Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  Crow scratched his ear. “There is somethin’ by way of—compensations, mate.” His companions looked up.

  “We’re in Fiddler’s Green fer women. These islands, yer c’n buy a woman fer a nail or a bit o’ iron, they’re hot even fer a pretty bit o’ rag. All over yer like a rash, they’ll be, have ter beat ’em off with a stick—”

  Kydd saw Renzi’s face tighten.

  “—an’ they goes at it like good ’uns, no hangin’ back!”

  Renzi suddenly stood; his face was pale and set. They stared at him, but he left abruptly.

  “What ’n’ hell’s bit ’im?” Mullion said.

  Kydd could not believe that Renzi’s usual near inhuman control had slipped on a matter of common coarseness. He got to his feet hastily and went after his friend. He found him standing at the ship’s side, gripping a shroud and staring intensely out at the infinity of blue sea. “There are times when it is—save your presence, Tom—an insupportable burden to be closeted with such … savages, barbarians.”

  “It was lewd talk, is all.”

  “Not that! Never that! I have heard worse in the best company. No, what freezes my blood is that they believe themselves the civilized, enlightened society, and the savage your unredeemable barbarian. Nothing could be more offensive to me! Tonight we will talk of the Noble Savage of Rousseau, the irreconcilable dichotomy between nature and the artificial, perfectibility and man in a state of nature. My friend, your eyes will be opened. You will understand the sources of unhappiness and discontent in our ways, but as well you will come to know the potential human felicity in natural man.”

  Kydd saw that Renzi had been deeply moved and determined to pursue the reason further.

  “Sir, I give you joy. We are at the farthest extremity of the world. We have intersected the meridian you so desire, and yet within span of your due date.” Powlett’s words were dry and sarcastic, but they did not affect the satisfaction in Hobbes’s face.

  “My felicitations on your consummate maritime skills, Captain,” Hobbes rejoined, in like tones. “And now we have but to select a suitable point of land—an island—somewhere along this meridian to erect our observation platforms.”

  Powlett glanced stonily at Prewse.

  “Sir, the islands are here far separated, days sailing one from the other,” Prewse said doubtfully.

  “The nearest one, then. Do I have to make my meaning plainer?” Hobbes snapped.

  “We may raise Nukumea before evening,” Prewse replied, nettled.

  In deference to her condition, her increasingly sun-bleached sails and stretched rigging, Artemis did not tack about to her new northerly course, but took the longer, safer route of wearing ship. They would track up the meridian until they found a suitable location for the observations. Within hours a tiny dark green smudge hoisted itself above the horizon. It was an unremarkable-looking island, a little lopsided with a peak to one side and the rest relatively flat. Nearer to, they saw that the flat part was in fact a palm-encircled inner lagoon, and on the flanks of the peak was a plateau of higher ground. Pacific surf beat continuously on the bright sandy beach in a dull roar that sounded above the shipboard noises.

  “This may be suitable,” mused Hobbes, trying to steady a telescope against the moving deck. “Yet I will trouble you for a boat to shore. I will work a lunar to satisfy myself of our longitude.”

  “You have doubts of our chronometers?” challenged Prewse.

  “Machines, sir, mere machines,” sniffed Hobbes, “fit only to ease the life of the indolent—if they should fail, sir, you will be cast away. Trust the heavens, my dear fellow, in which there is the cold truth of the eternal to be won by the diligent.”

  Prewse snorted.

  “Clear away the starb’d cutter, Mr. Parry,” Powlett growled. “Be so good as to accompany Mr. Hobbes ashore, observe and report to me on return.”

  Even a quarter-mile offshore the lead-line found no seabed, so instead of lying to anchor, the frigate heaved to with backed top-sails to await the return of the boat. The eyes of the whole vessel followed its progress as it sailed cautiously along the beach. It rounded a point, but its sails still showed above the low grassy spit of land.

  The angle of the sails changed when the boat checked its course and suddenly moved inwards. The sails disappeared behind a thicker clump of lofty palms. Reluctantly, the onlookers left in ones and twos, tiring of attempting to imagine what it was like ashore among the anonymous dark green verdancy.

  It was trying, but there was no alternative but to “stand off and on”—sail on a course out to sea for a space of time, then reverse course to arrive back in the original position, a feat of navigation in itself.

  At dawn the next morning Artemis met her cutter as it emerged into the open sea. “This will serve, Captain,” Hobbes said, as soon as he had crossed the bulwark. He hurried below, leaving Powlett glaring at the lieutenant.

  “Mr. Parry?” he snapped.

  “Sir, the island would appear suitable for Mr. Hobbes’s observations. It is precisely on the line of the meridian. The open area you see there has a good prospect for the erection of the platforms, and it has adequate water.” Parry’s eyes showed weariness from the night spent under the stars with the acerbic Hobbes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Parry,” Powlett conceded.

  “And, sir, if the sea state will allow it, there is a possible careenage to the south.”

  “Ah! Is there, b’ God?” said Powlett, with interest. The chance to heave the ship down and get at the tropical sea growth on its bottom was too good to pass up. There was, besides, their previous brush with the coral, which would have damaged the thin copper sheeting and exposed the timbers beneath to attack by the pernicious teredo worm.

  The cutter still bobbed alongside. “I’ll see for myself. We have some weeks here at least. God’s bones, but we’ll not waste it.”

  Above the crude rafts fringing the new waterline of Artemis, now heaved over in the shallows in the lee of the island, the sight of her smooth verdigris-green-blotched hull was breathtaking. She lay on her side, hauled down by tackles secured to her masts. They were reinforced by additional purchases and, stripped of all possible weight, the curves of her underwater section were now accessible.

  It had been a backbreaking task, removing all the frigate’s stores, equipment and fittings ashore, but the seamen had been diverted by their exotic setting and the feel of dry land underfoot.

  Kydd had been strangely moved by the pristine shore, with its soaring palms whose feathery fronds tossed in the oceanic air. In the thick variegated undergrowth occupying the lower levels the vegetation was wild and profuse with orchids half a foot across. A moody silence inland beckoned mysteriously.

  Powlett had been uncompromising, however: while the ship was being careened it was terribly vulnerable. He fretted, stumping restlessly about, driving the men relentlessly. The work was arduous, harsh scraping and swabbing from the rafts with the sea growths and detritus raining down on them, the deep salty sea odor of it all contrasting fiercely with the rich, soft land smell.

  Their sleeping place was on the higher open grassy plateau. Simple rectangular huts, made snug from the cooler night breeze with woven palm thatch in the walls, were all that was needed. The sailors slung their hammocks inside to be safe against any unknown ground-dwelling animals.

  The officers had tents, while the scientists insisted on separate accommodation, in a capacious hut. At the highest point of the plateau, nothing more than a slight rise, the observatory took shape. The platform was stoutly constructed and sheltering side roofs were prepared to keep the instruments safe against rain showers.

  The few marines Artemis carried were posted at the broad landward edge of the plateau, facing into the unknown jungle. There was not the slightest sign of human occupation and the sailors padded to and fro up the short path from the beach without any fear. And above them all was erected the tallest flagpole they could contrive, and from it, a large ensign s
treamed out, conspicuous and confident.

  At dusk, work ceased. A large cooking fire blazed up, a welcome beacon in the dark blue night. The bubbling pots wreathed cooking smells about the hungry men. Beyond was the looming black mass of the peak in the darkness.

  “Damn fine vittles!” said Kydd, with satisfaction, as he gnawed at his bone.

  Renzi grinned in the companionable glare of the fire. “These are not the words you usually choose on board when we dine on this self-same dish.”

  “No, but then I was never so sharp set,” Kydd mumbled back.

  Renzi moved a few yards away from the fire to appreciate the brilliant coruscation of stars in the clear night. Over the peak would soon emerge the most splendid full moon, and Renzi felt a lifting satisfaction at his condition. The young moonlight silvered the trees and huts but, as well, limned a solitary figure standing to one side. Renzi could just make out that it was Evelyn, still as a statue and staring out to sea, his face in shadow.

  He crossed over to him, stumbling in the black and silver tussocks. “A glorious sight for an astronomer,” he said equably.

  For a moment Evelyn did not reply. When he finally turned, Renzi could see that his face was drawn. “It is—but you should comprehend that it is not my choice that I should be here.” He looked toward the fire and away again. “The adventuring life is not to my taste—the privations, the boredom. My science is of a solitary kind, not to be improved by enforced socializing.”

  “I do apologize if I intrude,” Renzi began.

  Evelyn moved to bring Renzi’s face into the strengthening moonlight. “You appear to have a certain … sensibility, if I might be so crass as to remark it.”

  “At present, the sea life suits my disposition. I have had my perspectives enhanced, my views of the human condition elaborated, and in fine it has been a salutary experience.”

  “Then I felicitate you on it,” Evelyn said dryly. “The theories propounded by Mr. Hobbes are elegant and have deep implications for natural philosophy, and this is why I am here in testing them, not for any love of distant voyaging.”

  Renzi opened his mouth to interject, but Evelyn added swiftly, “You know that William Gooch was my learned tutor in the astronomical arts. Now I have heard that his bones lie in O-why-ee, last year murdered by savages, as was Cook before him.” He lifted his chin and gestured to the invisible horizon. “Have you any idea how inconceivably remote we are?” Renzi kept silent. “La Perouse and his gallant company in the Astrolabe have been lost these five years. They could be cast away and waiting for rescue on any one of some thousands of islands—or then again their company might be destroyed, every one.”

  “Wilson was cast up on the Pelew Islands some years ago,” Renzi felt impelled to say, “and the native peoples there most hospitably treated him. I remember, he constructed a small vessel and sailed away and in it he conveyed, at their request, the son of the King of the Pelews. He attended at the court of King George, you will recollect.”

  “And I also recollect that the poor wight breathed his last the next year in Rotherhithe and never did see his island again. No, sir! You, for reasons that must appear sufficiently cogent to you, have adopted this perilous sea life, but it is not congenial to me. Pray leave me to my science.” Evelyn folded his arms and continued to stare seaward.

  Careening continued at first light on the other side of the hull. The carpenter was now able to give his full attention to the ruckled copper plating that marked their encounter with the coral.

  “I shall not sleep peaceably until we are a-swim again, Mr. Prewse,” Powlett muttered.

  “I am sanguine that we shall be b’ morning.”

  “Then you’ll oblige me by—”

  Powlett stopped short at the sudden widening of Prewse’s eyes. He swung round, alarmed. Around the point swept a native war canoe, the savages rigid with surprise at the sight of Artemis.

  CHAPTER 11

  They’ll be no more’n a thousan’ of ’em down on us like screamin’ banshees in a brace o’ shakes,” the boatswain said dryly. The canoe had taken in the scene of the helpless ship lying on her side, then made away with impressive speed.

  Fairfax hurried over to Powlett’s side. “Sir, the Feejee is accounted an incorrigible cannibal,” he said, with a worried frown.

  Powlett looked at him.

  “They smokes the heads ‘n’ sticks ’em on a pole,” the boatswain added.

  The gunner appeared and joined the group. “Thirty-two long guns an’ we can’t use a one,” he said, his eyes squinting at the sandy point where the canoe had slipped out of sight.

  “We’ve got one, maybe two days f set the barky to rights— can’t be done,” the boatswain said loudly. There was a general stir.

  Powlett frowned: there was no glory in this kind of war. “Set the boats a-swim, Mr. Merrydew, and I desire a swivel in the cutter.” The boats had been previously drawn up on the beach; now they would be streamed afloat, bows to sea and one with a small cannon. “I want fifteen stand of muskets loaded and primed, larb’d watch stand to in two hours.” With a fierce look at his men he said, “Rest o’ you, back to work.”

  It wasn’t two, or even three hours, it was full evening when they came; suddenly around the point in a swarm, twenty-two impressive war canoes and swelling numbers of tattooed warriors. The ruddy glare of torches in each canoe flamed dramatically in the dusky light, adding a devilish animation.

  The sailors stood to arms immediately and lined the water’s edge, knowing that if the savages established themselves ashore it would be a grave situation. His naked sword picking up the glow of the torches, Parry prowled in front of them, looking repeatedly to Powlett for the word.

  “No man to fire without my express order!” Powlett thundered.

  Ominously there was no noise from the canoes, no war cries or yelling, just the silence of a murderous discipline. A conch shell sounded from the largest canoe, a low, powerful ululation that set the hairs on the back of the neck on end. The canoes slowly spread out in a wide semicircle, just out of musket range, clubs and spears plainly in sight.

  “Here is y’r Noble Savage, then,” Kydd growled at Renzi, gripping his Sea Service musket and wondering how a cutlass would stand up to a spear or club after his single shot.

  Renzi gave a half-smile. “He is indeed. Can you not perceive his desperate need to defend his tiny, perfect kingdom against the rude impact of our advance?”

  Snorting, Kydd replied, “I c’n see ’em well enough—an’ they think we’re a poor vessel capsized an’ cast up on the beach, which they think t’ plunder.”

  Lifting his head Renzi refused to be drawn. “See how they remain out of range of the muskets. They have had dealings with ‘civilization’ before.” He lowered his musket a little and mused, “They very likely call it a ‘fire-stick’ or similar.”

  There was a vigorous discussion in the largest canoe, which contained a very fat individual sitting in a chair. He wore a high, colorful headdress. A smaller canoe came alongside, the occupants stepped out, and a more slightly built warrior climbed in followed by three others. Then it whirled about and paddled swiftly inshore.

  “It’s a parlay, Mr. Parry,” said Powlett to the restless officer, “and I want to win time for the savants and their damn observations.” The canoe headed for the center of the beach, where the sailors reluctantly fell back. Powlett moved forward and waited, arms folded.

  The canoe grounded with a hiss, and the warriors held the craft steady as the slightly built man stepped into the shallows. He wore just one garment, a sort of skirt falling a little below the knees, and had on a minor headdress. His slight build contrasted with the burly warriors taking up position on each side and he carried no weapons. The threesome paused at the edge of the water. A petty officer with a lanthorn appeared behind Powlett. The light appeared soft and gold compared with the red glare of the torches.

  Slowly, the natives moved up the beach. Suddenly the slighter man hurled h
imself forward in a run. The two flanking him were caught off guard. Raising their jagged bone clubs they sprang forward. Flinging himself at Powlett, the man choked something out unintelligibly. Powlett snarled, “Present!” and all along the beach muskets bristled as they took aim at the warriors. They stopped in their tracks, milling about sullenly, and calling out in hoarse, angry phrases.

  The sound of the man’s tearing sobs sounded distressingly loud. He was curled into a fetal crouch at Powlett’s feet, his body heaving. Horrified, Fairfax moved forward and pulled him to his knees. “It’s a—a white man!” he said, and let him drop.

  Powlett did not bend. “Can you speak English?” he snapped.

  The man pulled himself together, lifting his head and looking from one face to another. He staggered to his feet, still staring at the silent faces. He reached out to touch Powlett’s threadbare sea uniform. “I can that, sir,” he said, his voice muffled. At Powlett’s interrogative expression he straightened and cleared his throat. “My deepest apologies, sir, for m’ display,” he continued, his voice strengthening, “but it’s been four goddamn years since I clapped eyes on one o’ my own kind.” The American accent was stilted, awkward.

  “You are shipwrecked and now live among the savages?” Fairfax asked.

  The man glanced back at the warriors menacing him from afar with their clubs. He edged up the beach, farther into the protection of the armed sailors, and continued, “Nathaniel Gurney, mate o’ the Narragansett—as was. Th’ year ’eighty-eight, near the end of a tarnation good season whaling, we follered a pod o’ Right whales south into these unknown seas. We let go th’ hook, thinkin’ to wood ‘n’ water when we was tricked ashore by the natives. Only I an’ two others was left aboard, me bein’ mate o’ the watch.” He gulped. “Saw it all happen along shore, butchered th’ whole crew they did, then they comes for us—we’re not enough to work the ship, so we hides. When they finds us we think it’s the end, but they laughs ‘n’ thinks it’s a big joke. So, sir, I’m guest o’ the Panga people, ‘n’ the private lapdog of Tofa-maulu, the King.”