Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  In the late afternoon sun, a cluster of buildings could be seen lying low and level at the water’s edge, their whiteness contrasting against the inky blue of the sea, the deep green of the thick tropical vegetation, and a gathering red sunset.

  “Man the side!”

  The corregidor wasted no time in disembarking; Artemis’s barge was specially called away for the task. As the boat’s crew pulled lustily for the shore, Hobbes watched them go, then turned to Powlett. “May I know why we are not immediately proceeding on our way? Lose not a moment, sir, we—”

  “Damn and blast! We cannot stir but we have a pilot,” Powlett snarled. “If the Don keeps his part o’ the bargain …”

  A tropical dusk fell and lights began to glimmer in the violet gloom ashore, the barge crew long since returned. A long bulking shadow in the sea nearby was the high brown island that sheltered Ylo-Ylo, and the peculiar odors of a foreign shore could be occasionally made out, but for want of a pilot the ship lay unmoving in the night.

  The next day was only an hour old when activity was seen ashore, which resolved into a twin outrigger boat skimming its way directly toward Artemis. Two men were aboard, a Spaniard and a Filipino. The boat, with its single brightly colored lateen sail, smartly came about in a rainbow shower of spray and drifted up to the side.

  The boat-boy flung a painter of coarse coir rope aboard the frigate and the Spaniard climbed the side. “Piloto” he stated loudly, as though not expecting to be understood by the English officers.

  His eyebrows lifted at Rowley’s fractured welcome, to which he replied in loud but simple words.

  “Our pilot, sir,” said Rowley. “Mr., er, Salcedo. I think he begs that the bangkha be towed astern, as they will use it later in their return.”

  “Very well,” Powlett answered.

  His keen look at the man seemed to discommode him, or it could have been the sheer intimidating size of the frigate, much bigger than the usual trading vessels of the region. Salcedo was short and stumpy with an Iberian intensity, but his attempt at swagger did not convince.

  He went to the side and shouted angrily at the boat-boy, who doused and stowed the sail, paying out more of the painter and doubling it around the mast. He scrambled awkwardly up the side, and as he came over the bulwark stumbled and sprawled headlong.

  Salcedo’s eyes flickered to the quarterdeck gathering and back to the helpless boat-boy. He snorted angrily. From inside his shirt he drew out a peculiar short coil of a black flexible substance, chased in leather at one end, the other terminating in a knobby excrescence. He lashed at the boat-boy who waited motionless on hands and knees, but when the blows ceased he looked up with a deadly hatred.

  Powlett’s face hardened. “Take that man forward, and see he’s messed comfortably.”

  Prewse motioned to Kydd, who led away the boat-boy.

  It seemed the logical thing. Pinto was a Portuguese, which was nearly Spain, and in the event grudgingly admitted to the language. Kydd handed the man over, his brown face and black eyes clearing at the rough sympathy his treatment had earned from the sailors.

  Pinto, it became clear, knew more than a little Spanish, for he was able to explain Salcedo’s curious instrument. “He was beat wi’ the pizzle o’ the horse,” he said blank-faced. “Ver’ painful but hurt th’ honor more.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He say his name Goryo—this is the Ylongos name, he come from Guimaras.”

  “Tell ’im we’ll see him right, mate,” Petit said.

  By the time Kydd had reached his post at the helm the ship was at stations to unmoor ship. The anchor was broken easily enough from the sandy seabed and sail dropped from every yard. With a graceful sway Artemis reached out over the sparkling seas toward the eastern horizon, almost exactly halfway along the barrier of the Philippines.

  The pilot stood impassive next to the wheel, but all the officers of Artemis and the sailing master were on the quarterdeck as well. It was hard to take, trusting the safety of the ship to one man, and there was an aura of apprehension among them.

  Panay was left astern, but other islands large and small were scattered about on all sides. By early afternoon one in particular loomed across their path, and in the background the gray-blue of a continous mountainous coast in the farther distance stretched as far as they could see in both directions—a complete block on their farther progress.

  Powlett was taking no chances. In the forechains, Kydd was heaving the lead, a skilled and wet job. Held by a canvas belt to the shrouds, he stood alone on the narrow platform at their base, leaning out over the sea hissing past below. He began each cast with a swing, which would get bigger and bigger, until he could whirl the long lead weight in a neat circle over his head before sending it plummeting into the sea well ahead. The line would rush out while the vessel overran the position, and when the line was vertical Kydd interpreted the depth from the nearest mark to the water—red bunting, black leather, a blue serge, or if it lay between marks it would be estimated as a “deep.” It was not a job for the fainthearted. A hesitant fist on the line could bring the seven-pound lead down on an unprotected skull.

  “No bottom with this line!” bawled Kydd, as cast after cast brought no sudden slackening of the line. He continued his work steadily, with the same result, the wet line rapidly soaking him.

  Ahead lay the island. The officers’ faces tightened as the frigate sailed closer. “This is the island of Masbate, apparently,” Rowley said, in response to Salcedo’s grunting. Artemis kept her course, anxious eyes staring forward all along her deck.

  “Sir, we’re standing into danger,” blurted Parry, fixing his eyes balefully on Salcedo, who continued to look ahead sullenly.

  Powlett glanced at Salcedo. “The passage through will be narrow and difficult, Mr. Parry. We will follow this fellow’s course.”

  Kydd cast the lead once more. It plunged into the sea, but this time the line slackened. He hauled it taut quickly, and when the ship overtook it his hail changed. “By the deep twelve!” The deadly coral now lay seventy-odd feet below the sea.

  On the quarterdeck the group of men looked at each other. “Steady on course!” said Rowley. The tension grew, and on deck seamen off watch looked at each other uneasily.

  “By the mark ten!” Kydd pulled in the line quickly, hand over hand, and as he did so he caught a subliminal flicker of a paler shape passing swiftly below, followed by an indeterminate darker shape, before the sea resumed its usual deep blue-green.

  It was always disturbing for a sailor to sense that things other than an infinite depth lay beneath the keel, and a coral seabed was quite outside Kydd’s experience. Sixty feet, and Artemis drew about eighteen feet at her deepest, the stern.

  Salcedo seemed edgy. His gaze was clamped as though fixing a mark, although there was nothing that remotely resembled a sea-mark on the lush slopes of the island ahead.

  Kydd watched carefully The red bunting hung wetly from the lead-line a few inches above the water. “By the deep eight!” he bawled. Only thirty feet separated the vulnerable bottom of Artemis from the cruel coral. Now the alternating pale and dark was common. He shivered and brought in the line for another cast.

  This time it was the Master who spoke. “Sir, I should bring it to y’r attention—unless we bear away soon we will not weather the point.” He hesitated then continued, “This is hard, sir, to stay quiet while we enter into hazard at the word of a Spaniard.”

  Powlett snapped back, “This will be a channel we are following—it makes no sense for the fellow to wreck us ashore.”

  “By the mark five!” Kydd’s hail carried clear to the quarterdeck. Ten feet below the keel! An instant stirring among the officers, but Salcedo continued to gaze doggedly ahead.

  “This is too much, sir, we will be cast ashore!”

  The Master confronted Powlett, who thrust him aside. “Stand fast!” he roared.

  At that moment there was a scuffle on the foredeck, and Pinto raced a
ft, followed by a shambling Goryo, clearly enjoying the effects of generous offerings of grog. “Sir!” panted Pinto to the Captain, knuckling his forehead. “This Ylongos, he tell me, we are condemn!” In his urgency the English wilted. Salcedo looked sharply at him and then at the Filipino.

  “What?” Powlett bellowed.

  Salcedo jabbered tensely at the Filipino, who shouted back.

  Pinto’s eyes stared wildly. “Sir, they mean to run us on the reef, and leave us as plunder fer the natives!”

  CHAPTER 10

  For a split second there was a shocked silence, broken only by Kydd’s anxious yell, “By the deep four!” Then came a burst of simultaneous action. Salcedo dived for the bulwarks and was brought to the deck with a crash by Hallison; Powlett bellowed orders that had the frigate sheering into the wind to check her ongoing surge; and all hands rushed to the side to look down into the gin-clear waters.

  The coral bottom was clearly visible twenty-five feet below, a riot of colorful rocks interspersed with bright patches of sandy bottom, with just enough depth to shade all with an ominous hue. The frigate drifted forward slowly despite her backed sails. The trap had been well sprung; heading for the sloping reef with the wind constant from astern, there was no way the square-rigged vessel could simply turn into the wind and claw off.

  There was little time. As Artemis lay hove to, Powlett turned to Parry. “Into the boat. Find a passage ahead out.” He wheeled on Salcedo. “And get this villainous dog out of my sight—in irons!”

  Parry lost no time in shedding his cocked hat and other encumbrances. He signaled to Doud, who went over the bulwarks and into the mizzen-chains pulling the bangkha up to allow Parry to board it, before following himself. The boat-boy headed over the side and emerged spluttering. He heaved himself up into the narrow craft and Doud surrendered the little steering oar to him.

  Stopping only to claim Kydd’s hand lead, the bangkha skimmed off at an angle.

  Kydd took another lead-line and resumed his duty, watching the reef garden pass beneath them at a slow walking pace as the frigate drifted. He saw occasional heads of coral rising above the exotic undersea plain, their details horrifyingly clear.

  Twenty feet.

  All eyes were on the bangkha, which was half a mile off and seemed preoccupied with a particular area.

  It was a fearful thing, to face the impending destruction of their magnificent fighting machine—but when it was also their home, their refuge, their everything … Kydd felt a cold uncertainty creeping into him. He gathered the line for another cast, but before he could begin the swing he felt the frigate tremble through his feet. Almost immediately another subliminal rumble came and then the ship’s drifting was checked and the vessel seemed to pivot around slightly.

  He heard a grumbling scrape at the hull. Aft, the sea grew rapidly cloudy with pale particles. Sudden fear showed in every face. Then the ship swung free and continued its slow drift.

  Kydd looked around for the bangkha. It was a mile away, at the point off the end of the large island, but it was returning with Parry standing erect at peril of being taken by the long boom. The bangkha whirled to a stop a few hundred yards off the bow. Parry ducked the sail and stood. At his signal the vessel’s fore-topsail loosed and, with steerage way on, Artemis altered toward her. The bangkha waited, then skimmed ahead to another point.

  They were still heading toward the island, but angling toward its tip, and Kydd felt instinctively that they were following a slightly deeper channel implied by a tide-scour around the point. Certainly the soundings had steadied. They passed close to the island, almost within earshot of the small group of villagers gathering on the seashore who watched in awe as the big ship passed so near. A few waved shyly, but the ship’s rate of progress was so quick that they were on the other side of the island and stretching away beyond in minutes.

  The coral fell away rapidly to an anonymous cobalt blue. The carpenter clumped up from below to report a dry hold and Parry was cordially slapped on the back as he returned on deck. Pinto touched his forehead and spoke to Powlett. “Th’ Ylongos say, he know where we go, an’ it is distant nine leagues—there he visit his brother,” he said. More sail was made and, to lifting hearts, Artemis foamed away over the glittering sea.

  “A splendid sight, Captain.” Hobbes had finished his breakfast below unaware of the drama of the morning, and was now ready to take a stroll about the decks. He looked at Powlett curiously. “I see your Spanish friend has incurred your wrath. He certainly appears unhappy at his fate, raging below that he is to be sacrificed when the ship strikes the rocks.” His expression was politely enquiring, but Powlett didn’t enlighten him.

  Ahead the impassable barrier loomed, but it soon became clear that the northern part overlapped the south, and before the noonday meal was piped they had taken on substance and reality—and a steep channel had opened between them. It widened and there was a slight swell. The southern point drew back to reveal a small but definite slot of daylight between the two landmasses. The channel broadened more and they began breasting the swell that could only come from a great ocean, long, languorous and effortlessly driving into the shore.

  “God be praised,” muttered Hobbes.

  Powlett came to a decision. “Ask this fellow,” indicating Goryo, “where there is water. We take the opportunity to wood ’n’ water while we can.”

  It was a scene of tropic splendor. Kydd felt an uncouth intruder in his rough sea-clothes as he stepped out of the boat and into the sandy shallows of a sheltered bay on the inward side of the point.

  “This is enchantment incarnate,” Renzi breathed, treading softly on the sandy beach, as they headed for the shade of the fringing palm trees.

  There was a guilty thrill in stepping onto the soil of a Spanish colony—but a very real apprehension too, for if a Spanish man-o’war suddenly rounded the point to dispute with Artemis, the small shore party would necessarily be abandoned. And apart from Goryo’s assurances, there might be a Spanish fort over the jungletopped cliffs farther inland. At this very moment a party of soldiers could well be slashing their way toward them through the undergrowth.

  Armed marines hastened to secure each end of the beach. Kydd was uneasily aware that, in the event of trouble, the most they could achieve would be a small delay. But that might be enough to enable them to return to the cutter, which now lay safely bobbing to a small anchor a dozen yards out, bows to sea.

  The vivid island jungle, with its color and noise, distracted Kydd. He keenly felt his new responsibility for his small party. “Spread some canvas, then, you scowbunkin’ lubbers!” he shouted, as much at Renzi as his own men, who stood about gaping at the profusions of nature. Renzi’s party would fill the huge leaguer casks at the spring among the rocks after Kydd’s party emptied them of old water and rolled them up the beach, but at the moment Renzi was wasting time standing in admiration at the scene.

  Reluctantly the men began the task, stagnant water bubbling out into the golden sand. Then the cask was bullied up the beach, under the enormous palms and to the rocks a little farther along.

  The leaguer would be a crushing half a ton in weight when filled, and therefore would need to be parbuckled on spars down the soft sand. There would be no laborious loading into the boat, however. Fresh water was lighter than salt and the huge casks would be gently floated out to the ship.

  Kydd put his shoulder to the barrels with the rest and the work proceeded. He couldn’t help darting uneasy glances at the dense foliage at the edge of the jungle, thinking of what might lie behind the thick verdancy. This land was exotic and subtly alien. It would be good to make it back to the familiar safety of the ship.

  A preternatural disquiet seized him. Something round about him had changed, and he was not sure what. The hair on the back of his neck rose. The big barrel came to a stop, but the ill-natured mumbling trailed off when the men saw Kydd’s face. He froze, trying to let his senses tell him. Then he had it. It was the quiet. The raucou
s racket of parakeets had subsided, their quarrels retreating into the distance and letting an ominous silence descend.

  Kydd’s eyes searched the thick undergrowth—was that the glint of an eye? An unnatural shaking of leaves? They were unarmed: if there was a sudden rush it would all be over in moments. His palms sweated as he considered what to do. Delay would only allow the hidden numbers to swell until they were ready to attack.

  He yelled hoarsely at the nearest sentry, and picking up a cooper’s iron stumbled toward the jungle path barely visible in the fringing growth. If he and the sentries could buy the others time …

  Terrified squeals broke out, and into the open burst at least a dozen nut-brown children. They clutched at each other in fear, staring at Kydd with big black eyes.

  “F’r God’s sake!” he blazed, lowering the cooper’s iron and letting his heart’s thudding die down. His expression might have been suitable for crowding on to an enemy deck, but now …

  He forced a smile. “Y’r nothin’ but a bunch of rascals, d’ye ear?” he called. They stood fearfully and Kydd’s eyes were caught by the spasmodic tug of a small boy at his older sister’s ragged dress.

  “Come here, y’ little weasels!” he said, holding his hands out and clicking his fingers.

  Nobody reacted until the small boy stepped forward half a pace and called out boldly, “Pini-pig!” before swiftly assuming the safety of his sister’s skirt.

  The cry was repeated by others, and more, until a regular chant began, “Pini-pig! Pini-pig! Pini-pig!”

  The other sailors had come up with Kydd at the sight of the children, but now they growled in exasperation. “Oo are they callin’ a pig, then?” a tough able seaman snapped.

  “Take a strap to ’em, I will,” said an older seaman.