Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  The sun still beamed down, the breeze ruffled Kydd’s hair playfully, but out of nowhere death had come to claim his own.

  CHAPTER 12

  Kydd stumbled up the path to the cooking fire, its ruddy glow a beacon in the gathering dusk. He could hear the distinctive twang of Gurney’s American accent and saw that he was at the center of a small group of seamen sitting together. He hurried to join them, still shocked by what he had seen, and needing human company.

  “Abe, yer must’ve had a such a time of it—women, all the vittles a man c’d want, nothin’ to do. Why d’ye want ter go, mate?” asked an older sailor.

  “Aye—it’s paradise here,” added Doud.

  Gurney didn’t answer at first, looking from one to the other with his head oddly cocked to one side as if in distrust of his audience. “Yer think it is, shipmates?”

  “Yair, paradise right enough,” said a young foretopman.

  Leaning forward, Gurney responded passionately, “I grant ye, the weather’s always top-rate, an’ the vittles are there fer the takin’, but think on this. You don’t have nothin’ to do! A-tall! Yer want anythin’, yer reaches out an’ picks it off a tree or somethin’. You never works, never gets the satisfaction, each day th’ same. Never see y’r own kind, never speak to a Christian soul—and the rest o’ the world just ain’t there, fer all ye hear of it. Fer all I know, King Louis may’ve come ter take back his Louisiana from the Spanish.”

  Sardonic looks were exchanged. “No, cuffin, King Louis ain’t no more,” Doud told him gently. “Frogs, they has a revolution o’ their own, an’ separates ’im from ’is ’ead.”

  Gurney’s eyes widened. “Then how …”

  “They has some sort o’ citizens’, er, parleyment—the gentry got their heads lopped off an’ all, see.” Doud was clearly having difficulty with the idea that someone could be ignorant of the tumult of blood that was convulsing the world.

  “And we’re at war with the Crapauds—they’re hard t’ beat on land,” said Kydd, “but they can’t best us at sea,” he added, with feeling. He thought over other events of the last four years—the shocking mutiny on the ship Bounty, the Terror in Paris, George Washington becoming the first President of America, these things Gurney would learn about in time.

  “Yeah, but me here with a bunch o’ heathen, always feudin’ and fightin’, struttin’ up ‘n’ down like.” He stared gloomily at the remaining figures on the beach. “I seen sights ’d make yer blood run cold. They’re murderin’ heathens, shipmates.”

  Kydd thought of Renzi. High-minded thoughts would be no proof against the savagery of the warriors should they grow tired of peaceful trade. His thoughts drifted back to Tamaha. He would see her again tomorrow. Would she be thinking of him now? Would he tell Renzi of her? He knew that he was not immune to feminine charms—their rivalry over Sarah Bullivant had shown that. Sarah! The name caused a stab of feeling, but he had now detached that part of his past into a self-contained unit that carried her memory.

  Darkness lay softly over the island, and Kydd finished the last of his meal, a boiled concoction of salt beef and yam served in a half coconut shell. Still no sign of Renzi. A buzz of talk washed about him. He lay back on the grass and gazed at the stars, thinking of nothing in particular, just enjoying the night air.

  Drowsy, he went to the living hut. Their hammocks were still slung and the matting sides were rolled up to give an airiness to the warm night. As he climbed aboard his hammock Kydd saw a dark form by Renzi’s position. “Nicholas?” he called softly. The form froze. “Is that you back with us?”

  “Yes,” said Renzi shortly.

  Kydd sensed a bridge had been crossed. “Did you …”

  “I had the transcendent experience of communicating with the savages in their innocence,” Renzi said stiffly.

  So there would be no revision of Rousseau’s Noble Savage. Kydd wondered what form the communication had taken, given the total lack of a common tongue. “John Jones was taken by a devil fish,” he said. “It was the strangest thing y’ ever saw, just a single bite an’ he was destroyed—Nathaniel Gurney says it was the Scorpion Fish, very bad. An’ he also says as how the savage are treacherous heathens, given to murderin’ each other and—”

  “Gurney is a fool,” Renzi spat, “an ignorant wastrel who, like us, is causing the foul corruption of civilization to lay its dead hand on these islands.”

  “How so?” Kydd replied, with heat. “D’ye despise even y’r own society?”

  Renzi paused, and Kydd could hear his angry breathing. “I beg—we will talk no more of it,” Renzi said, his voice thick.

  Kydd bit off his reply and settled in his hammock.

  He awoke late with a muzzy head after a night of conflicting dreams. He looked over the edge of his hammock to Renzi’s, but his friend had left—as he was entitled to, Kydd reminded himself. Their spell of duty did not begin until noon.

  Tamaha was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t feel like going down by the lagoon or taking the steep climb to the peak. He wandered up to the observatory platform. The observations had begun, and Kydd watched Evelyn’s total concentration at the gleaming brass instruments and his quick scrawls as he added to his growing pile of papers. Hobbes glowered at the inquisitive onlookers and continued his dour ministrations.

  “You, sir—yes, you?” It was Evelyn, beckoning to him while he remained bent at an eyepiece. Kydd came obediently, knowing that Evelyn was not given to idle whims. “Be so good as to advise me, Mr. Mariner. My glass has a propensity to tremble and sway in this rather forthright breeze. It makes a ruination of my figures.” He waved at the slender brass length of his instrument up on its wooden platform.

  Kydd saw how the long optical piece was being affected by its length. “I believe y’ have here a mizzen gaff right enough, yet wanting its rigging.” He pursed his lips. “I’ll return with the necessaries.” Evelyn nodded, bemused at the mysterious metaphor.

  Returning with a hank of spun yarn, Kydd capably set up a pair of vangs each side of the instrument leading to its outer end from the stout support posts of the platform. He contrived a deadeye on one side, which allowed him to tighten the “rigging” to a harp-like tautness. “There,” he said, with satisfaction. “Do y’ take a look through y’ optics now.”

  Evelyn bent and took the eyepiece again. “Ah! The very wonder of the age—here we have a rocklike stillness.” He relinquished the instrument and stepped down. “My thanks, Mr. Mariner.” Noticing Kydd’s interest he added, “We have in these papers an infinitely precious aggregation of data, which when matched with simultaneous observations in Greenwich will settle once and for all the precessional paradox.”

  Nodding wisely, Kydd noticed the care that Evelyn took in replacing the papers in a polished wooden box. No doubt this contained a final product of why the frigate had traveled so far to this remote region.

  “I have not seen your friend, er …”

  “Nicholas Renzi.”

  “Just so. Presumably he is distracted in making sport with the ladies of these islands.”

  Kydd tried to suppress a smile. “He is not. He has a hankerin’ after the theories of Mr. Rousseau, an’ believes that we corrupt the savage by our civilization.”

  Evelyn’s eyebrows rose. “Rousseau? You have debated him?” He looked out over the glittering blue ocean and continued, “For myself, I cannot bear the bigot or his loose thinking, but in this instance I am inclined to believe he is right, we are a plague on these people. The sooner we are sailed the better I shall like it.” He swung up to the platform again. “Pray excuse, I must return to my work.” Kydd knew he was dismissed from Evelyn’s universe.

  Parry was not the officer to accept weak excuses. Absence from place of duty was a dereliction that could not and would not be forgiven. The offender would get no sympathy from the rest of the duty watch either, for they had probably themselves been torn from willing arms to report. Kydd fretted for Renzi, who had probably wandered off in
search of some marvel of nature. Possibly he had found an old native philosopher and was carrying on a deep conversation by signs. Now he was on report to the Captain who would stop his liberty or worse.

  Duty ashore was not arduous. There were stands of muskets to hand, and the stockade to patrol, but against whom it was not clear. Companionable tasks included assisting the cook to prepare the evening meal, repairing the hut matting and the like. Less companionable was the sentry-go, which involved porting a heavy musket in solitude along the length of the stockade.

  Supper was served out, and Kydd considered whether he should save some of his ration for Renzi. Darkness stole in, conversations became desultory and those free to do so retired to the living huts. As the moon rose, huge and magnificent, over the craggy line of the peak escarpment, it charged every object with a deep silver radiance and created myriad mysterious shadows.

  Back on sentry-go, Kydd paced slowly along the stockade, peering over the top across the grassy slopes, which disappeared into shadow at the woodland edge. Nothing moved; the low soughing of the night breeze and creaks from the timbers of the stockade were all that fell on his senses. He shifted the musket over his shoulder and padded on.

  “Hsssst!” It was the beach sentry, hurrying up the path. He gesticulated sharply. Kydd hurried down to the man, who was in grave breach of discipline by leaving his post. “Come down to th’ beach,” the man whispered urgently.

  Kydd knew that there must be good reason he should go, but if he was caught—he looked back along the line of the stockade. The other sentinels were indistinct dark blobs in its shadow. He turned and plunged down the slope. At the point where the stockade met the sea he saw two figures standing together in the moonlight, which lay still and liquid on the pale beach.

  “Well met, my friend.” It was Renzi. His voice sounded gentle and noble but Kydd approached in apprehension for what he might find. Renzi was in native dress, a waist-length skirt and headdress of woven flowers. Next to him was a native woman dressed similarly and looking at Kydd with a palpable tension.

  “Tohe-umu,” said Renzi, introducing her. “She will be my wife when I settle here after you have gone.”

  Kydd was struck speechless. Settle? What utter madness! To cut himself off from his own kind, to …

  “I wish to farewell you now, to let you know that I have found the contentment and fulfilment I have always craved—a union between Nature and Man that will purify and scarify the soul of the gross humors that come from artificial society.”

  Finding his voice, Kydd blurted, “But how will you live? You have no means, no—”

  “There is no need for money or anything else. We shall build a dwelling place, and all around shall be the bounty of the good earth.” His tone strengthened. “And I shall bring into the world infants who will learn humility and awe at the altar of Nature—and they then will enter their true inheritance.” He turned to the woman and tenderly spoke a few native words. Her tense expression dissolved into one of deep affection that Kydd saw had no room for others.

  Renzi held out his hand awkwardly. Kydd’s thoughts chased each other. Once Artemis had sailed away Renzi would be reckoned a deserter for the rest of his days. There was no chance that they would ever see each other again. It was staggering—Renzi’s fine mind wasted in this incomprehensibly remote piece of the earth. It was an insane impossibility to see Renzi tilling the soil, reasoning with the warriors. Then probably a lonely death among the savages. It was lunacy …

  “I go now, be so good as to remember me in the years to come, dear friend,” Renzi said, in a low voice. His head fell, but only for an instant. He fixed Kydd with a long look, his deep-set eyes moist, then turned and marched away.

  Kydd balanced easily on the main topmast cap, a hundred and twenty feet high with only the main royal mast above him. Just below, Doud, Pinto and others were seizing a futtock stave to the topmast shrouds ready to pass the catharping. They knew their job backwards, and Kydd had no need to intervene. While they had accepted his elevation to petty officer with equanimity he found it agreeable to his natural temperament to lead with a light touch.

  Far below on the quarterdeck stumped the foreshortened figure of Powlett, as irascible as a caged bear but energized by the prospect of getting to sea again. They had reverted to one watch in three on liberty, the other two watches devoted to work preparing for their voyage home in the fearsome roaring forties of the Great Southern Ocean. The only ocean to encircle the world completely, its stormy seas swept huge and unobstructed, and if there were any skimping on this work they might disappear from human ken forever.

  At this height it was possible to see much more of the island, the variegated greens of the plateau and lower slopes and the blotchy bare rock faces of the peak. Kydd couldn’t see beyond the escarpment and wondered which part of the island Renzi would select for his native home. He would deeply miss Renzi, and the first sea-watch especially. He had heard that the scientists had nearly completed their work, and there was a very real prospect that they would put to sea in a day or so; it would be all over by then.

  Kydd touched the outer tricing line—it was worn and hairy with use, like much of the running rigging. They had only so much in the way of sea stores, and their stock of the aromatic Stockholm tar used to preserve the standing rope had to be eked out. On the fo’c’sle the sails were being roused out and checked; the action of sun and salt water on canvas had made the flax deteriorate.

  It was strange to think of high-latitude sailing again, of cold and blustery winds and harsh conditions while they lay at anchor here in this balmy pleasantness. However, Kydd had a suspicion that he might grow increasingly restless at the relentless sameness of life on a South Sea island. Then he remembered that this was how Renzi would be spending the rest of his life.

  They finished the job, worming and leathering for better resistance to chafing instead of the usual parceling and serving. If there were any problem in the south latitudes it would be dangerous to send men up to this height. Kydd slid to the deck by the backstay, avoiding the rows of cannon balls from the shot locker laid out in the sun for rust-chipping by the gunner’s party. Powlett would not delay in having them all sweating at gun exercise just as soon as they made the open sea.

  It was midafternoon when Powlett ordered the cutter away for his check ashore on the duty watch and the progress of the scientists. Kydd took his position forward and the cutter left the ship’s side, pulling strongly to the shore. Powlett performed his usual run over the thwarts to the beach, and Kydd had to move fast to keep with him.

  Powlett strode among the duty seamen, growling an admonishment here or a word of encouragement there. His greeting to the scientists was courteous but brief, and he returned quickly to the path back to the boat.

  Suddenly Kydd stopped in his tracks and Powlett cannoned into him. “What the devil are you about, sir?” Powlett exploded. Holding up a hand Kydd strained to hear—a subliminal sound that had cut right through to a primal sense of danger. There was an indistinct commotion, and a midshipman of the watch raced down to Powlett and saluted. His face was pale with shock. “Sir—a native woman all covered with blood, an’ two men!”

  Powlett’s voice hardened. “What has this to do with us? Are we to judge in their domestic disputes?”

  “Sir—no, sir, it’s a hell of a rout up there, sir.”

  “Very well, I’ll come,” said Powlett crossly. They retraced their steps, and soon caught the harsh, unhinged barks of a woman in the extremity of terror. Powlett hastened toward the growing crowd around her. She was sprawled in the grass under the stockade, hair matted and beslobbered with gore. The two men appeared untouched, but crouched, eyes bulging as they stared wildly about them. “Send for—send for the American,” snapped Powlett.

  “Gurney, sir,” said Fairfax, wringing his hands.

  “Do it!” snarled Powlett.

  When the woman saw Gurney approach, she shrieked at him, her arms held a-splay. The men b
egan to babble loudly. Gurney listened, asked some terse questions and tightened his expression.

  “First thing I’m gonna do is get aboard o’ yer barky, an’ I advise you do the same,” he said, fidgeting.

  “Damn it, man, what’s the problem?” The woman began wailing brokenly, beating at the grass with her fists. Powlett caught Gurney’s arm and propelled him away.

  “’Noo it would happen, sooner or later.”

  “What?” roared Powlett.

  “Tubou-alohi—that’s the son o’ the high chief—he’s kinda restless. Doesn’t want t’ take his old man’s rule fer much longer, so he’s done somethin’ about it.” Catching Powlett’s expression he hurried on, “He’s got his friends from another island t’ help him—he’s gotta prevail quickly, or he loses. Sends out raidin’ parties, seems we have one arrived on the other side.”

  Powlett glowered at him. “Hands to quarters!” he ordered crisply.

  The stands of muskets emptied and the seamen and marines hastily took up position at the stockade. Powlett pursed his lips. “Mr. Parry, be so good as to lead a reconnaissance party to the other side of the island and report the situation.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Parry, and immediately detailed ten men for his party, including Kydd.

  “Mr. Fairfax, please to muster the ship’s company, have them at readiness within the stockade.” He swung round and bellowed to the two scientists and their assistants still at the observation platform. “Pray stand ready to re-embark on my order.”

  Hobbes barely turned his head. “Indeed we shall not.” His voice sounded thinly over the distance. “It is not convenient at this time, Captain.”

  Powlett ground his teeth. “Get moving, Mr. Parry!”

  The party doubled over the beach, not a soul abroad, with Parry in a fierce grimace and his sword out in the lead. Kydd smiled secretly as they rushed past the blowhole, the other men flinching at the sudden gouts. They reached the distinctive red-soil bluff that Kydd remembered seeing from the peak, rustling through an over-grown path to its low summit. Parry dropped to the ground, his hand at the halt. “Silence!” he hissed. They crept cautiously to the edge of the bluff.