Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd caught Renzi’s eye. As far as anyone could tell, apart from a deepening of the lines next to his mouth he was untouched by events, cool and considered in his words, as lofty-minded as ever. Kydd smiled. He himself had other concerns. “Could do with somethin’ t’ eat other than hardtack, somethin’ that sticks to y’ ribs.”

  There was a dry chuckle, surprisingly from Haynes. “Yer’ll get yer meat soon enough,” he said.

  The others looked up in curiosity. “How so?” said Crow.

  “Why,” said Haynes, “th’ hardtack will be manned b’ bargemen.”

  Kydd grinned. “Let’s tell ye how we used to clear the bread o’ bargemen in Royal Billy.”

  He had their attention. Every sailor was interested in ridding the hardtack of bargemen, the weevils and other life, particularly the large pale maggots that infested old ship’s stores.

  “Well, when we starts a bread cask in th’ hold, we sets on it a plate—with a ripe fish aboard. Bargemen, they wait till it’s quiet, then they swarm out t’ get a taste o’ the fish. All ye do then, is t’ heave the fish over the side ’n’ set another in its place until you’ve cleared the cask o’ the vermin.”

  The cheery response and the spreading comfort of the rum was gratifying. Kydd’s spirits rose.

  Artemis sailed steadily north. The sun’s warmth swelled, gray seas became tinged with blue, and as the frigate ranged out into the Atlantic rollers it was almost possible to put from mind past dangers and harsh times. But the ship and her company were sadly worn by the long voyage, tired by the interminable movement, jaded and soul-weary.

  It was seen in so many ways. Powlett appeared on deck in the morning, but then retired to his cabin soon after, his interchanges curt and monosyllabic. On one night Kydd had gone to Merrydew, the boatswain, in his cabin to ask for some gear and had found him quite incapable with drink. The surgeon, who had no particular friends that anyone could name, was acting oddly, shutting himself away in the noisome gloom of his quarters, his meals sent to him. And the bickering between Parry and Rowley took a bitter edge, a sarcastic and barely concealed animosity.

  The pleasant northeast trade winds petered out into fitful flurries all too soon after they reached the tropics; the sun was now hot and aggressive, humidity making movement a trial. Merrydew rarely appeared. He seldom spoke, his red, sweating face suffused with suffering. Kydd remembered the sun-blasted sea from the last time they had passed this way and prayed that their passage would not be protracted.

  “Aye, both on ’em!” The little purser’s steward anxiously awaited Kydd’s response. Kydd was quartermaster’s mate and was therefore among those responsible for stowage in the hold. It was shattering news: two or three of the remaining ground tier of water casks had run afoul of each other, probably as a result of their upset at the time of the monster wave, and had chosen this time to split a stave each at the point of contact. Precious water had quietly seeped into the bilge and at a stroke Artemis’s sea endurance was curtailed. There was no longer any question of her reaching England.

  “Have y’ told the mate o’ the hold?” Kydd asked, but as he spoke he remembered that the old man was still lying helpless with broken ribs. Leaving the fetor of the hold he hurried up the hatchway—the Master himself would have to be informed.

  Mr. Prewse was at the lee hances, in troubled conversation with Powlett. Raised voices could be heard, and Powlett’s jutting chin and flinty manner augured ill for the news that Kydd was bringing.

  “If y’ please, Mr. Prewse,” he said, holding his hat respectfully in his hands. The Master turned his calm gaze to Kydd. Unsure of whether the Captain should know from him, he paused, but Powlett’s clear impatience decided him, and he made his report.

  “God blast it! God damn it!” Powlett’s rage shook Kydd, its intensity out of character. Powlett regained control. “The nearest watering?” he shot at Prewse, who thought carefully, rubbing his chin.

  “Well, I—”

  “We cannot go to east’d, the Spanish are probably now at war with us, we can only fall back on Brazil—true?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Prewse neutrally.

  “Then set our course in accordance,” snapped Powlett. “Closest point agreeable to the wind’s track.”

  The closest point, thanks to the favorable southeasterly, was but two days away. It turned out to be a scrubby plain, sandy and characterless, through which a brown-stained river wound listlessly. The air was still and enervating, and with a hand-lead swinging in the chains it took hours for the frigate to work in. The watering party pulled ashore and began work; the country was unattractive and had a persistent reek as of a long-dead creature lying heavily on the air. Insects made their way out even as far as the ship, the sudden maddening sting a disagreeable surprise after so long at sea.

  As soon as the boat had been hoisted in, Artemis shaped course seaward, but within a day there was good news. “Glory be!” said Crow. “A sou’-easter!” It was true, they would have the unseasonably early good fortune of a wind in just the right quarter to see them past Cabo de São Roque, and on past the doldrums to the northern trade winds. Every weary heart aboard lifted at the news. This would carry them into the north half of the world, and they would then set course directly for home.

  “Cape São Roque,” breathed Kydd. It was the last land they would see before England. An undistinguished blue-gray tongue, far to larboard: their long-awaited farewell to far-off lands and unknown perils. Soon they would be in familiar waters. “Do y’ not feel it in y’r bones we are homeward bound?” he added, looking at Renzi.

  Renzi looked thoughtful. “I am in two minds on the matter,” he said. “On the one hand we have had the felicity of adding to the breadth of our intellects by our voyaging to the far side of the world—but I have to confess, on the other there is nothing in compass that appeals to my spirit more at this moment than the prospect of surcease, a cessation of striving, the quiet land at last. ‘In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid.’”

  Kydd saw his friend’s face take on an enigmatic cast, and suppressed his response. His eye noted the worn ropes and frayed canvas, then wandered over the vista of glittering blue sea ahead. Seven bells sounded distantly from the fo’c’sle, and they swung out on the futtock shrouds and descended to the deck.

  “Only a few weeks, then, Isaac,” Kydd offered to the silent table.

  “An’ not a minute too soon,” Haynes grated. “I got such a pain in me back ’n’ legs after Cape Horn ’ll take months ter shake orf.”

  “An’ you, Jeb?” Kydd asked Mullion. The loss of his shipmate was taking its toll: Mullion seemed to have lost all appetite. He looked up. His eyes were dull and there was an uncommon lethargy in his movements. “Ter tell th’ truth, I’ve had this headache comin’ on, coupla days now.”

  “You should be seein’ the doc, get him to bleed ye,” Kydd said.

  “What? That useless pintle tagger?” Crow huffed. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair o’ the bugger since west o’ the Horn.” He glanced at Mullion. “An’ I heard tell it’s his loblolly what set them bones,” he added, “an’ him without a surgeon’s mate an’ all.” The surgeon’s mate had missed the ship at Macao, but Kydd remembered the sharp-eyed young lad with the lame leg who had chosen to be a lowly loblolly boy rather than the rate of cook’s mate, to which he was entitled by his injury.

  A lassitude seemed to be stealing down on the ship, a torpor that was more evident in some than others, bewildering in the general lift of spirits that went with a homeward course.

  “Haaaands to make sail!” That would be Rowley wanting to spread the weather fore topsail stuns’l, of somewhat questionable benefit to speed, given that they were going large and the sail would almost certainly be blanketed by canvas on the main. As Kydd jumped to the bulwarks with the others of his watch for the brisk climb aloft, he noticed that one of them, Millais, a reliable Jerseyman, was not with them. Instead he was looking upward from the deck, anxiously clinging to on
e of the shrouds. Disturbed, Kydd dropped back down beside the man. “Lay aloft, Millais,” he ordered, conscious that Rowley would be impatient with delay.

  Millais stared back at Kydd. “I—I can’t—” he began, swayed, and then, before Kydd’s disgusted eyes, vomited helplessly. Sick drunk at this hour? Millais crumpled to his knees and looked up piteously. “I don’ feel s’ well, mate,” he croaked. The words were not slurred. Kydd felt a creeping fear and bent to help the man to his feet. Even at that distance he felt a raging heat radiating out from his body.

  “Get aloft, you infernal rascals!” came Rowley’s irritable bellow from the quarterdeck.

  Kydd hurried aft and confronted Rowley. “Sir, that man’s got a fever.” He watched Rowley stiffen. It was the worst possible news. Kydd sensed a scurrying down the main hatch and guessed that the news was being spread even as they spoke.

  “Sling his hammock in the gundeck forward and put him in it,” Rowley snapped. It was the only thing possible. Frigates did not have even the rudimentary sick berths of a larger ship. “And tell the surgeon,” he added.

  Kydd touched his hat and rattled down the ladderway. The sooner the surgeon could take strong measures the better for all. The musty gloom was tinged with apprehension: Kydd had never had occasion to visit the surgeon professionally, and like most healthy men felt uneasy there.

  He took off his hat and crossed the wardroom to the louvered door of the surgeon’s cabin, knocking firmly. He was about to knock again when the door flew open, nearly hitting him. “You?” said the surgeon, puzzled. Kydd stepped back in surprise: the surgeon was in his usual rumpled black, but it was stained and there was a rank, unpleasant odor about him.

  Kydd collected himself, and reported, “Sir, respects from Mr. Rowley, an’ he wishes you t’ come—he thinks we have fever aboard.”

  The surgeon looked at him and frowned. “Pray inform milady, Jenkins, that she must persist in the measures or I will not hold myself responsible for the outcome.”

  Blinking, Kydd said carefully, “Sir, my name is not Jenkins. Could y’ come now? Mr. Rowley is very concerned.”

  “No. You will tell Lady Bassett that I have done all I can. All! There is no hope—none. I grieve for you all. Good night.” The door slammed. Taken aback, Kydd hesitated.

  Across the wardroom Parry emerged from his cabin, wiping his face with a towel. “What is it, Kydd?” he asked.

  “Could be fever aboard, sir,” Kydd said respectfully. He felt ill at ease in officers’ private territory.

  Parry paused. “You have seen this?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Striding past Kydd, Parry hammered at the door. “Doctor, we have a crisis, sir. Please be so good as to come on deck at once.” There was no reply. “There is a fever on board, damn your blood!”

  The door remained closed, but from within Kydd heard a desolate “No hope! None!” and a quiet sobbing.

  Parry slapped the towel at his side in frustration. “We’ll get nothing from that useless ninny. I’ll be on deck shortly.”

  Fever! It was feared more than any number of enemy cannon, and with reason: in a ship there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape to; every man aboard must face risking his life in the unknown miasma that brought the fever.

  Supper was a silent meal. Kydd slowly spooned his pease pudding. Across the table eyes followed his movements; he glared back. Haynes coughed—every eye swiveled to watch, then dropped at his savage expression. Mullion seemed sunk in misery, pushing away his wooden plate.

  “A pox on it!” snarled Haynes. A twisted smile acknowledged his unfortunate turn of phrase, but he went on forcefully, “Don’t sound like any ship-fever I know—an’ it ain’t scurvy. Could be nuthin’ a-tall.”

  Renzi raised his head. “Or it could be deadly …” The table glowered at him collectively. He lapsed into silence. Kydd watched him narrowly—there was a half-smile that he could only remember seeing before battle.

  Haynes tugged at his neckerchief. “Port Royal, now that’s th’ place fer a fever. See them soldiers arrive, chirpin’ merry an’ all in their lobsterback rig. A week later an’ they’re sweatin’ and writhin’ with the yeller jack, only a coupla days afore they tops their boom.” He brooded. “Must be thousand left their bones there”.

  “Must be a spankin’-size graveyard!” said Kydd, hoping to joke away the pall.

  It was Stirk who replied. “No, mate, very small. See, they buries ’em the same day at the Palisades, spit o’ sand away from the town. Come night, all these ’ere land crabs pops out ’n’ digs ’em up fer a feast. Rousin’ good eatin’, should you get yerself a dish o’ them crabs.”

  Kydd interrupted him. “What’s this, cuffin?” He had noticed how Mullion held his head in his hands, obviously in distress.

  “Me head, mate, aches somethin’ cruel.” Looks were exchanged around the table.

  Haynes stood up. “Gotta get aloft—that scurvy crew in the foretop not done yet, I’ll ’ave their liver.” Crow rose, mumbled something, and they both left.

  Stirk turned his gaze to Kydd. “An’ you?” he said.

  Kydd stared him down, then stood. “Bear a fist, then, y’ hen-hearted lubbers!” Mullion was difficult to handle as he staggered haphazardly. They tumbled him into his hammock forward on the gundeck, where he lay biting off moans. Kydd saw that there were slung numbers of hammocks now, each bearing its burden of suffering.

  The warm, pleasant airs on the open deck were a relief, but there was a sense of dread: the ship had turned into a prison that was confining its inmates to permit an unknown death to overwhelm them.

  Kydd turned to Renzi. The half-smile was still there. “What chance …”

  “My dear fellow, my education does not include physick. I cannot say.”

  They glanced aft. With a pugnacious stride and jutting chin, Powlett was now pacing the quarterdeck as if he had never left it. “I do wish, however, that the surgeon had retained but a modicum of his intellects,” said Renzi, still watching the Captain. “It was churlish of him to take leave of them at this time.”

  * * *

  The loblolly boy held a bowl of thin gruel over Mullion, trying to spoon it in, but Mullion twisted away his head. “Fer Chrissakes!” the lad muttered. This was no time for games, there were too many others to attend to.

  “Take it, Jeb, y’ needs the strength,” Kydd urged.

  Mullion focused his dull eyes on him. “No, mate, give it ter the others,” he whispered. “This is me punishment, I knows it. ’Cos I didn’t hold on ter him—I let ’im go ter his doom. He’d be aboard now an’ alongside us if I’d’ve held on.” He looked away in despair.

  Not knowing what to do, Kydd took the gruel from the loblolly, who pulled aside Mullion’s shirt. Kydd recoiled: the torso was suffused by a pink rash and it glistened with sweat. “That’s yer sign,” the loblolly said, and took back the gruel to limp over to the next man.

  Suddenly gripped by an urgent desire for the open air, Kydd hurried on deck. He saw Haynes by the boat-space: he was motionless, staring out to sea, his grip on a rope bringing white to his knuckles. Kydd sensed the man’s fear. “Comin’ for y’r grog?” he said, in as friendly a manner as he could.

  Slowly Haynes turned his stare on him. In horrible fascination Kydd saw a betraying pinkness above the line of his open-necked shirt. “I got it, ain’t I?” Haynes mouthed.

  There was no point in denying it. “Y’ may have it, but it’s a fever only, nobody died.”

  “You a sawbones, then?” Haynes came back, but with little spirit. He resumed his stare out to sea.

  At barely six bells it was not yet time for Kydd to go on watch at the helm, but he was not ready to go below, and swung forward. Abreast the fore-hatch was an anxious group in troubled conversation; Kydd saw Petit’s lined features and nodded to him. Petit came over and touched Kydd’s arm. “I’d be beholden were yer mate Renzi ter help us,” he said in subdued tones.

  “Nicholas says as how he�
�s no physician.”

  His forehead creased with worry, Petit appealed, “Yair, but ’e’s book-learned, he is, knows a mort more’n he says. Say that it would be kind in ’im jus’ ter step down an’ clap peepers on Billy Cundall—he’s very bad.”

  Kydd touched him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell him, Elias.”

  Renzi snorted. “Rank superstition! If I top it the physician, it would be a mockery. I will not!”

  “Nicholas, could ye not go to them? Some words o’ yours, little enough t’ ask, they’d bring some comfort.”

  Renzi frowned with irritation, but Kydd pressed on, “They trust you, an’ even should ye not know the medicine, y’ words will give ease.”

  With reluctance Renzi allowed himself to be dragged down to the berth deck, to the familiar mess of before. Cundall was lying in his hammock in the centerline of the ship, moaning and writhing. Grimacing at the charade Renzi stood beside him and the others crowded around.

  “I see,” he began hesitantly.

  Cundall looked up at him with piteous eyes, a lost soul who barely resembled the loquacious braggart of before. Renzi took a wrist and made to feel the pulse—he had no idea what to do, so nodded sagely and let it drop. “How long has the rash been present?” he asked gravely.

  “A coupla days. Will I die?” Cundall cried.

  Renzi was at a loss. He had come prepared to go through a few token motions, to offer the reassurance of his presence, but he was speaking to a man who was ill of an unknown fever, asking him to pronounce sentence: life or death. He thought briefly of physicians he had seen, solemnly descending the staircase after visiting a sickroom, and asked the same question. His conscience tore at him at the prospect of laying either alternative before the victim.