He cleared his throat. “We see here as clear a case of persona non grata that I have yet seen.”
Petit looked pleased. “Be damned! Will ’e be better?” There was a perceptible lightening of mood among the onlookers.
Renzi moved quickly to head away from the moral quicksands of an answer. “Do you steep six ounces of Calamintha acinos for two hours, and bathe the afflicted region every hour. That is all.”
“We don’ have yon calaminthy, Nicholas,” Petit said respectfully.
“Oh, a pity, it is a common herb in England, the basil,” Renzi said, in lordly tones.
“Hey, now!” Quashee pushed himself forward. “My conweniences! I have basil in my conweniences, Mr. Renzi!”
“Splendid! Its carminative properties are always useful, you’ll find. I must go.” Renzi left speedily.
“Cundall is in good hands, I see,” Kydd said, hurrying to keep up. His open admiration for his friend caused Renzi to wince. “May I know what is your ‘carminative’?”
Renzi stopped; turning to Kydd he spoke slowly but intensely. “My ‘carminative’ means that an essence of basil is said to be excellent for the quelling of flatulence—farting, if you will. Now pray do me the service of never again putting my sensibilities to hazard in this way. Physician indeed!”
It was clear that Mullion was sinking. He barely moved; the ferocious muscular pains coursing in his legs and back caused spasms that stopped his breath for long moments, his face racked with suffering. Kydd patted his shoulder. There was little he could do—he was now acting quartermaster with Hallison down, and he was due on watch soon.
Kydd left to go aft, but at the main hatch he bumped into Renzi. “Mullion is draggin’ his anchors for the other world,” he said. “Could ye not—”
“I could not,” Renzi said curtly.
Coughing respectfully Petit appeared, standing with his hat off before him. “Thanks t’ you, Mr. Renzi,” he said, “an’ Billy Cundall sends ’is respects, an’ the rash is quite gone, now.”
With a groan, Renzi waited for Petit to leave, then glared at Kydd. “So they all believe me now a master of physick.”
“Aye, Nicholas,” said Kydd meekly.
The number of sick had risen sharply, and there was now a significant effect on the balance of men skilled in specifics in the watches; Fairfax was constantly worrying over his watch and station bill. Kydd’s temporary new rate as quartermaster was an important one. He took up position at the conn, with responsibility for the watch glass, the slate of course details and other navigational matters, leaving little time to dwell on illness.
The watch drew on, the officer-of-the-watch, Parry, unforgiving of the slightest sign of sloppiness. Later in the afternoon Rowley emerged on deck to take the air. It was not the custom for officers to promenade the fo’c’sle: the quarterdeck was their proper place. There was no alternative open to Rowley other than to begin a slow circuit of the quarterdeck, unavoidably confronting Parry on each lap. Kydd had always felt uncomfortable at the clear dislike the men had for each other, and hoped that Rowley would soon go below.
“I’d be obliged were you to keep to leeward, Mr. Rowley,” Parry said stiffly. He was standing to weather, as was his right, but the effect of his order was to rob Rowley of his circle—he could now only pace up and down in a line. Rowley touched his hat with an expansive smile and exaggerated bow before complying. The rest of the watch passed silently and with acid tension.
At seven bells Powlett came on deck. Parry moved to leeward in respect; Rowley promptly went below. “Pass the word for Petty Officer Renzi,” Powlett growled. Parry nodded to the boatswain’s mate, who trotted forward. When Renzi reported, Powlett spoke abruptly. “I hear you are something of a physician.”
“Why, not at all, sir—”
“I have no power to warrant you in any position, but you will take on medical duties as of now, for as long as the surgeon’s indisposition lasts.”
“Sir, you are mistaken, I—”
“That is all.”
“But, sir, there is—”
“Go!” Powlett’s voice was weary, his bearing was faltering, he looked as tired and worn as Artemis now was. Renzi hesitated, touched his hat and left.
Mullion died in the same hour, and Cundall’s symptoms reappeared. The forward part of the gundeck was screened off, and a windsail was rigged above the fore-hatch, but the rows of hammocks increased. It was puzzling: some with raging fever saw their symptoms recede almost to nothing, then return with brutal force, while others recovered, although they were now profoundly deaf. Another two died. Renzi felt trapped in the cheerless gloom of the gundeck in the midst of so much pain and squalor, as his world turned to a waking nightmare.
A boatswain’s mate pulled aside the screen. His nose wrinkled in disgust—there was no way that he would enter the moaning, vomit-strewn hell. He called across loudly, “Mr. Fairfax passes the word for Petty Officer Renzi!” Straightening wearily, Renzi threw down the rag he was carrying, and with bloodshot eyes pulled the screen aside. He was touched to see Kydd look up from a bench close to the screen—he must have lingered there in support, unable to do more. Kydd rose and as Renzi went aft he tried to chat companionably with him.
Fairfax was in his cabin with Rowley. “Come in, Renzi,” he said, gravely. The two officers looked seriously at Renzi as he entered, and he knew intuitively what they were going to say.
“I am sorry to have to tell you that the Captain has been taken ill of the fever.” Rowley’s eyes flashed nervously white. “We have endeavored to communicate with the surgeon but unhappily he is beyond reach.” Fairfax sighed heavily.
Rowley leant forward impatiently. “Therefore we require you to treat the Captain using whatever you can find in the surgeon’s cabin.”
Appalled, Renzi gaped at them.
“Be so good as to begin immediately,” Fairfax said, his worried frown deepening. “If you have need of anything—anything at all—you will get it.”
“But the men are—”
“The loblolly is in attendance,” Rowley said with irritation. “Go to your duties now, if you please.”
“Get out!” the surgeon shrilled. “You have no right—I will inform your mistress presently!” Kydd held him back while Renzi attempted to rummage about the sad ruins of the man’s domesticity. “I know what you are, you are the devil’s messenger, are you not?” Kydd felt destabilized by the surgeon’s high, off-key voice, at the edge of reason, and even more so when the man began to scream and clutch at him in terror. A knot of men waited outside, including a marine sentry who had let his musket fall and stood in wide-eyed horror.
They escaped with the surgeon’s bulky chest—a hurried search had not turned up any book worthy of the name—and rapidly made their way to the Captain’s bedplace cabin. He was lying quietly in his suspended cot, his eyes closed. Renzi set down the chest carefully, conscious of the tense presence of the officers and the Captain’s coxswain.
“Pray leave us. He is, er, not to be excited,” Renzi pronounced. At least they would not blunder about in front of an audience. He looked apprehensively at Kydd: in all his rich and varied life he had never been in such a bizarre and helpless situation.
At his words, Powlett opened his eyes. “Renzi!” he said thickly. “Do your duty, man!”
Renzi blinked. Do something, his very being shouted. But if he did the wrong thing? “Does it pain you, sir?” he opened.
“Yes!” Powlett said briefly. “And this goddamned headache is oppressive to my spirit—It’s pounding my brain—the pressure,” he said, a tremor in his voice. Renzi noticed heavy sweat beading the rash and trembling spasms of long-endured pain. In the confined space his senses swam. He reached out to steady himself, and his hand found the doorlatch; he staggered out of the cabin. The officers gazed at him in silence. He pulled himself together and said, “Er, the loblolly if you please—I must have assistance.” At least it would buy time.
The lad limped
up, and Renzi drew him into the empty great cabin. “I must consult,” he muttered. “What’s to be done?” he asked, with a quiet dignity.
The loblolly looked frightened. “I—I don’t know!” he whispered.
“But you’ve been surgeon’s mate all this while,” Renzi coaxed, “you must have seen something!”
“Not this!” He dropped his eyes. “I seen him do things, but he never showed me ’less he wanted something done.”
They would not get anything from the scared boy. Renzi felt a surging despair. It was unfair to expect anything: they had never suffered a killing fever like this before. “A cruel headache. What did the doctor do for that?” It was at least doing something.
The loblolly thought and said, “Calomel.” Seeing Renzi frown he added, “And bleeding, o’ course.”
Renzi had been bled once. He barely remembered it as he had been dead drunk at the time, but he had a dim recollection of gleaming steel and a sharp pain in his arm before he had fainted. “Can you do a bleeding?” he asked the loblolly.
“I never seen it—surgeon always did it private, like.”
Renzi glanced up at Kydd, whose healthy complexion was rapidly paling. Kydd shook his head. “We must bleed him,” Renzi said, and dismissed the terrified lad. Together they returned to the Captain, firmly closing the door behind them.
“We must bleed you, sir,” Renzi said, trying to sound as confident as he could. He pulled open the surgeon’s chest, a neat complexity of compartments containing pharmacy bottles and dried herbs. Inside the lid were clamped a bewildering array of steel instruments.
“Which one do you use?” Renzi whispered. The prospect of cutting into the Captain’s living flesh was appalling. He fumbled among the contents of the chest.
“I heard y’ use a fleam,” Kydd interjected weakly.
“And which the devil is that?” Renzi said, in a low voice.
Powlett stirred. “Get on with it, you rogues.”
Renzi’s heart thudded. He selected a bright blade with a point; it gleamed evilly in the soft light of the lanthorn. He pulled up Powlett’s nightshirt sleeve, baring the pale arm.
“What are you waiting for, you lubber?” Powlett’s voice was a weak parody of its former self. His head twisted away in anticipation of the blade.
Renzi hesitated. He pushed the knife against the Captain’s skin, which dimpled under the pressure, but he could not steel himself to bring to bear the necessary force. Then he felt Kydd’s presence and steadied.
It was easy, really: the knife sank in, and dark, venous blood gouted obediently, turning the bedclothes scarlet, a spreading flood of red that seemed never to end.
“The cup, you mumping fool!” Powlett’s muffled voice sounded from the pillow.
“We’ll use a glass,” Renzi told Kydd, and took a brandy glass—but by then Powlett had slipped into a swoon.
Shakily, Renzi emerged from the cabin. He told the waiting group what they wanted to hear and left.
Haynes died, never having left the deck once, crouched in great pain against the ship’s side, and cursing brokenly toward the end. He was followed by Cundall and three others. But the last man to die caused Artemis the most grief.
Fairfax had the men mustered aft. “I have to tell you—it is with intolerable feeling—our brave captain is no longer with us.” There were gasps and cries from the few who had not heard the terrible news. The first lieutenant’s gray worry-frown deepened. “Therefore, for the present, and until we return to England, I, er, will be your captain.”
There was no response from the silent mass of men. “Carry on,” snapped Parry.
“You do that agin, you pocky bastard, an’ I’ll cut yer liver out!” Stirk’s eyes flashed hatred at Crow across the table.
Crow said nothing, but he held his head very still, fixing Stirk with his hard, glittering eyes. Then Crow slowly passed his hand across his chest and began a deliberate scratch under his armpit. Stirk launched himself across the table. Crow snarled and smashed his fist into Stirk’s face.
“Stow it, y’ mad dogs!” Kydd shouted, trying to force himself between them. Stirk was angry and powerful, but the slighter-built Crow had a dogged tenacity that made it impossible for Kydd to separate them. It eventually ended in a panting truce and bitter words.
Kydd pulled his shabby blue jacket closer. Artemis was now deep into the Atlantic proper, and the first cool precursors of the north were making themselves felt. The fever had run its course, only the poignancy of empty places at familiar seats a reminder of their time of trial. He looked across at Renzi, but the sunken eyes and sallow appearance would take time to dispel. Renzi seldom spoke now.
There was a sullen lethargy about the men that Kydd found difficult to confront: he sympathized with their hard circumstances, which he shared. Since the shock of seeing the body of their captain committed to the deep, there had been a marked decline in the sense of unity and purpose; the loss of such a strong figure at the center of their world allowed it to fly apart. Petty tyrannies spread unchecked, the humbler members of the power structure suffering the most. The lack of a respected figure to distribute praise or criticism meant that the traditional engine of cohesion was no longer there—and whatever else Fairfax was, he was not a leader.
A bare ten days or less and it would all be over—but Kydd’s heart was heavy. It felt as though Artemis herself, sea-worn as she was, was the only one staying loyal and true to Powlett’s memory. His hand fell, and under cover of the table he felt for the ship’s side and secretly caressed its—her—timbers.
The officers gathering on the quarterdeck for the noon sight stood together. Fairfax lowered his sextant and inspected it. “I make it thirty-two degrees nineteen minutes north, gentlemen. And that is a bare four hundred leagues from England.” There was a favorable stir. “I will confess, a fine game pie is haunting me—perhaps in harness with a glass of decent claret not stinking of the bilge.” He handed over his sextant to be stowed below, and stretched, sniffing the steady trade winds. “It will not be long now, we shall meet our families.”
Kydd, at his post, let the conversation slip past. He watched the helmsman catch a wind-flaw and ease the wheel a spoke or two.
Rowley added languidly, “I do believe we shall be in time for the Season—the duchess means her daughter to be presented at court this year, and I have the liveliest recollection of Vauxhall gardens by torchlight.”
“There is no likelihood of the Season for me, I fancy,” replied Fairfax. “We are an old county family and there will be too much to attend to on the estate, more’s the pity.” He looked pleasantly at the wooden Parry. “You will be in town for the Season, or are you to be rusticated?”
Parry said with a set face, “Neither, sir.” He hesitated, then added, “I believe I will visit my older sister at Yarmouth.”
“Yarmouth?” said Fairfax. “Oh.” He and Rowley exchanged looks, then stepped forward together in easy conversation. They halted while Rowley drew out his snuff box and laid some on the back of his hand. Before he could inhale, a playful wind scattered the grains in the air and back over Parry.
Parry’s face went red. “Take your filthy habit somewhere else, sir!” he shouted.
Rowley’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. He glanced at Fairfax, then allowed an expression of exaggerated good humor to accompany his urbane inclination of the head. He looked back at Fairfax and burst out laughing.
Storming forward Parry fronted Rowley, breathing deeply and raggedly. “Be damned to your popinjay ways, Rowley! Your infernal highborn humbug grates on my nerves.”
Fairfax looked shocked. “Mr. Parry! I do hope—”
Ignoring Fairfax, Rowley replied coolly, plucking at the lace of his cuffs, “Sir, intemperate words do nothing but reflect on breeding.”
“Mr. Rowley, this is not—” began Fairfax, his hands flapping, pacifying.
With the entire quarterdeck watching silently, Parry’s face clamped in a murderous loathing. “Rowle
y, if you cross my bows once more …”
“Is this in the nature of a threat, sir?”
“Gentlemen, I implore you—please …”
“It is, sir!”
“Then may I take it that as gentleman you are dissatisfied by my conduct?”
“Gentlemen, please!”
“I am, sir, damn you to hell!” Parry’s voice was thick with emotion.
Rowley’s voice turned silky. “Then could it be that you are looking for satisfaction in the matter?”
“Yes, I am!” Parry said hotly.
Instantly, Rowley snapped to attention. “Then, sir, I accept, as Mr. Fairfax is my witness.” Turning to Fairfax, he continued, “Kindly inform Mr. Parry, sir, that my second will wait on his by sunset.”
In the shocked silence Fairfax wrung his hands. “Gentlemen, can you not be reconciled? Consider, this is a ship of war, we are—”
Parry drew in a breath with a hiss. “No, sir, we cannot!” With a look of savage content, as of a monstrous burden lifted, he added, “But of course I will allow Mr. Rowley to withdraw.”
Rowley turned away and studied the horizon with his arms folded.
“Then it is my most sorrowful duty to inform you both, that as there is no satisfaction offered, then the matter must come to an unhappy conclusion.” Fairfax paced aft pensively and returned. “There is no prospect of a meeting until we make landfall in England. It is customary in these matters to refrain from interchanges, but in the meantime, for the sake of the ship, I must ask you both to continue your professional duties, but through an intermediary.” He wiped his forehead forlornly. “May I express how deeply saddened I am by the way this day has turned out.”
On into the broad wastes of the North Atlantic Artemis sailed, watch by watch, routines performed by rote, duties done with no heart in them. The first Atlantic gales came; once more the smash of seas and hiss of spray over the decks, racing dark clouds, deep thrumming in the rigging.
When Kydd came on watch at midnight, dirty weather had set in to accompany the spiteful blasts of the gale, rain driven with vindictive force that reddened cheeks and eyes.
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