Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  “When it ain’t a launch,” growled Stirk, who had heard of the visitation and had hurried up on deck.

  “How interesting,” Cecilia murmured, gazing blankly at the empty space.

  They moved on to the forward end of the boat-space. “What a dear little bell,” she exclaimed, catching sight of the ship’s bell in its ornate belfry.

  “It’s how we tells the time,” said Gully eagerly. Cecilia looked closely but could find no sign of clock hands or any such.

  The men crowded around. “Like, we strikes it every glass, see, so we always knows when ter go on watch,” explained Stirk, his tone a peculiar mix of tender attention and awkwardness.

  Cecilia replied faintly that she was sure, but felt that the glass might suffer overmuch in the striking.

  “Ah, our gun captain, Tobias Stirk,” Kydd said, trying to regain center stage. He led the way down the fore-hatch, resolutely keeping the men clear while she felt her way down to the main deck.

  At the sight of the remaining twelve-pounders Cecilia paused. The heat of battle had boiled away the gun blacking to a patchy metallic graininess, and they looked what they were, lethal engines of war that had so recently taken an enemy warship and the life of her captain.

  Scars of the desperate conflict were easy to find—long, splintered furrows in the pristine clean deck, daylight through smashed-in side timbers and suggestive dark stains in more than one spot. An insistent rank odor of stale gunsmoke still pervaded the air along with the vinegar-sulphur mixture used to remove dried body parts.

  “And, Tom, pray where …” She tailed off, her hand over her mouth, eyes opened wide.

  Kydd showed her, not speaking.

  She looked around wildly, the alien grimness of the scene visibly crowding in. “Thomas, I—I—if you please, might we …”

  Concerned, Kydd led her up to the open air again. Another colorful sunset promised, and he remembered Renzi’s plans for a splendid meal. He addressed the adoring throng: “Avast there, y’ cod-eyed lubbers, we have business ashore now.” Beckoning to Renzi he announced, “We dine as planned, Nicholas, and with company.”

  Cecilia hesitated, then whispered up at him. Kydd smiled. “We shall make a rendezvous for eight, but it seems my little sister wishes time with me first.” He turned and they went ashore, arm in arm.

  Her lodgings were a tiny room in Southsea. She put down her hat and began to comb her hair before the hinged mirror. Kydd watched the familiar ritual fondly, the brush going swit-swit in regular strokes to her waist. He caught her eyes in the mirror and smiled. Quickly she averted hers and stared woodenly ahead, the brush continuing its monotonous rhythm. Taken aback Kydd wondered what he had said. Then he saw her eyes glisten. Stubbornly she stared into the mirror, the brush smoothing her hair in long strokes, and then the tears came. He held her as emotion shook her small frame, frightening him with its sudden onset. “It wasn’t so bad, Cec,” he mouthed softly, “it was over in an hour or two, I swear.”

  She didn’t answer and he held her away from him, searching her face. “It’s not that, is it?” he said, a cold dread beginning. “It’s Mother, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she choked.

  “Papa?” he said.

  “No, Tom, all are well,” she said, her voice muffled. She dried her eyes and turned on the stool to face him. “I am a silly billy,” she croaked. “Please forgive me, Thomas.” She tried a smile and Kydd laughed quietly.

  “The twins have breeched, you know,” she said, in a stronger voice. “And Mrs. Mulder is to wed again in the autumn.” She hesitated. “It’s only been half a year—does it seem long to you, Thomas?”

  Kydd thought of the incredible events and changes that he had endured. “Er, yes, I suppose it does.”

  She surveyed him at length. It was nothing short of magical, the change in him. The pale, earnest perruquier had metamorphosed into this strong, oaken-visaged sailor with the ready smile and lean body, fitting his colorful seaman’s dress as though born to it.

  “We didn’t get your letter until March,” she said, omitting the details about the frantic worry that had preceded it, “and that short one came in May.”

  Kydd remembered the scrap of letter he had dashed off to his mother at sea in a battleship, forty miles off the French coast on the day before he was due to go ashore with the doomed landing party. Apparently another two letters were still on their way, but at least they had had word of his transfer.

  “We didn’t understand the bit about a frigate, but Lady Onslow was so sweet about it,” she said. Sir Richard was himself at sea at that very time, Rear Admiral of the White.

  So they would have known about his transfer to Artemis, and therefore would have been horrified when news of her dreadful battle had become known.

  Cecilia flopped onto the bed like the child she so recently had been, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “Tell me, what’s it like to be a sailor? Really, Tom, no gammon.”

  Kydd felt a wave of affection break over him, her childish glee touching his heart. He told her of the sea, his lofty world of perils and adventure, skill and honor; the first sight of a sea-tossed dawn, the deep experience of feeling a deck heave, a comber bursting against the bow in a sheet of rainbow spray. He spoke of his friends—his shipmates, and their rough, simple gentleness.

  She listened speechless, carried by his words but never gulled into underestimation by their simplicity. “Oh, Tom, who would have thought it?”

  Kydd had never experienced hero worship from his sister, and reddened. “When I spoke with the King, he remembered Guildford, Cec—”

  “The King!” she squealed. “Never! You never did!”

  “And with a beautiful princess—a real one, mind you.”

  Her speechless admiration made him feel a poltroon. Guiltily he glanced around. “What o’clock is it, sis? We mustn’t be adrift for Nicholas.”

  The dancing light faded from her eyes. She looked away, her body sagging.

  Kydd felt the cold dread returning. “What is it, Cec?” he said softly.

  “Oh, Tom, I—I feel so dreadful!”

  He put his arms around her shoulder. “Tell me.”

  She looked deeply into his eyes as if to spare him what she could. “It’s Father,” she said carefully. “His eyes are failing.”

  He sat back, confused.

  Brokenly she murmured, “Tom—how can you …” Her hands twisted together. “When I looked up at that great big ship and saw you there, my heart nearly broke. You looked so—right as a sailor. So handsome! My big brother!” Her eyes filled. “And now we are asking you to give it all up—Tom, he is making mistakes, the customers are complaining. If the shop fails …”

  They were asking him to return home, to resume his place behind the counter of the old shop, talking wigs with customers. He gulped, and looked sightlessly out into the night and past the celebrations. His sister gripped his hands in hers until they hurt. Renzi and he would part, he would no longer know his dear friend, who would go on to better things in another world.

  “Tom …”

  It was not her fault: it must have taken real courage to make the journey alone to this notorious naval town, but only now was she understanding the true cost of her appeal. He got heavily to his feet, and balled his fists in silent agony There was no decision to make. Without him, the family would slide into destitution, the debtor’s prison and worse.

  “This war, Tom, it’s ruinous for the business. Everyone is asking for bob wigs only, and some are even refusing to wear any. It’s a new fashion.”

  Kydd remembered his father’s endless but nearsighted primping and sewing of horsehair at the carcass of full-bottomed wigs, and his retort died before it was uttered. He took a deep breath. “I have prize money,” he said, but Cecilia cut him off quickly.

  “Tom—it’s not just for now,” she said firmly. “You must face it, we need you to provide for us in the future. We need you, Tom.”

  “Yes,” he muttered.
“Yes, I know—I know, I know, I know, damn you!” he choked out in his pain.

  She said nothing and waited.

  He looked up miserably. “We’ll go to Nicholas now.”

  The darkness outside was split with bonfires, fireworks and excited people hurrying this way and that with blazing link torches, candles in colored glass and all manner of festive flame. They trudged silently along the seafront. The dark offshore shapes of the fleet had needlepoints of light on deck, which Kydd knew were lanthorns strung over the fo’c’sle and quarterdeck. A regular deep thump of minute guns from somewhere out there struck him viscerally.

  Kydd didn’t notice the gang of rowdies until they had surrounded them both. He stopped, Cecilia gripping his arm apprehensively.

  “Dursn’t show a light, then?” One swaggered up to him, demanding he show illuminations in patriotic celebration.

  They closed in menacingly. “Tip ’im a stoter, Jem, ’n’ then capsize ’im in th’ sea!”

  “Don’t you dare, you ruffians!” shouted Cecilia. “He’s from Artemis and he’s been in a terrible battle, you scoundrels.”

  They fell back under her anger, and changing tack began shouting, “Artemis! An Artemis!” Hoisting Kydd up, they carried him shoulder high, cheering and whooping, not noticing the anguish in his face.

  Renzi waited outside the Queen, concerned at Kydd’s lateness. When he saw the two come into sight he hailed briskly. Kydd did not respond at first, then he said quietly, “Nicholas, come walk with me a spell, I have—some news.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Kydd slumped back in the coach as it bucketed northward along the London Road. Next to him Cecilia held a small book as though reading, wise enough to leave him to his thoughts. The initial sharp pain had dulled. He knew that Renzi, with his fine logic and learning, would have a philosophy to suit, but in the last few minutes they had spent together, dividing the contents of the sea chest they shared, it did not seem to be the thing to talk about. It had seemed so casual, the farewell, so matter-of-fact. They had stood in the ’tween decks; there had been a reluctant shaking of hands, a banal comment or two, and then he had turned his back on the only true, deep friend he had ever had.

  There would be no problem about his departure—a famous frigate captain like Black Jack Powlett would find a score of volunteers eager to step into his place. He had left without delay, unable to face the leave-taking, letting Renzi tell the others. He hoped he would be missed as much as he missed them. The lump in his throat tightened.

  They drew into Guildford in light drizzle. As he stared moodily from the coach window he saw that the country town had not changed in his absence beyond an imagined wartime unkemptness. They clattered into the old timbered passage of the Angel posting house and finally came to a halt. He handed Cecilia down, ignoring the gaping ostler who had never seen a proper sailor before.

  He knew the way, of course, up the high street and under the great clock to the family shop. With his seabag comfortably over his shoulder and Cecilia’s luggage under his arm, he swung into the accustomed gloom of the shop. The smell of musty horsehair and pomatum took him back but the room seemed smaller than he remembered.

  There was a scream of delight as his mother appeared. She clung to him as though he would vanish again before her eyes. His father stood at the door but held back. “Welcome home, son,” his mother said tearfully, her eyes running over his lean figure. “Get your sailor costume off, dear, and I’ll have such a dish ready for you as will warm the cockles.” Her hands went to his jacket, working at the buttons. Something in Cecilia’s manner communicated itself to her, and the fussing turned to flustered prattle. His father remained still, staring at him.

  Kydd took a deep breath and strode over to him. “I hope I find ye well, Father,” he said.

  A smile broke the deep lines of his father’s face, and his hand came out, hesitantly. Kydd’s generous nature surged to the fore—it was not the man’s fault that mortal weakness was laying its hands on him. The room burst into excited babble; Kydd was back in the bosom of his family, and they all wanted to hear of his awful adventures.

  Once again the rightful inhabitant of the tiny room above the shop, he peeled off his seaman’s rig—for the last time. He laid it down tenderly, smoothing the folds, then pulled on his knee breeches and snuff-colored ruffled waistcoat. It felt flimsy, constricting, after his stout sailor’s wear. He felt contempt, hatred for it building.

  There was a tiny knock at the door. Cecilia stood there, small and vulnerable. Struggling, she spoke in an unnatural voice. “Tom—thank you.” Wrestling his thoughts he crossed to her and hugged her tight. “Need t’ get used to it again, is all,” he mumbled.

  The days passed with leaden steps. One by one reminders of his sea life faded into the past. The softness of his bed had been suffocating, and he slept on the floor for the first few nights; his mother had quietly got rid of his seaman’s knife, which had been at his side every waking moment before, and his wooden ditty box containing his personal treasures was replaced by a sensible porcelain dish.

  His pigtail did not last either. Cecilia chopped and scissored at its gleaming length and it fell forlornly to the floor. As a perruquier, it just would not do not to wear a wig himself. What was left of the prize money was gratefully accepted, but by unspoken consent after that first night, his time at sea was never again mentioned.

  Kydd took to walking alone. It was possible to make the journey from Pewley Downs to Shere along the crest of the North Downs, and in the summer warmth it was a bright and pretty sight. His thoughts were free to roam wherever he wanted. The North Downs had a dual view with a certain meaning for Kydd. On one hand, to the northeast there was the flat plain that led to London, its presence betrayed by a distant pall of dun-colored smoke. The fleet anchorage of the Nore, where as a pressed man he had spent his first days in the Navy, was not so very far beyond. Over in the other direction was the road south, to the many seaports of the coast, where as many as two hundred sail at a time could be seen from the white cliffs. Unlike any of the others he met on his walks, he knew full well what lay beyond the gray waves breaking ashore.

  In the shop, business was not good. Cecilia had been right: the fashion sweeping in from revolutionary Europe for unrestrained hair had a strong hold now and the future for wig-making looked bleak. There was still a small but reliable demand from physicians, the richer merchants and the like, but the Kydds had to compete against a larger establishment in Godalming that could deliver faster.

  Kydd’s days were now circumscribed by long hours in the workshop punctuated by periods of soul-destroying inactivity behind the counter, waiting for custom. The days turned to weeks and he felt his soul shrivel.

  After listlessly serving ribbons to the voluble Mrs. Coombs he looked up from the counter at the person who had just entered—dusty and travel-worn, carrying a ragged bag and in a worn blue sailor’s jacket. It was Renzi. He held out his hand.

  Kydd couldn’t respond at first; it was like seeing a ghost. He was caught utterly off-balance. “W-well met, sir,” he stuttered, not knowing how to deal with a man he knew to be well-born, but in quite different circumstances his particular friend.

  Renzi reached out, took Kydd’s hand and shook it warmly. He was shocked at the changes he saw, the slow responses, the downcast look. It was also a grievously sad travesty, seeing Kydd’s broad shoulders and lithe foretopman’s body draped in wig and breeches and the tight, faded brocade waistcoat. “Were I to beg shelter for the night, I fear I would sadly inconvenience,” he said, and watched anguish chase delight on his friend’s features.

  “Nicholas—but o’ course! But—”

  “I have a story to tell, but it must wait. If you would be so good as to conduct me to a tailor’s I will do my best not to shame you to your family—and then we will dine.”

  Renzi became another being in long clothes. In anonymous black, a severe and unadorned black, his natural patrician authority readily asserte
d itself. Other clients in the saloon respectfully made way for them both and they sat down to a dish of salmagundi.

  “You’ll be stayin’ long in town?” Kydd asked, fearful of the reply.

  “No plans at the moment, my friend.”

  “Then you shall stay at home—my room is yours.” A bed could be made on the floor of the shop for himself.

  The cured fish went down rapidly, as did the jug of porter.

  “You wonder at my visitation,” Renzi said finally. Kydd smiled, so he went on. “Artemis is still in dock, we are sent away on leave,” he said, playing with a fork. “I thought it proper to visit my family. I posted to the village and walked to the estate.” Renzi seemed to have some difficulty with the tale. Kydd recalled that after a particularly harsh Act of Enclosure by Renzi’s father, a tenant farmer’s son had committed suicide. Out of the highest sensibility and purest logic, Renzi had taken this personally as a moral crime by his family and, in expiation, had sentenced himself to five years’ exile at sea, an extraordinary act of self-denial.

  Renzi leaned back with a twisted smile. “At the boundary of the last field I—remembered, saw again the body hanging in the barn.” He looked intensely at his fork. “I could not go on. I tried, but could not.” His voice was thick, the first time Kydd had heard it so overborne by emotion. “The nights I slept under a hedge—it was nonsensical, and so here I am.” His eyes glimmered.

  He signaled to the pot-boy. “Well met—indeed it is!” He smiled, and saw Kydd’s fumbling. “In the article of prize money,” he said gently, “except for a slight indulgence in poetry I have not had the opportunity to get rid of it before now. Allow me to …”

  The claret was passable and under its influence Renzi heard Kydd’s story. His heart went out to his friend, for there was little that he could do himself, cut off from his own family and wealth. It needed a long-term solution, but in the time before he must repair back aboard his ship there was little chance that one would be found.