Artemis - Kydd 02

by Julian Stockwin

  Powlett looked at him.

  'They smokes the heads 'n' sticks 'em on a pole,' the boatswain added.

  The gunner appeared and joined the group. 'Thirty-two long guns an' we can't use a one,' he said, his eyes squinting at the sandy point where the canoe had slipped out of sight.

  'We've got one, maybe two days t' set the barky to rights — can't be done,' the boatswain said loudly. There was a general stir.

  Powlett frowned: there was no glory in this kind of war. 'Set the boats a-swim, Mr Merrydew, and I desire a swivel in

  the cutter.' The boats had been previously drawn up on the beach; now they would be streamed afloat, bows to sea and one with a small cannon. 'I want fifteen stand of muskets loaded and primed, larb'd watch stand to in two hours.' With a fierce look at his men he said, 'Rest o' you, back to work.'

  It wasn't two, or even three hours, it was full evening when they came; suddenly around the point in a swarm, twenty-two impressive war-canoes and swelling numbers of tattooed warriors. The ruddy glare of torches in each canoe flamed dramatically in the dusky light, adding a devilish animation.

  The sailors stood to arms immediately and lined the water's edge, knowing that if the savages established themselves ashore it would be a grave situation. His naked sword picking up the glow of the torches, Parry prowled in front of them, looking repeatedly to Powlett for the word.

  'No man to fire without my express order!' Powlett thundered.

  Ominously there was no noise from the canoes, no war-cries or yelling, just the silence of a murderous discipline. A conch shell sounded from the largest canoe, a low, powerful ululation that set the hairs on the back of the neck on end. The canoes slowly spread out in a wide semicircle, just out of musket range, clubs and spears plainly in sight.

  'Here is y'r Noble Savage, then,' Kydd growled at Renzi, gripping his Sea Service musket and wondering how a cutlass would stand up to a spear or club after his single shot.

  Renzi gave a half-smile. 'He is indeed. Can you not perceive his desperate need to defend his tiny, perfect kingdom against the rude impact of our advance?'

  Snorting, Kydd replied, 'I c'n see 'em well enough — an' they think we're a poor vessel capsized an' cast up on the beach, which they think t' plunder.'

  Lifting his head Renzi refused to be drawn. 'See how they remain out of range of the muskets. They have had dealings with "civilisation" before.' He lowered his musket a little and mused, 'They very likely call it a "fire-stick" or similar.'

  There was a vigorous discussion in the largest canoe, which contained a very fat individual sitting in a chair. He wore a high, colourful headdress. A smaller canoe came alongside, the occupants stepped out, and a more slightiy built warrior climbed in followed by three others. Then it whirled about and paddled swiftly inshore.

  'It's a parlay, Mr Parry,' said Powlett to the restless officer, 'and I want to win time for the savants and their damn observations.' The canoe headed for the centre of the beach, where the sailors reluctantly fell back. Powlett moved forward and waited, arms folded.

  The canoe grounded with a hiss, and the warriors held the craft steady as the slightly built man stepped into the shallows. He wore just one garment, a sort of skirt falling a little below the knees, and had on a minor headdress. His slight build contrasted with the burly warriors taking up position on each side and he carried no weapons. The threesome paused at the edge of the water. A petty officer with a lanthorn appeared behind Powlett. The light appeared soft and gold compared with the red glare of the torches.

  Slowly, the natives moved up the beach. Suddenly the slighter man hurled himself forward in a run. The two flanking him were caught off-guard. Raising their jagged bone clubs they sprang forward. Flinging himself at Powlett, the man choked something out unintelligibly. Powlett snarled, 'Present!' and all along the beach muskets brisded as they took aim at the warriors. They stopped in their tracks, milling about sullenly, and calling out in hoarse, angry phrases.

  The sound of the man's tearing sobs sounded distressingly loud. He was curled into a foetal crouch at Powlett's feet, his body heaving. Horrified, Fairfax moved forward and pulled him to his knees. 'It's a — a white man!' he said, and let him drop.

  Powlett did not bend. 'Can you speak English?' he snapped.

  The man pulled himself together, lifting his head and looking from one face to another. He staggered to his feet, still staring at the silent faces. He reached out to touch Powlett's threadbare sea uniform. 'I can that, sir,' he said, his voice muffled. At Powlett's interrogative expression he straightened and cleared his throat. 'My deepest apologies, sir, for m' display,' he continued, his voice strengthening, 'but it's been four goddamn years since I clapped eyes on one o' my own kind.' The American accent was stilted, awkward.

  'You are shipwrecked and now live among the savages?' Fairfax asked.

  The man glanced back at the warriors menacing him from afar with their clubs. He edged up the beach, further into the protection of the armed sailors, and continued, 'Nathaniel Gurney, mate o' the Narragansett — as was. Th' year 'eighty-eight, near the end of a tarnation good season whaling, we follered a pod o' Right whales south into these unknown seas. We let go th' hook, thinkin' to wood 'n' water when we was tricked ashore by the natives. Only I an' two others was left aboard, me bein' mate o' the watch.' He gulped. 'Saw it all happen a-long shore, butchered th' whole crew they did, then they comes for us — we're not enough to work the ship, so we hides. When they finds us we think it's the end, but they laughs 'n' thinks it's a big joke. So, sir, I'm guest o' the Panga people, 'n' the private lap-dog of Tofa-maulu, the King.'

  Powlett took it in impatiently. 'Will they attack, Mr Gurney?'

  Gurney glanced at the warrior pair on the sand, threatening and glowering. 'I have your protection, Cap'n?' he said. 'Of course — you have my word.'

  Facing the two warriors, Gurney tore off his headdress and flung it in the sand. This produced low groans from the warriors, who half-heartedly threatened to resume the chase.

  'When we got word of a ship cast ashore an' all arsey-versey I thought she'd be a lost whaler, same as we, but when we rounded the point I knew we was wrong. Ye're a frigate at least.'

  'His Majesty's Frigate Artemis, thirty-two guns,' said Fairfax.

  'An' so I made me a break for it.' Powlett coughed meaningfully. 'Hold y'r horses, Cap'n, coming to it. Now they know I've gone over to you, they'll not parlay, but they'll listen to a deal. I'm gonna tell 'em that you're well armed and the smart move would be t' trade for what they wants. That way they gets it without anyone gets killed.'

  'Very well. What articles?'

  'Iron. Hoop iron off of barrels is best, they c'n shape that into knives. Very valuable, that is. I'll need a hand axe t' sweeten the King, but don't queer the market with too much.'

  'And we get?'

  'You've been at sea, what, months?' 'Get on with it!' Powlett growled.

  'Fruits, plantains, yams, breadfruit — set y' up in finest fettle, they will.' Then Gurney added, with gravity, 'An' if you're figurin' on staying for a spell, it would be prudent, sir, to consider to build a stockade. Make this bit o' the island all yourn, just in case, if you takes m' meaning.'

  The stockade neatly enclosed the observatory and living huts on the grassy plateau, the bamboo palisade extending down to the sea-shore on each end. The stakes would deter all but the most determined assault, and once Artemis warped out and moored in the sheltered waters of this leeward side of the island, the seaward approach would be secured.

  The canoes that brought the foodstuffs were quite different from the lean war-canoes. Large catamarans with a central platform and matting sail, they extended over the bright sea from the larger island over the horizon, piled high with tropical harvest. They also brought cargo of quite a different kind.

  'Sir — sir!' called Fairfax, breathless with anxiety and his run from the beach. 'Sir, there are women in those canoes -quantities of women!' The women, flowers in their hai
r and chattering excitedly in their lilting liquid-vowelled tongue, steered their craft in through the rippling eastward entrance to the lagoon and glided in to the far beach.

  The men at work on the bulking hull stopped and watched the procession pass them in astonishment. A buzz of talk began, interspersed with ribald calls, which were returned in kind by the native girls, who waved back happily. The talk swelled to jollity then bawdiness.

  'Haaands to muster by divisions!' The boatswain's calls shrieked discordantly, sending a cloud of small shrikes flying up from the thick vegetation.

  On the sinuous length of beach in the lee of the grounded vessel the ship's company mustered under their respective officers, sailors in every sort of clothing in deference to the balmy warmth, most barefoot but all with some form of headgear against the strong sun. The officers were in the bare minimum of uniform and faded cocked hats, Rowley in shirt-sleeves and breeches, lace at his cuff and breast, while Parry's serviceable loose shirt was unbuttoned to the stomach.

  Powlett strode up. Despite the tropic warmth he wore his blue coat and laced cocked hat, sword at his side.

  'Still!' The boatswain's calls pealed a single blast, and the talking died away.

  For long seconds Powlett held them with his eyes, the undercurrent of exhilaration among the men ebbing under his ferocious glare. 'While Artemis is heaved down, should an enemy sail find us here, we are dead men! I will not have us so for a single minute longer than necessary. There will be no rest for any officer or man until we are there,' he gestured seawards, 'at anchor, stores aboard and ready to fight!’ Pausing for emphasis he continued, in forceful tones, 'And if any man should think to straggle away, for any reason, I promise you most faithfully, I will take it to be desertion in the face of the enemy.'

  The men glanced at each other. There was sense in what Powlett was saying. There were some unknown weeks left until the scientists had performed whatever it was they were doing. The women could wait.

  'Master-at-Arms!' The nuggety figure stepped forward reluctantly. He doffed his hat, an incongruous move for he wore no shirt, and with his fair colouring his body had reddened uncomfortably. Powlett's eyes narrowed and his breath hissed between his teeth. 'Damn you, sir, get a shirt on!' he snapped, before ordering more loudly, 'The purser and his steward only to deal with the women. No savage this side of the stockade under any circumstances. Post your guard inside, and any man who disobeys my orders I want to see before me instantly.'

  Despite their best efforts, nightfall saw Artemis still shore-bound; the big hawsers around her hull to tilt her over were gone, as were all but anchors laid out from the bows and stern. However, they would have to wait until the first light of day before they could safely ease the frigate once more into her element.

  In the living huts the women's low calls reached clear and soft on the night air. They had not returned in their canoes and clearly expected some response from the strangers. Kydd lay back in his hammock and listened: the warmth of the evening, the violet clarity of the dusk, the night scents of orchids, all conspired against his peace of mind. He could see the blaze of stars peeping through chinks in the matting roof, and he knew that soon a full tropic moon would set the lagoon a-sparkle with silver behind the immense inky shadow of the ship. One of the women began a soft song — cool, dreamy, infinitely beguiling. He tossed fretfully.

  A cross voice came from the gloom in the hut. 'Fer Cbrissakes!’

  'Shut yer face, Lofty,' a second voice grumbled.

  'An' all of yez, clap a stopper on it’ snarled another. The voices mumbled and stopped, but sounds of restlessness continued, the absence of deep, regular breathing betraying sleeplessness.

  'Be buggered!' a voice said decisively. 'I've a mind ter do somethin' about it.' A dark shape detached from a hammock and crouched down.

  'Don' do it, Toby,' another voice urged. 'Blackjack means it, mate.'

  'See yez in the mornin',' the first voice replied, fruity with anticipation.

  'Rouse out, rouse out — all the haaands’ Heave along there, lash 'n' carry, all the haaands!’ The cries of the boatswain's mates crashed into consciousness, dispelling fitful sleep and sending the sailors automatically out of their hammocks. Bleary-eyed, Kydd stood barefoot on the hut floor.

  It was dawn, only just. Outside, the night was giving way to the first shafts of light stealing across the sky. The grass was dew-dappled, a strange feeling to Kydd's bare feet, and he shivered in the cool air. Then his brain registered that this was the first time that Powlett, always considerate of his men, had reverted to sea routine while they were out of the ship. Could it be that they had sighted strange sail in the night? Renzi's watchful face next to him seemed equally concerned.

  Boatswain's calls shrieked: lHaaands to muster! Haaands to muster by open list!'

  Incomprehension was swiftly replaced by insight as Kydd noticed a cynical smile pass over Renzi's face. Powlett was using the regular routine of mustering the men against their entry in the ship's books as a means of detecting absconders. Sure enough, Powlett stomped down to the beach and waited, grim-faced, for the officers to muster the men of their divisions. The Master-at-Arms waited next to him, Artemis’ detachment of marines in their full accoutrements drawn up behind.

  The subdued grey light of pre-dawn gave way to the first signs of the golden flood to come by the time the muster was complete. Marching forward, the officers saluted gravely and muttered something to Powlett before falling back on their men. Powlett clamped his jaw and waited. The men, shaken by his controlled fury, waited also.

  It did not take long. Down the path to the beach came all three absentees, shamefaced but with a hint of bravado in their gait. They separated to join their divisions, two to Rowley, the other to Parry.

  'Take those men in charge, Master-at-Arms!' Powlett roared, above the cheerful morning chorus of the island. The Master-at-Arms gestured to his corporals who singled out the absentees and brought them defiantly forward.

  Powlett did not even glance at them. His eyes were on his ship's company in a steely glare. 'Articles of War,' he thundered.

  There was a stir among the men. With that single order Powlett had transformed the occasion from a familiar routine to the awful majesty of a trial — and not only this but a trial in which the evidence had all been heard. Now sentence would be pronounced.

  'Article fifteen!' Powlett's voice was powerful and well suited to this duty, to judge and sentence the men of HMS Artemis. 'Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others . . . shall suffer death . . .' The words rolled on, the same grim laws they had heard read out a hundred times on a hundred Sundays. Powlett hardly looked at the words, and finished the recitation with a snarl.

  'Do you wish a court-martial?' he asked, as was his duty and the sailor's right. There could only be one answer: if they did request one, they would be obliged to remain in irons until it could be convened. That would not be until they reached Spithead, months and months ahead at best.

  'No?' Powlett looked at the men in contempt. 'Twelve lashes apiece. Strip!' It had happened too fast. The men stood dumbly, stupefied. 'Strip!' Powlett's voice cracked like a whip. The men began half-heartedly to pull off their shirts.

  'Sir—' It was the boatswain's mate; his voice was small and apologetic.

  'Then get one!' Powlett bawled. Crimson-faced, the man doubled away.

  The Master-at-Arms came as close as he could behind Powlett and leant forward to whisper. Powlett did not turn but growled a response.

  The men, stripped to the waist, were led up the beach to one of the palms rearing up at the edge of the sand. The first was secured with spun-yarn by his thumbs in a parody of the gratings that would normally be rigged for punishment aboard ship.

  Powlett waited with a terrible patience for the boatswain's mate to arrive, breathless, with his bag. He nodded, and the marine drummer began a roll. It sounded tinny and unconvincing, the martial sound deadened by the expanse of sand. Th
e boatswain's mate drew out the cat, and measured his swing. The drum continued furiously then stopped suddenly, just as the first blow landed to an agonised gasp. It was the first major punishment Kydd had seen in Artemis. He turned to look at Powlett and caught a flash of feeling briefly cross the hard features, a complex expression, but it could be described simply in one word: grief.

  Artemis was upright well before noon, the sight of her truncated masts and hull riding high in the water driving Powlett mercilessly on. The frigate was kedged out to deeper water, all her boats afloat, every soul at work on rope, capstan or oar in the warm zephyrs.

  Before the end of the afternoon watch the ship was rigged and the stores were returning aboard in a stream. In the setting sun the job was complete. Artemis was a man-o'-war once more, riding to two anchors and ready for sea.

  'Mr Rowley!' Powlett rasped, his relief only partly concealed. 'You will take the first part of the larb'd watch and mount guard ashore over the observatory. You will be relieved in twenty-four hours.' Looking upward at the new-clothed masts he added strongly, 'The remainder will turn to, part-of-ship, and set this vessel to rights.' For the first time in days, there was a thin smile on Powlett's face.

  There was no real need, but Kydd took another rope-yarn and added it to the three he was rubbing to and fro on an old piece of canvas on his knee. His work would eventually turn out to be a dolphin for the cro'jack, a simple stout rope with two eyes to prevent nip in the massive yard. There was scope for fine seamanship in the careful pointing to finish over the plain worming and parcelling underneath, and Kydd relished its exercise. 'Do ye not want t' step ashore, Nicholas?' he said to Renzi, similarly engaged next to him. Renzi raised his eyebrows, a sign Kydd knew to be the polite harbouring of a contrary view.

  Kydd saw this and grinned. He had paid attention to Renzi's earnest exposition of Rousseau's theories, but his heart had prevailed over his intellect when he had heard of the philosopher's orphaning of his own children in the interests of science, and he had lost sympathy. 'Black Jack is down on us seein' the natives — do ye think he admires y'r Rousseau?' Kydd asked.