Artemis k-2

by Julian Stockwin

  Renzi stepped out up the overgrown path inland towards the naked peak that towered ahead. Kydd followed behind, puffing at the pace Renzi was setting. They reached a broad ledge of bare rock that allowed them to look back on where they had come from. ‘Ah, is not that sublime?’ Renzi stood on the lava rock as far forward as possible, unconsciously taking the pose of a Romantic hero, one foot braced forward, a noble brow shielded by his palm as he gazed out over the dramatic downward sweep of the foliage.

  Kydd was grateful for the breeze. The day was sunny and close in the lee of the peak. Odd odours from the island vegetation and the warm smell of sun on the volcanic soil filled his nostrils. ‘What price y’r Diderot now?’ Kydd responded happily, only hazily aware of the philosopher’s existence, but knowing that it would give Renzi pleasure that he had remembered their conversation. What the man had actually said he couldn’t recall.

  Renzi turned on him, his face ablaze. Kydd recoiled in dismay. ‘Yes, you’re right! That is the essence of it! We stand morally condemned - “Man is not content with defeating Nature, he must triumph over it!’”

  ‘Why, yes, o’ course, this is very right,’ Kydd agreed, and scratched his leg where some unknown insect had made itself known. Renzi had his oddities, but his emotional tone of late was not in character and Kydd felt some disquiet.

  They resumed their upward climb and the bare grey rock of the peak presented close before them as a steep escarpment. They cast about, looking for a passage, but for some time there had been no discernible track through the scrubby vegetation. Then Kydd spied a break in the rock-face, and when they achieved this, they found that they could now see both sides of the island.

  The far side was much steeper, and being to the weather side of the island the ocean surged in, smashing down on the foreshortened beach in a ceaseless assault, a constant mist of spume in a haze above the surf. Kydd could not make out anything of interest. The anonymous riot of greenery stretched away unbroken in both directions. A small bluff projected into the sea at one point, its red soil distinctive, and a small beach lay within its hook — but that was all.

  Back to leeward the vista was more satisfying, the shallows where they had careened were easily visible, and towards the other end of the island, they saw the crescent of a wide lagoon. Over a dozen canoes were drawn up on its inner beach, and one or two smaller ones lay unmoving in the lagoon itself. The occupants were fishing. Close inshore was Artemis, her trim lines sleek and satisfying; she lay to both anchors and appeared rock-like still, although Kydd knew her to be lively and responsive to the modest swell. The plateau was in plain sight below them, much closer to the beach than Kydd remembered, and on it within the stockade were tiny figures working on the huts and the observatory.

  His eyes strayed to the beach between the lagoon and the plateau path. There were women down there, with their wares laid out, and he could see the unmistakable forms of sailors mingling among them.

  A splendid situation for our repast!’ Renzi said, hardly able to take his eyes from the abundance of nature. Kydd’s cloth bundle was added to the common pool, and soon they were feasting on succulent fish cooked in plantain leaves, ship’s biscuit and nameless hunks of a grey, starchy substance. They gorged on fruit to conclude, and Renzi apologetically poured rum and water for their wine.

  They lay back, eyes closed, letting the airy warmth and perfect stillness work on their spirits. ‘So, we are now at the far side o’ the world,’ Kydd said lazily. Just bringing out the words, however, brought a flash of memory. Here was Guildford high street, the old family shop now a stationer’s, the crabby windows filled with patriotic and satirical mezzotints. Gentlemen with ladies on their arm were passing by. He mentally corrected the image; the idyllic weather here had induced a summer scene in England, but of course right now it was winter, and it would be a different prospect. His mind drifted. Winter in Macao had been cold, but quite bearable. In fact, he and Sarah — he caught himself at the cold wash of remembrance, her face returned to the centre of his vision, tear-streaked and pale.

  He jerked awake and sat up. ‘Shall we return to the ship, d’ye think?’ he said, scrambling to his feet. He yearned for the simplicity of the human company to be found in Artemis.

  ‘No,’ said Renzi, decisively. His eyes remained closed.

  Kydd hesitated. ‘The afternoon is passing …’

  ‘I have no intention of returning,’ Renzi said. His eyes flicked open and he looked up at Kydd. ‘I cannot easily bring to recollection a greater peace and exaltation of mind than this prospect brings — I shall remain here until driven back by nightfall.’ He looked steadily at Kydd, the lines each side of his mouth lengthening.

  ‘Then I have t’ return without company,’ Kydd said.

  ‘Do so, my friend,’ Renzi responded, without a pause.

  Kydd waited, then smiled reluctantly. ‘Wish y’ joy of y’r Nature,’ he said, and turned down the path.

  Reaching sea-level he moved towards the figures on the beach. He waved to Doud, who had a basket that he was carrying towards the informal market. Doud waved back cheerily. Kydd pressed on and saw his first native at close quarters — a man standing expressionless under a palm gazing at the chattering groups. His brown, oiled body was tall and confident and he wore a fine-patterned bark-cloth skirt, which extended from a broad woven girdle nearly to his ankles. Kydd offered an uncertain smile, which brought no response.

  He walked past, approaching the women of the market who sat on palm leaves laid in a criss-cross. Nut-brown and strong-limbed, their noses broad and flat, they had a vitality and animal suppleness. They laughed and chattered and threw looks his way that were unmistakable. ‘Ohe, papalangi’ they teased, and Kydd grinned.

  He passed by, heading for the lagoon. It was an idyllic prospect, utterly peaceful and lazy under the tall palms. He was drawn to the canoes pulled up on the sand. They were fine-lined and beautifully finished. He fingered a furled sail, made of a woven matting; it would not stand a gale at sea, but he guessed that the canoe would head for the nearest island if it came on to blow. They would probably be wet and waterlogged in the short seas of the English Channel, but here in the broad Pacific they would respond to the spacious swells by riding up one side and down the other, fast and dry.

  His attention was on the canoe and he wasn’t aware of the presence of another until he felt a gende touch on his arm. Straightening, he turned to see a native girl hesitandy offering him half a coconut filled with water-juice. Her face was open, and her quick smile widened readily at Kydd’s shy response. ‘Why, thank ‘ee,’ he said, uncomfortably aware that her hand still lay on his arm. ‘Er - is this y’r boat?’ He accepted the shell and tasted. The cool young juice was nectar, and he drank again.

  ‘ Tamaha? she replied happily. She wore an ankle-length coloured skirt similar to those of the men but her upper body was modesdy concealed by a string of pretty dried leaves and rushes hanging down from around her neck.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand,’ Kydd said, and smiled back.

  She giggled, then laid her hand on her breast. ‘Tamaha? she repeated, then touched Kydd’s breast.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s Tom, Tom Kydd,’ he said, conscious that she did not withdraw her hand.

  ‘Ah— Tonki? she whispered, and stroked his shirt curiously. He looked down on her black hair and caught the scent of her, a head-swimming blend of coconut oil and sandalwood. Kydd cleared his throat and looked around. The man under the palm was gone, and their conversation had attracted not the slightest bit of attention from the few still on the beach.

  ‘Urn, Tamaha,’ he began, and fell back on his previous piece of small-talk. ‘This is your canoe?’ he asked. She seemed puzzled, so he gestured meaningfully at the craft. Her face cleared, and she slid the canoe easily into the still water of the lagoon.

  He stood in confusion. ‘Ohe, Tonki!’ she called, holding the canoe still and beckoning. Kydd found himself moving forward to her. Splashing in the bath-warm w
ater, he climbed in and settled in the after part, laughing in embarrassment.

  Tamaha joined in the laughter, and pushing off the outrigger, climbed lithely aboard. She plied her paddles easily and the canoe skimmed out over the water.

  It glided to a lazy stop in the middle of the lagoon and Kydd looked down through the crystal water to a riot of colour not thirty feet down, a profusion of tumbling growths in an undulating underwater plain, the most beautiful landscape he had ever seen. He looked up to see Tamaha regarding him seriously over her shoulder. He grinned back, his reserve melting.

  She lowered her head, then fumbled in the forward recesses of the canoe and came out with a palm-leaf bundle. Eyes mischievous, she lay back slowly until her head lay cradled between Kydd’s thighs, and her bare arm arched over to offer him a dark-coloured piece of fruit. He accepted slowly and bit into it. Her eyes sparkled up at him and he felt desire mount in a betraying dull flush. He looked over the side again while he collected his thoughts, and she jerked upright again in mock exasperation.

  Thoroughly discommoded, he studied the coral more closely, at which she stood up in the canoe. She looked at him once, then in a single breathtaking movement she dived into the lagoon. Amazed, Kydd gazed deep down into the water, seeing her brown body picking its way through the coral garden, her garments floating erotically free.

  She found what she wanted and surfaced, water sparkling on her skin, her black hair clinging. It was a beautiful small white shell, empty and delicate, and as it took the air it became more and more intensely white. She stared at him anxiously; he accepted the gift reverently and without thinking held it first to his bosom and then kissed it before looking back into her eyes.

  She retrieved her paddles and the outrigger moved purposefully through the crystal water, past the lush coastline towards the end of the crescent. It performed a neat curve and crunched up on the beach. Kydd got out and helped pull the craft clear of the water.

  Without a pause, she held him by the hand and pulled him towards a rocky point. ‘Lahi hakau loaloa’ she urged. They ran together over the wet sand and up to a tiny track over the rocks. It wound around the point and past a beach to the weather side of the island, an undercut ledge of sea-roughened lava. They stood together, watching the waves approach in a long, easy heave and swell.

  Suddenly, Kydd was aware of an exhalation, a hoarse, laboured breathing out like a huge whale. There was a sudden thump and within seconds a giant gout of water roared up beside them and fell, soaking them. Tamaha laughed excitedly, her hair streaming. Heart hammering with shock, Kydd saw that she had lost her modesty in the deluge, her breasts were now quite bare. The water shot up again and descended once more.

  As it receded Tamaha gripped his arms and looked into his face. She pointed to the blowhole once with emphasis, then slid her hands up both sides of his hips and brought them up, palms together. Kydd drew her face towards him, and gentiy kissed it. She looked up with a dazzling smile, and they walked hand in hand to a grassy patch in front of a cave. It was the most natural and the most desirable thing in the world. She drew him down and they lost themselves in passion.

  Hand in hand they returned to the beach, and lay together in sleep under the tall palms, letting shadow patterns dance across their bodies and a warm zephyr play softly over them.

  When Kydd awoke, Tamaha was gone, and the sun had descended in the sky. He sat up. A griping in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten.

  He ambled along the beach and saw Mullion, who lifted a hand in recognition and passed out of sight into the thick undergrowth. Closer to, he realised that something was going on there. He followed Mullion along the path to a clearing. On a fallen palm-tree sat Haynes and standing next to him was Crow, who held a gunner’s notebook and pencil. Mullion crossed to Haynes, and after a low conversation he was handed an article, which he hastily pocketed.

  Curious, Kydd went over. Haynes looked up. ‘Kydd, yer wouldn’t be lookin’ fer favours now, would ye?’

  ‘Wha …’

  ‘Petty officer an’ messmate pays th’ same.’ Haynes’s gravelly voice held no warmth. Kydd was clearly missing something; he hesitated. Cundall entered the clearing and leered at Kydd, then went straight to Haynes.

  ‘Two on yer account.’ Crow sucked his teeth and made an entry in his notebook.

  ‘C’n yer tell us what’s the goin’ rate?’ Cundall asked, pocketing two large iron nails.

  ‘One nail fer short time, bit o’ hoop iron fer all night in,’ Crow said.

  ‘Then I’ll also ‘ave some iron,’ Cundall said, ‘cheaper in th’ long run.’ A hacked off piece of barrel iron emerged from the sack Haynes had under the tree trunk, and changed hands. ‘Surprises me you should need persuasions,’ Cundall said to Kydd, and left.

  At this rate Artemis would be bled of her stores, thought Kydd, but knew in his heart that he would find it difficult to condemn. ‘Not t’day,’ he told Haynes, and left.

  At the other end of the lagoon three men rolled along the beach, one clutching a bottle. Kydd grinned at their antics. ‘Heigh-ho!’ said John Jones, gesturing with his bottle at the canoes drawn up on the sand. ‘An’ it’s haaands to muster — man the larb’d cutter!’ The others laughed and cackled. ‘Look alive, yer parcel o’ rogues!’ His imitation of Parry was nearly perfect.

  Jones went down the beach to one of the canoes. ‘Launch-ho, mates,’ he called, making ready to slip the craft into the warm lagoon. The others lurched up; a paddle around the limpid waters would be just the ticket. ‘An’ it’s one, two, six an’ a heeeavvy!’ he roared. The canoe shot into the water, but slewed sideways, sending Jones backwards into the water. The others roared with laughter but the flailing man suddenly screamed - a deathly, inhuman shriek that paralysed Kydd. The laughter fell away into uncertainty, the men staring fuddled and confused at the thrashing man.

  Kydd hurled himself down the beach and into the water. As he splashed to the man he saw a nondescript fish flip away on the bottom; warty, ugly, the colour of mud but with glaring red eyes and a gaping mouth that grotesquely opened and closed. The man’s body arched out of the water with pain, and Kydd’s attempts to drag him from the water were hopeless. ‘Y’ useless bastards! Bear a hand here!’ he screamed.

  They held down the unfortunate sailor on the beach and tried to find the source of the excruciating pain. Kydd ripped off his shirt and saw it — two small red marks under the nipple with a rapidly whitening outer area. The man’s eyes bulged and his arms beat on the sand. His breathing turned to deep gasps, and despite the restraining weight of several men, his hands scrabbled at his throat. His screams deteriorated to hoarse croaks. Kydd saw the whitened area extend over the chest as the man suffocated in front of him; the body drooped with occasional muscle twitches and the light departed from his eyes.

  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 centre 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 g
ets 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.