature of which need not concern you. Thus you will see that I am at a stand, sir, in need of conveyance to that point—to the Great South Sea I have no need to remind you.”

  Powlett stared in amazement. “Sir, am I to understand that you are asking me to divert the course of my vessel some two thou
sand miles for your sole convenience?”

  Hobbes stiffened. “My convenience is not the point at issue, but that of science is. This observation adds materially to the sum of knowledge of the earth’s precession, which I would have thought would interest even the meanest practitioner of navigation,” he finished, in tones laced with sarcasm.

  Powlett straightened. “Not possible! This frigate is a man-o’-war, not a damned—”

  Hobbes leant forward and spoke in a flat, hard voice: “I have no need to remind you, Captain, that the letter is signed by Sir Philip Stephens himself, who is also acquainted to me personally. Should you be the cause of my inability to discharge my duty to the Admiralty then I have no doubt that you may very well—”

  “So be it! Your letter is authority enough, but there will be an accounting of this, sir, mark my word!”

  Hobbes eased back in satisfaction.

  “Mr. Prewse, we shall return home east-about, by Cape Horn. Be so good as to attend me in my cabin at six bells with charts.”

  “Then I may instruct my assistant to convey aboard my instruments,” Hobbes said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Assistant?” Powlett snapped.

  “Mr. Evelyn, a most able young man. And our servants, of course.”

  Powlett’s eyes glittered dangerously. “And your cook and washer-woman, no doubt?”

  Hobbes sniffed. “There is no need to be facetious, Captain. I might remind you that time is of the essence.”

  * * *

  “No liberty ashore? The slivey bastards! What right d’ they have t’ tell Black Jack what time o’ day it is?” Haynes was pale and dangerous; Kydd kept his silence.

  Renzi replied, quietly, “Every right. They’re on an Admiralty mission, and we’re a King’s ship. But I don’t believe that is the reason why we can’t step off. Recollect that this is Spanish territory and they will not take kindly to our presence—there is every possibility of a fracas if we are allowed ashore.”

  “There’ll be a frack-arse if we ain’t allowed, mate,” Crow said, without humor.

  The moody silence was broken by Mullion, whose heavy jaw and brass earrings squared with his big tough hands to give an impression of indomitable strength. “Yer could be overlookin’ somethin’, gents,” he said, a smile lurking.

  “An’ what’s that?” Haynes snapped.

  “We’s headed t’ the Great South Sea—an’ while that ain’t a prime place fer prizes, yer recollects that fer quim-stickin’ it can’t be beat.”

  Kydd’s knowledge of native island people was limited to popular lurid tales ranging all the way from cannibalism to an idyllic Eden.

  The rest of the mess reanimated, and talk quickened. There was a scratching at the canvas flap. Haynes, being nearest, stuck out his head with a baleful “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Fairfax wants you ter vittle in them scientifical gents, Mr. Haynes,” rumbled an unknown voice.

  “Not ’ere ’e doesn’t, cully,” Haynes said abruptly.

  “An’ he did say youse are the smallest mess ’n’ can take two easylike.”

  Haynes cursed.

  “The wardroom takes two, ’n’ their servants come ’ere,” the voice continued remorselessly. “What shall I tell ’im?”

  * * *

  The pair could not have made more of a contrast.

  “Thank ye, gennelmen,” said one brightly, “Ben Doody, an’I takes care o’ Mr. Evelyn. Yer won’t need ter see me offen,” he added, his large three-cornered hat awkwardly in his big hands probably more because of the low deck-beams than out of respect. His bucolic figure beamed down on them.

  The other was a pinched, crabbed man, whose drab black resembled that of a down-at-heel clerk. His first comment was a sour “We expec’ to take our vittles in private, y’understands.” Haynes rose slowly and advanced on him. The man backed away, but tripped on a ring-bolt and fell to his knees.

  Kydd helped him up and asked, “An’ who ’r’ you?”

  “Rance, Jeremiah Rance.” He looked viciously at Haynes and added, “Servant o’ Mr. Hobbes.”

  “Yer’ve got yer dunnage?” Crow said mildly, looking from one to the other.

  Doody looked perplexed but Rance thumbed toward the deck outside. “Yeah, we have—outside.” He stood aside to allow someone to move past to carry the baggage inside.

  Nobody moved. Crow looked at Haynes seriously, but Haynes returned the look with cruel glee. “Gonna be a long v’yage home, they tells me.”

  “Sir, it’s quite impossible—our charts are old, of th’ last age. It is madness even to consider the matter!” The sailing master was uncharacteristically blunt, and Powlett glowered, but subsided. “And by this you are saying that we cannot reach their meridian in time? We must take risks, sir.”

  The table was overflowing with charts, and Kydd carried still others under his arm.

  “Risks? The word is too soft, sir! These islands are so numerous no man has counted them! And they are of the coral kind, whose fangs can tear the heart out of the stoutest vessel. Even Cap’n Cook was near to founderin’ after takin’ the ground on a coral islet!”

  Powlett’s baffled fury was barely held in check. The main Philippine Islands ran a thousand miles north and south, a barrier to any ship from the China Sea that wanted to enter into the limitless expanses of the Pacific Ocean. “The Spaniards pass through safely enough—I have heard the name San Bernardino mentioned.”

  “Aye, sir, but they have the charts an’ the pilots, both o’ which they would rather fry in hell than let us have. Sir, it is my duty t’ say, it’s mortal danger to our vessel should we flog about in unknown seas looking for a passage, we have no choice but to sail endelong around.”

  “Three, four hundred miles north, same distance back the other side—it sticks in m’ craw, Mr. Prewse—and we fail the mission!” Powlett tossed down the chart and stared in frustration through the broad stern windows.

  Kydd stirred. “Sir,” he found himself saying, “we have Doody, one o’ th’ gentleman’s servants. He—”

  “Hold y’r peace,” Prewse muttered, gathering up the charts. “This is not business f’r you.”

  But Powlett turned round. “What is it, Kydd?”

  “Well, sir, he says as how they got a visit fr’m the shore, some Spanish lord mayor or somethin’, who was greatly anxious t’ get south to the central part. He offered ‘em gold dollars if they’d take him there.” Kydd noticed Prewse’s tight expression, but continued respectfully, “O” course, they had t’ refuse him but, beggin’ y’r pardon, sir, seems t’ me that you could offer him a passage an’ in return he sees y’ safely through to the further side.”

  “Y’ can’t trust the Dons, sir.”

  Powlett’s hand rasped on his chin as he mused. “It’s a long way from Manila to the central parts. I’d wager the details of any arrangement would not necessarily need to be of concern to this mayor’s superiors.” He straightened in decision. “Let’s get him aboard, promise of passage for money, and we’ll discuss the alternative afterwards.”

  Rowley’s minimal Spanish was barely adequate, but the minor grandee affected not to notice. A dark-complexioned man with glittering black eyes, he was extraordinarily controlled in his expression and gestures, each movement considered and graceful, but watchful withal.

  Not knowing the naval salutes due a Spanish corregidor, Powlett had lined the entry point with as many boatswain’s mates as he could find. The ceremonial calls sounded strident and clear, gratifying to the proud Spaniard. He bowed and scraped with the utmost courtesy, but was reluctant to go below with the first lieutenant; there had been few first-class fighting frigates seen before in these waters.

  Stirk watched the proceedings with interest from the fo’c’sle. “Where they gonna get their swedes down? Hobbes ’as the cabins.”

  At that moment Crow arrived. “Aft on the gundeck—yer’ve not heard: it’s out o’ bounds ter us, worried there’ll be a frack-arse.” The term was going
around the ship fast.

  A hesitant Doody emerged by the after-hatch. Looking around he spotted Kydd and waved. Kydd grinned and beckoned him forward. “Mr. ’Obbes is in a rare ol’ takin’,” Doody chuckled. “Won’t speak ter the Spanish gennelman, says as how we’ll never get t’ his meridian in time ’cos of his delay.”

  “Why the orlmighty rush?”

  “Somethin’ ter do with his instryments—has t’ take readin’s an’ such on the far side o’ the world at exactly at the same time as they does in Greenwich, but why …”

  “Your Evelyn, ’e seems a sharp sorta hand,” Crow said.

  “He is! Lives fer ’is science. Seen him up past midnight, areadin’ his books ’n’ papers—but he takes care an’ dismisses me fer the night, bless ’is heart.”

  Kydd smiled. “So this cruise could be t’ your liking?”

  “Oh, aye! I engaged ter Mr. Evelyn t’ see the world, an’ I have.” His broad country face beamed. “I’ll have such a grand lot o’ tales ter tell ’em back in the village, why, I’ll not need t’ buy me an ale fer months.”

  The sailors roared with laughter, and Doody looked about him delighted.

  “Here’s yer mate,” Crow said, seeing Rance tramp up the fore-hatchway.

  Sighting Doody he approached. “Obbes wants ’is stores stowed away,” he ordered, “an’ he’s sayin’ now.” Doody winked at the seamen and left with Rance.

  Artemis stretched south at speed, the northwest monsoon perfect for the cruise through an inland sea past tropical islands, some hundreds of miles long, like the mountainous Mindoro, some no more than tiny sandy islets a hundred yards long. All were densely verdant, with jungle down to the water’s edge and little sign of human presence.

  The corregidor and his small party kept to themselves and were seldom seen. This was an agreeable thing for the seamen, for Hobbes had the habit of striding the decks at dawn, impeding the sailors at their cleaning duties, and he was always followed by a cloud of muttered curses.

  By the following afternoon Artemis was slipping down the coast of Panay, the blue mountains of the interior plain to see. As the first dog-watch was struck on the bell she hauled her wind to shape course to an easterly around the southern tip of the island, and as dusk began to draw in they reached their destination, the small provincial town of Ylo-Ylo.