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 gets 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.
Darkness lay softly over the island, and Kydd finished the last of his meal, a boiled concoction of salt beef and yam served in a half coconut shell. Still no sign of Renzi. A buzz of talk washed about him. He lay back on the grass and gazed at the stars, thinking of nothing in particular, just enjoying the night air.
Drowsy, he went to the living hut. T
heir hammocks were still slung and the matting sides were rolled up to give an airiness to the warm night. As he climbed aboard his hammock Kydd saw a dark form by Renzi's position. 'Nicholas?' he called softly. The form froze. 'Is that you back with us?'
'Yes,' said Renzi shortly.
Kydd sensed a bridge had been crossed. 'Did you . . .'
'I had the transcendent experience of communicating with the savages in their innocence,' Renzi said stiffly.
So there would be no revision of Rousseau's Noble Savage. Kydd wondered what form the communication had taken, given the total lack of a common tongue. 'John Jones was taken by a devil fish,' he said. 'It was the strangest thing y' ever saw, just a single bite an' he was destroyed — Nathaniel Gurney says it was the Scorpion Fish, very bad. An' he also says as how the savage are treacherous heathens, given to murderin' each other and—'
'Gurney is a fool,' Renzi spat, 'an ignorant wastrel who, like us, is causing the foul corruption of civilisation to lay its dead hand on these islands.'
'How so?' Kydd replied, with heat. 'D'ye despise even y'r own society?'
Renzi paused, and Kydd could hear his angry breathing. 'I beg — we will talk no more of it,' Renzi said, his voice thick.
Kydd bit off his reply and settled in his hammock.
He awoke late with a muzzy head after a night of conflicting dreams. He looked over the edge of his hammock to Renzi's, but his friend had left — as he was entitled to, Kydd reminded himself. Their spell of duty did not begin until noon.
Tamaha was nowhere to be seen, and he didn't feel like going down by the lagoon or taking the steep climb to the peak. He wandered up to the observatory platform. The observations had begun, and Kydd watched Evelyn's total concentration at the gleaming brass instruments and his quick scrawls as he added to his growing pile of papers. Hobbes glowered at the inquisitive onlookers and continued his dour ministrations.
'You, sir — yes, you!' It was Evelyn, beckoning to him while he remained bent at an eyepiece. Kydd came obediently, knowing that Evelyn was not given to idle whims. 'Be so good as to advise me, Mr Mariner. My glass has a propensity to tremble and sway in this rather forthright breeze. It makes a ruination of my figures.' He waved at the slender brass length of his instrument up on its wooden platform.
Kydd saw how the long optical piece was being affected by its length. 'I believe y' have here a mizzen gaff right enough, yet wanting its rigging.' He pursed his lips. 'I'll return with the necessaries.' Evelyn nodded, bemused at the mysterious metaphor.
Returning with a hank of spun-yarn, Kydd capably set up a pair of vangs each side of the instrument leading to its outer end from the stout support posts of the platform. He contrived a deadeye on one side, which allowed him to tighten the 'rigging' to a harp-like tautness. 'There,' he said, with satisfaction. 'Do y' take a look through y' optics now.'
Evelyn bent and took the eyepiece again. 'Ah! The very wonder of the age — here we have a rock-like stillness.' He relinquished the instrument and stepped down. 'My thanks, Mr Mariner.' Noticing Kydd's interest he added, 'We have in these papers an infinitely precious aggregation of data, which when matched with simultaneous observations in Greenwich will settle once and for all the precessional paradox.'
Nodding wisely, Kydd noticed the care that Evelyn took in replacing the papers in a polished wooden box. No doubt this contained a final product of why the frigate had travelled so far to this remote region.
'I have not seen your friend, er . . .'
'Nicholas Renzi.'
'Just so. Presumably he is distracted in making sport with the ladies of these islands.'
Kydd tried to suppress a smile. 'He is not. He has a hankerin' after the theories of Mr Rousseau, an' believes that we corrupt the savage by our civilisation.'
Evelyn's eyebrows rose. 'Rousseau? You have debated him?' He looked out over the glittering blue ocean and continued, 'For myself, I cannot bear the bigot or his loose thinking, but in this instance I am inclined to believe he is right, we are a plague on these people. The sooner we are sailed the better I shall like it.' He swung up to the platform again. 'Pray excuse, I must return to my work.' Kydd knew he was dismissed from Evelyn's universe.
Parry was not the officer to accept weak excuses. Absence from place of duty was a dereliction that could not and would not be forgiven. The offender would get no sympathy from the rest of the duty watch either, for they had probably themselves been torn from willing arms to report. Kydd fretted for Renzi, who had probably wandered off in search of some marvel of nature. Possibly he had found an old native philosopher and was carrying on a deep conversation by signs. Now he was on report to the Captain who would stop his liberty or worse.
Duty ashore was not arduous. There were stands of muskets to hand, and the stockade to patrol, but against whom it was not clear. Companionable tasks included assisting the cook to prepare the evening meal, repairing the hut matting and the like. Less companionable was the sentry-go, which involved porting a heavy musket in solitude along the length of the stockade.
Supper was served out, and Kydd considered whether he should save some of his ration for Renzi. Darkness stole in, conversations became desultory and those free to do so retired to the living huts. As the moon rose, huge and magnificent, over the craggy line of the peak escarpment, it charged every object with a deep silver radiance and created myriad mysterious shadows.
Back on sentry-go, Kydd paced slowly along the stockade, peering over the top across the grassy slopes, which disappeared into shadow at the woodland edge. Nothing moved; the low soughing of the night breeze and creaks from the timbers of the stockade were all that fell on his senses. He shifted the musket over his shoulder and padded on.
'Hsssst!' It was the beach sentry, hurrying up the path. He gesticulated sharply. Kydd hurried down to the man, who was in grave breach of discipline by leaving his post. 'Come down to th' beach,' the man whispered urgently.
Kydd knew that there must be good reason he should go, but if he was caught — he looked back along the line of the stockade. The other sentinels were indistinct dark blobs in its shadow. He turned and plunged down the slope. At the point where the stockade met the sea he saw two figures standing together in the moonlight, which lay still and liquid on the pale beach.
'Well met, my friend.' It was Renzi. His voice sounded gentle and noble but Kydd approached in apprehension for what he might find. Renzi was in native dress, a waist-length skirt and headdress of woven flowers. Next to him was a native woman dressed similarly and looking at Kydd with a palpable tension.
'Tohe-umu,' said Renzi, introducing her. 'She will be my wife when I settle here after you have gone.'
Kydd was struck speechless. Settle? What utter madness! To cut himself off from his own kind, to . . .
'I wish to farewell you now, to let you know that I have found the contentment and fulfilment I have always craved — a union between Nature and Man that will purify and scarify the soul of the gross humours that come from artificial society.'
Finding his voice, Kydd blurted, 'But how will you live? You have no means, no—'
'There is no need for money or anything else. We shall build a dwelling place, and all around shall be the bounty of the good earth.' His tone strengthened. 'And I shall bring into the world infants who will learn humility and awe at the altar of Nature - and they then will enter their true inheritance.' He turned to the woman and tenderly spoke a few native words. Her tense expression dissolved into one of deep affection that Kydd saw had no room for others.
Renzi held out his hand awkwardly. Kydd's thoughts chased each other. Once Artemis had sailed away Renzi would be reckoned a deserter for the rest of his days.
There was no chance that they would ever see each other again. It was staggering — Renzi's fine mind wasted in this incomprehensibly remote piece of the earth. It was an insane impossibility to see Renzi tilling the soil, reasoning with the warriors. Then probably a lonely death among the savages. It was lunacy . .
.
'I go now, be so good as to remember me in the years to come, dear friend,' Renzi said, in a low voice. His head fell, but only for an instant. He fixed Kydd with a long look, his deep-set eyes moist, then turned and marched away.
Kydd balanced easily on the main topmast cap, a hundred and twenty feet high with only the main royal mast above him. Just below, Doud, Pinto and others were seizing a futtock stave to the topmast shrouds ready to pass the catharping. They knew their job backwards, and Kydd had no need to intervene. While they had accepted his elevation to petty officer with equanimity he found it agreeable to his natural temperament to lead with a light touch.
Far below on the quarterdeck stumped the foreshortened figure of Powlett, as irascible as a caged bear but energised by the prospect of getting to sea again. They had reverted to one watch in three on liberty, the other two watches devoted to work preparing for their voyage home in the fearsome roaring forties of the Great Southern Ocean. The only ocean to encircle the world completely, its stormy seas swept huge and unobstructed, and if there were any skimping on this work they might disappear from human ken for ever.
At this height it was possible to see much more of the island, the variegated greens of the plateau and lower slopes and the blotchy bare rock-faces of the peak. Kydd couldn't see beyond the escarpment and wondered which part of the island Renzi would select for his native home. He would deeply miss Renzi, and the first sea-watch especially. He had heard that the scientists had nearly completed their work, and there was a very real prospect that they would put to sea in a day or so; it would be all over by then.
Kydd touched the outer tricing line — it was worn and hairy with use, like much of the running rigging. They had only so much in the way of sea stores, and their stock of the aromatic Stockholm tar used to preserve the standing rope had to be eked out. On the fo'c'sle the sails were being roused out and checked; the action of sun and salt water on canvas had made the flax deteriorate.
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