He set the first helmsmen of the watch, checked the slate by the light of the binnacle and took the state of sail. It was a little surprising that the officer-of-the-watch, Rowley, did not shorten sail in this blow, for Artemis was straining aloft and making hard work of the beat to windward. But then again there would be few who would prefer to lose this chance to reach England the quicker.
Kydd watched Rowley standing ahead of him, huddled in grego and tarpaulin, facing into the blast, but felt no sympathy for him in his larger situation. That was a matter Rowley and Parry must resolve, and Renzi’s reticence on the subject was sufficient commentary on his views.
Kydd could see forward, past the pale sails to the bowsprit plunging and rearing far ahead with a sudden bursting of spray over the fo’c’sle, and he pitied the hapless forward lookouts at the catheads. Renzi would be with the rest of the dutymen, hanking down after the customary sail-trimming at the turn of the watch. He would be able to take shelter behind a weather bulwark.
The helmsman stolidly met the bullying of the gale, his leeward mate following his motions on the other side, two men necessary in this blow. Kydd was settling down to an uncomfortable and boring watch, when against the buffeting roar of the wind he picked up a lookout’s faint cry from forward. It was picked up amidships and repeated immediately, a dreadful yell—“Breakers aheeeaaad! Two points on the weather bow!”
A shaft of cold fear lanced into his vitals. He tensed for Rowley’s order—but Rowley seemed to be deep in some sort of reverie. The officer-of-the-watch had the responsibility, and only him. “Sir!” he bawled in alarm.
Rowley seemed disoriented. “Helm hard up!” he shouted. This would instantly sheer the vessel away from the danger and away from the wind, on the face of it a sensible move. Kydd roared at the helmsmen and they spun the wheel frantically. The ship bucketed and rocked at the sudden change in direction.
Parry appeared at the fore-hatch and bounded on deck. “Belay that—hard down the helm!” he bellowed. Kydd hesitated: Parry was senior to Rowley and had every right to overrule him—except that Rowley was officer-of-the-watch and in charge.
“Quartermaster!” said Rowley, in hard tones. “Inform Mr. Parry that I am officer-of-the-watch. I have the ship.”
Kydd’s jaw dropped. He looked back at Parry, who bunched his fists. “Sir, Mr. Rowley begs to tell you—”
“Kydd, tell that infernal idiot that the ship stands into danger! Helm hard a-larboard!”
It was clear to Kydd that Parry’s order was indeed the right one: admittedly they were now headed away from the breakers, but they were going at an increasing speed to leeward and headlong toward whatever was out there. Parry’s order would have had the effect of setting the ship all aback, in stays, but at least it would stop Artemis in her tracks and buy them time to decide.
“Helm hard down,” he snapped at the helmsmen.
Before they could move, Rowley shouted, “Avast!” He turned to Kydd, although his eyes remained on Parry. “Enquire of Mr. Parry if he is relieving me of my duties, quartermaster.”
Parry’s chest heaved, but before he could respond another, more urgent cry came—“Breakers to loo’ard! I see breakin’ sea all t’ loo’ard!” The voice ended in a falsetto shriek.
“I have the conn!” roared Parry. “Helm down—hard over for your lives!” Their run downwind away from the first breakers had placed them in mortal danger from the second. In the loom of night a continuous white line of breakers emerged to leeward and ahead; it was plain they had unwittingly run into the arms of a small bay. Agonizingly the ship’s head came around again. They brought up into the wind—but the watch were not at stations to go about, and the vessel fell away to leeward, slewing hopelessly around.
It was now inevitable, and at a little after two in the morning His Majesty’s frigate Artemis ran onto an offshore rocky ledge, part of a small unknown islet somewhere in the Atlantic.
Kydd’s world dissolved into a frightful smashing, rearing, splintering chaos. He was flung down and shot forward helplessly over the lurching wet deck in a welter of tarpaulins, to fetch up painfully against the main jeer bitts.
Artemis’s bow mounted and fell, and Kydd felt her hoarse shriek as she was mercilessly disemboweled by the invisible black rocks, a long drawn-out sound that tore at his heart.
Around and above him masts and spars swayed forward and gave way at the sudden stop, crashing down like felled trees, and bringing with them a man-trapping, crazy web of rigging from aloft. Her forward motion ceased, and the frigate settled to her bed of pain, her hull lifting and crunching back under the driving waves like a mortally wounded soul trying to rise up again.
Other sounds now broke in on Kydd’s senses: screams of agony as men were crushed by falling spars, bubbling shrieks from below as men were drowned by the victorious sea flooding through her shattered bottom. He fought his way out from the tangle of stiff wet ropes, shivering uncontrollably with the mortal cold of deep shock. The perspective from aft had a shocking unreality: all masts were broken off short, draped haphazardly about; the ship was horribly disfigured, desperately wounded.
Numb, Kydd tried to take stock. Dying screams and screeches of agony tore at his nerves. He peered into the rain-lashed darkness, searching for familiarity and security, and through the bleak gloom he saw that they were hard up on an offshore ledge of rocks, a half-mile to seaward of a small, jagged island. But that half-mile or so was a seething mass of white-streaked, storm-driven seas. The boats on the skids amidships were smashed and splintered by toppling wreckage; there was no chance of escape there. A sense of the inevitability of his own death seeped into Kydd.
Stumbling figures in the darkness moved about the deck, shouting and calling; there was no sign of the two officers. The stricken ship continued to lift and drop in an agonizing grind, and Kydd’s heart wrung in anguish at the torment even as he reached for reality to long-familiar deck fitments.
On the fo’c’sle there was a focus of movement, and Kydd felt drawn to the scene, the only evidence of intelligence in the insanity. He fought and clambered over the heaving wreckage toward it. As he did so Artemis was set upon by ferocious seas around her stern. Her fine run counter was slammed from under by their attack and as Kydd passed the stump of the mainmast,, her keel gave way. Twisted by the great forces working at her vitals, the after end of the ship broke in a series of shattering claps of thunder. The stern portion fell at a different angle from the forward—the decking just behind Kydd splintered across and a void opened. The forward part remained immovable on the rocks but the after fell away with a stupendous cracking, a series of lurches now quite independent of the forward. Men clutching the deck on the stern saw their doom—some slid into the ravening chaos between the two, others were still clinging desperately as Artemis’s stern quarters slid backward into the violence. Kydd’s mind froze in deathly fear; unable to move, hypnotized at the awesome scene.
There were scores of bodies in the water now, tumbled and rolled by the contemptuous seas. Released by the breaking hull, these had been the ones asleep below; death had been forced on them instantly. They would have had not the slightest warning of the streaming black rocks that had brutally broken in on them.
The after part quickly receded, sinking as it did so. The few remaining souls leaped or fell into the water. They had no chance at all; smothered by foaming seas, battered by the pieces of black wreckage spewing obscenely from the innards of the ship, they were swept into the outer darkness.
Kydd tore his eyes from the sight and seized hold of his courage. He resumed his scramble forward, crying with grief at the hideous end of his ship and the loss of his friends. Artemis was now a dismembered corpse, lying distorted and still, her bowsprit and rags of headsails spearing up poignantly, pointing at the distant shore. He reached the knot of men on the fo’c’sle. There was no sign of recognition, they were nameless figures working despairingly on the wreckage with their knives. They were trying to bind gratings
and planking with ropes to make a raft, but with only their seamen’s knives they could make little progress. Kydd did not have his knife, as iron implements were not permitted near the compass. He fell back and hung from the forebitts in utter despair, looking across the white-streaked, rampaging seas rolling shoreward.
A hand clutched at him from behind, and he turned ready to fight off a mindless soul, but found himself staring at Renzi. He gripped his friend for long moments, aware of Renzi’s wild, disordered state. Emotion cascaded through him.
Renzi leaned forward and shouted at him, “Lash ourselves—wait until daybreak!” Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded, and accepted the fall of a clewline cut off by Renzi. The new day would not change things, but at least they could face directly whatever was due to them.
The night wore on in a daze of cold and fear, but at about four, just as a reluctant cold dawn hinted at light, the carcass of Artemis shifted, grinding around to a new angle. The movement destroyed the temporary feeling of security that her motionless wedging on the rock ledge had provided, and at an hour before dawn it was clear that the end would not be long delayed.
Kydd unlashed himself—there was no point in being dragged down by the sinking wreckage—but Renzi pulled him round to face him. “We must jump,” he said. His voice was strong and even, although his body shuddered with the cold. “I would take it kindly, dear friend, if you would consent to taking the end of this line.” He was requesting that they be linked by a rope when they made their final leap. Kydd’s eyes stung, a lump in his throat at the unfairness of it all, the unreadable harshness of fate, but he took the line and secured it to himself. “We have shared …” began Renzi, but did not finish. Kydd nodded and looked away.
A long, grinding rumble sounded beneath them, and the deck juddered and moved. A sudden lurch came, which sent Kydd staggering, and it was time. They slid to the ship’s side, clambered to the rail—and leaped into the sea.
The water closed over Kydd, rushing and roaring in his ears, the sea strangely warm out of the cold blast of the gale. He kicked and flailed, then broke surface, briefly aware of the black bulk of Artemis close by, then was whirled away, spluttering and helpless. There was no question of swimming; he could feel himself in the grip of strong waves that surged and pulled at him. He became entangled in the rope that joined him to Renzi, but it was too chaotic even to know if Renzi was still attached. The tops of waves swept over him without warning and he choked on sea-water. His clothes began to hang as a dead weight, and he knew that he was going down. Thrashing desperately at the water, he breathed in the salty foam, his throat raw and burning as he began to sink.
His legs brutally hit something solid. The rising breakers lifted him up and again his legs struck. Wild with hope, Kydd frantically kicked and fought. Suddenly he was slammed against an unmistakable, sturdy, moving surface. He was carried forward, his body losing its buoyancy as it slithered and floundered across the sand. In an instant, he was aware that his direction had reversed, and he felt himself being pulled back out to sea, back into the frenzy of deep water. In a fury of self-preservation he clawed at the sand, and suddenly found himself left high and dry by the receding wave. It returned before he could do anything, but he had been able to take long, tearing breaths and was ready for the rush of water. Painfully, he levered himself out of the sea, unable to stand, merely to drag himself above the line of waves, where he collapsed, spent.
He raised his head. A few yards along was a shapeless bundle. It was connected to him by a rope, and was very still. His mind refused to accept it at first, but then, with a roaring in his ears, he shouted hoarsely. He staggered to his feet, crossed to the body and fell on it, turning it over, needing to see its face.
Renzi vomited weakly, sea-water pouring from his mouth. He lifted his head to look at Kydd with dull eyes. A slow smile crossed his features and on the tiny beach the two shipwrecked mariners embraced.
A hand touched Kydd’s shoulder. He jerked round in surprise and met the eyes of a foreign soldier. “Não se preocupe—sun vida esta salvo, pobre marinheiro,” the man said softly.
Kydd struggled to his feet but Renzi’s voice broke through weakly, “I do observe, dear friend, that the presence of this man implies two things.” Coughing feebly, he continued, “First, that this island is inhabited and we are spared an unfortunate death by starvation. Second, he speaks Portuguese—probably this is one of the islands of the Azores. They are our oldest ally and thus we may believe we will soon be homeward bound.”
Kydd hid his leaping happiness behind a dry smile. “O’ course, if there’s any officer survived, why, there’ll be a mort of explainin’ he’ll have t’ do afore his court-martial,” he said with satisfaction.
“But in course, we shall be witnesses of the first order,” added Renzi, “and therefore I fear our return to Guildford may necessarily suffer delay.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
At my desk is a length of rope from the seventy-four gun ship-of-the-line HMS Invincible that two centuries ago struck on the sands off Selsey Bill. The rope still smells of sea and Stockholm tar. I have other relics, too: a seaman’s tankard, a gunlock flint, an Admiralty-issue clerk’s writing kit—each one bringing that faraway world straight into my consciousness. This I value above all things—that the reader take away from my book is a perception of the reality of Kydd’s world.
Some have asked how real are the incidents in Artemis. There is an untold wealth in the histories—but the gold is found in the letters home of a pressed man, the diary of a gunner in Antigua, the musings of retired seamen. What lies in the pages of my book is how it happened as closely as I can render it for today’s readers. Sometimes the facts are more amazing than any fiction—Artemis’s desperate battle is based on that of the Nymphe and Cléopâtre of the time. Maillot’s (Mullon’s) gallant act did take place, but in fact it was the Captain’s own brother, Israel Pellow, who personally laid and fired the fatal carronade shot that turned the tide.
Good fortune has played its part in allowing me to indulge my passion: the felicity of having a wife who can walk and talk the plot and characters with me, the enthusiasm of my publisher, Scribner, and the inspiration from Geoff Hunt’s art. With the wider world of a naval scholarship to call upon, how can I not sit down and immediately begin the next book?
Julian Stockwin
August 2001
* * *
The following is an excerpt from Julian Stockwin’s new naval adventure, Seaflower
* * *
CHAPTER 1
The low thud of a court-martial gun echoed over Portsmouth in the calm early-summer morning, the grim sound telling the world of the naval drama about to take place. Its ominous portent also stilled the conversation on the fore lower-deck of the old receiving ship lying farther into the harbor. There, Thomas Kydd’s pigtail was being reclubbed by his closest friend and shipmate, Nicholas Renzi.
“I wish in m’ bowels it were you,” Kydd said, in a low voice. He was dressed in odd-fitting but clean seaman’s gear. Like Renzi, he was a shipwrecked mariner and his clothes were borrowed. A court-martial would try the sole surviving officer, and Kydd, who had been on watch at the helm at the time, was a principal witness.
There was a muffled hail at the fore hatchway. Kydd made a hasty farewell, and clattered up the broad ladder to muster at the ship’s side. The larboard cutter bobbed alongside to embark the apprehensive witnesses. In the curious way of the Navy, Kydd joined diffidently with the petty officers, even though with the death of his ship his acting rate had been removed and therefore he was borne on the books of the receiving ship as an able seaman. His testimony, however, would be given as a petty officer, his rate at the time.
The pleasant boat trip to the dockyard was not appreciated by Kydd, who gulped at the thought of crusty, gold-laced admirals and captains glaring at him as he gave his evidence, which might well be challenged by other hostile officers.
In fact recently it had not in any way
been a pleasant time for Kydd and Renzi. Their return as shipwrecked sailors to the land of their birth had been met with virtual imprisonment in a receiving ship; at a time of increasingly solemn news from the war it was a grave problem for the authorities how to announce the loss of the famous frigate Artemis. Their response had been to keep the survivors from the public until a course of action had been decided after the court-martial, with the result that both Kydd and Renzi had not been able to return home after their long voyage. As far as could be known, their loved ones had had no news of them since the previous year, and that from Macao, their last touching at civilization.
The cutter headed for the smart new stone buildings of the dockyard. The last half of the century had seen a massive expansion of capability in the foremost royal dockyard of the country, and it was a spectacle in its own right, the greatest industrial endeavor in the land. As they neared the shore, Kydd nervously took in the single Union Flag hanging from the signal tower. This was the evidence for all eyes of the reality of a court-martial to be held here, ashore, by the Port Admiral. The court would normally meet in the Great Cabin of the flagship, but the anchorage at Spit-head was virtually empty, Admiral Howe’s fleet somewhere out in the Atlantic looking for the French.
The marine sentries at the landing place stood at ease—there were no officers in the boat needing a salute, only an odd-looking lot of seamen in ill-fitting sailor rig. There were few words among the men, who obediently followed a lieutenant into an anteroom to await their call. Pointedly, a pair of marines took up position at the entrance.
It seemed an interminable time to Kydd, as he sat on the wooden chair, his hat awkwardly in his hand. The voyage across the vast expanse of the Pacific and the early responsibility of promotion thrust on him had considerably matured him, and anyone who glanced at his tanned, open face, thick dark hair and powerful build could never have mistaken him for anything other than what he was, a prime seaman. His past as a perruquier in Guildford town was now unimaginably distant.
Artemis Page 33
