Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  “What do ye mean?” Petit said carefully.

  “That mayhap we should follow suit—in our little way, of course.”

  “We?”

  “Can you conceive a span of six months at sea, nothing new, always the same food, the same company? We will rue it, I believe, were we not to take a precaution.”

  The thought had clearly not entered their heads.

  “Only one kinda stores we better ’ave—an’ if the kegs run out, then it’ll have ter be bottles.” Cundall had a handsome face: he took care to flare his side whiskers to frame it.

  “Aye, but ye knows that in th’ Indies it’s like to be arrack—made outa rice. It’ll bowse up yer jib in a brace o’ shakes right enough, Billy boy.” Eyes turned to Petit, who leaned back innocently.

  “Come on, mate, you’ve bin out there afore, ain’t yer?” Quashee said.

  “Yair, but I wanta hear what Renzi is a-sayin’,” Petit said.

  Renzi continued, “Only little things, I grant, but I have the feeling they will be deeply appreciated in the future. I say that we empower Quashee to step ashore to make purchases for the mess in general as he sees fit, some condiments, some—”

  “Some ’oo?” Cundall said.

  “Conweniences!” said Quashee happily. “He means conweniences! A rub o’ ginger, dried ’erbs, a jar o’ molasses, that’s the ticket.”

  “Just so,” Renzi said. “But we also need amusements. I have made my preparations, but could I suggest it be taken under general consideration?” The concept of preparing for recreation was a novel matter: it caused the table to go quiet.

  Pinto spoke up for the first time. “Padrino,” he said to Petit, “what you do, when you sail to the Indee?”

  Petit toyed with his pot. “Renzi’s right, o’ course. Three, four year back it was, if yer recollects, we went ter Batavia to pick up Bligh ’n’ his crew ’oo stayed with ’im in the Bounty launch. Took ’em back to Portsmouth.” Kydd remembered reading about it in the news; it had a different meaning now.

  Petit had their attention and carried on with his yarn. “Ill-tempered sod, was Bligh—noo his rights as a grunter, did he, ’n’ him only a jumped-up master’s mate. Useta strut up ’n’ down the quarterdeck, never goin’ forrard, ever.”

  There was a stirring around the table. Opinions in the Navy were divided between admiration for Bligh’s undoubted feat of seamanship—four thousand miles in an open boat without losing a man—and contempt for his equally undoubted senseless brutality to his men. “Long v’yage, yair, but don’t recollect we ’ad troubles findin’ things to do,” he ruminated.

  “Well, what did y’ do in th’ dog-watches each night?” prompted Kydd.

  “Usual kinda things. Yarns, dice, fancy work with th’ rope. Oh, yeah, makin’ things!” He fumbled and pulled out his seaman’s knife. “Like this I done.” The handle was beautifully carved, the hand-filling curve of a leaping dolphin in ebony.

  “’N’ others, they like ter scrimshander—carvin’ whale’s teeth an’ that.”

  Kydd thought of Wong and the intricate nude Oriental females he always fashioned. “Yeah, I seen that.”

  Petit scratched his head. “’Bout all I c’n say—you makes yer own amusements, mates.”

  It made Kydd thoughtful, and he broached the subject with Renzi later.

  “Food for the intellect, dear fellow. Turn time to account. He who kills time is a murderer.” Renzi had no doubt about it. Kydd guessed that soon a significant amount of space in their shared sea chest would be taken up with books.

  There was no way of avoiding it—the ship was under sailing orders and could sail imminently: Kydd had to write a final letter to Cecilia. Reluctantly he found his portable writing kit and set it up.

  He tested the sharpness of the quill nib with his thumb, and settled his paper and ink once again. The noise of the mess deck around him was unsettling, the building excitement making it difficult to concentrate—and, of course, he was no taut hand with words, it was quite outside his character.

  “Artemis, at anchor, Spithead,” he began.

  He sucked at the tip of the quill until it began to look bedraggled and sorry, and he glanced around despairingly. The lanthorn set on the table next to him guttered and radiated a hot candle smell.

  “The 15th day of August, 1793. Weather: Cool westerlies, slight chop.” This was better, it was beginning to flow.

  “Dear Sister”—or should that be “Cecilia”? He had never written to her before in his life.

  “I trust I leave you, as our mother and father, in good health.” Clever one, that—women always set great store by such things.

  “We sail for India now. Nicholas says it will be 13,000 miles. We have been taking in stores. It is hard work, and you would stare at the strange kinds.”

  His mind reviewed the last sentence. Some were passing strange—a mysterious canvas mailbag with a heavy padlock through the cringles at its mouth and guarded by sour-faced red-coats; the heavy rectangular bundles requiring special dry storage that turned out to be scores of newspapers; the chickens and goats that would be looked after at sea by the peculiar Jemmy Ducks and slaughtered in turn—she obviously wouldn’t be interested in these arid details.

  “We will be at sea for many months or a year, or more than a year. Today is dry and cool. Elias Petit says that around the Cape will set us at hazard this time of the year. Daemon frigate was there lost with all hands in the year ’86.” It was difficult to think of anything else that might interest her, and when Renzi arrived, he looked up with relief. “Nicholas! What should I write to my sister? Here is my paper, and it’s not yet half written.”

  Renzi looked over his shoulder, then sat opposite, quite blank-faced. “Do you understand, Thomas, that the ladies are on quite another tack to us in the matter of communications?” he explained. “They are illogical, flighty and strangely interested in the merest details, you know.”

  Kydd had never considered the matter before.

  Renzi waited, and thought of Cecilia, the intelligent, darting dark eyes, the sturdy practicality giving backbone to the appealing childish warmth of her femininity. Unaccountably he felt a pang. “Would you be offended were I to offer my suggestions?” he found himself saying.

  “O’ course not, Nicholas! Give us a broadside of ’em, I beg.”

  “Very well.” Cecilia was practical, but she would want to know personal details. “Are you ready?”

  “‘It is the eve of great adventures—to the fabled court of the Great Moghul, the sacred groves of Calicut—yet must I look to the needs of the voyage! Therefore, dear sister, I have …’” Those eyes, softening under his gaze. She would want to know of feelings; fears, hopes … “‘At the signal on the morrow we spread our sails and disappear from mortal ken into the Great Unknown, the vasty deep. I cannot but feel a quickening of the spirit as I contemplate the asininity of man’s claims to dominion, when he but rides above the …’”

  “Wait! This pen is scratchy. Do ye think she’ll suspect that it’s not me, I mean, writin’ like this?”

  “Of course she will not, brother ‘… if you give thought to me, dear Cecilia, be certain that my image is foremost in your mind when …’” It would be months before there would be chance of a mail passage back to England in one of the stately East Indiamans; this letter would have to last.

  “Haaaands to unmoor ship!”

  The anchorage was the same, the view of the low, dark green coast and white slashed downs was the same, but the feeling was definitely different.

  Kydd waited in the foretop to go up to lay out and loose the foretopsail; he had possibly the best view in the ship. Impulsively he reached for one of the brand-new lines from aloft, and took a long sniff. The deep, heady odor of the tar was a clean sea smell, and it seemed to Kydd to symbolize his break with the land.

  His heart beat with excitement at the thought of the epic voyage ahead, to lands strange and far. What singular sights would he see, what a
dventures would he undergo, before he would be back here again? He gulped but his eyes shone. Deep-sea voyaging was never anything but a hard, chancy affair. Death from a dozen causes lay in wait—a helpless fall from aloft into the vastness of the sea, malice of the enemy, shipwreck, disease. His eyes might at this moment be making their last mortal sighting of the land that had given him birth.

  On deck below, officers paced impatiently as the cable slowly came in at the hawse, and Kydd blessed his fortune once again at being a topman and therefore spared cruel labor at the capstan.

  “Lay out and loose!” The voice blared up from Parry’s speaking trumpet. It was common knowledge that he had been mortified when Fairfax had been brought in as first lieutenant against his expectations. It was usual for wholesale promotions to follow a successful bloody action. Some officers might take their disappointment out on the men; time would tell.

  The frigate cast effortlessly to starboard, quickly gathering way. The fo’c’sle guns banged out the salute, eddying puffs of a reduced charge from the six-pounders reaching him with its memory of battle.

  On deck again, Kydd heaved a deep sigh, gripping a shroud and looking back on the still-detailed shoreline. He thought of the small schoolhouse that perhaps he would never see again. A tremor passed over him, a premonition perhaps. Had this all been a mistake?

  The yards trimmed, the anchor at last catted and fished, Artemis settled down for the run out to sea. Kydd busied himself at the forebitts, anxious for some reason to keep the land in sight for as long as possible. Details of the shore diminished and blurred into insignificance as it slipped away astern, and the land began to take on an anonymous uniformity.

  As they passed beyond the seamark of Worsley’s Obelisk, Artemis duly performed her curtsy to Neptune, the first deep sea swell raising her bow majestically and passing down her length until at midpoint she fell again in a smash of spray. The motion made him stagger at first, but the live deck once more under his feet was glorious. Glancing aloft he drank in the curving of the leeches of the sails, one above the other in exactly the right blend of curves and graces, the bar-taut new rigging in its familiar complexity as an elegant counterpoint.

  With no raised poop the deck edge was a sweet line from where he stood right aft, and he marveled anew at the natural beauty of a ship: no straight lines, no blocky walls, she was much closer to a sculpture than a building.

  He looked back to the land. Within the span of a deck watch it had transformed from the solid earth from where before he had his being to the graying band now about to leave his sight and consciousness. In a short time they would be alone, quite alone in the trackless immensity of the ocean.

  CHAPTER 5

  Staring at the empty horizon where England had been, he didn’t hear the footsteps behind. A hand clapped on Kydd’s shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. “No vittles fer you, then, lad?”

  He followed Petit to the fore-hatch, and joined the others with mixed emotions at dinner. The lines beside Renzi’s mouth seemed deeper, his expression more set than Kydd could remember having seen it before. He realized that Renzi must feel the same way as he, but with the added force of an intelligence that had no control over its destiny, no chance to affect its onward rush into whatever lay ahead. It was a somber thought.

  “So it’s farewell t’ Old England!” Kydd tried to be breezy, but it fell flat. The table lapsed into silence; no one wished to catch an eye. It might be years before they saw home again, and with the certainty that some would not make the happy return.

  Cundall slammed down his pot. “An’ not too soon, mates—me dear ole uncle just got scragged at Newgate fer twitchin’ a bit o’ silver, me aunt needin’ the rhino ’n’ all.”

  There was murmuring; justice shoreside was far worse than at sea. Kydd sat for a while, letting the conversation ebb and flow about him, listening to the regular creaks and swishes of a ship in a seaway, and felt better.

  “Why we goin’ to India, Mr. Petit?” Luke’s treble voice sounded above the talk.

  Petit shoved away his plate, and thought for a while. “Why, can’t say as ’ow I has an answer fer that, Luke. We threw out the Frogs fer good not so long ago …”

  “Nicholas?” Kydd prompted.

  Staring at the timbers of the ship’s side, Renzi didn’t speak. At first Kydd thought he had not heard, then he said quietly, “I cannot say. True, the French have been ejected, but there are native rajahs who see their best interest in stirring discord among the Europeans, and are probably in communication with the French—but this is small stuff.” He settled back and continued, “I can’t think what there is in Calcutta that would justify our presence, especially a crack frigate of our reputation.”

  That was the sticking point: Artemis was not just any frigate but at the moment the most famous in the Navy. Loosed like a wolf on the French sea-lanes she was a proven predator, and if a frigate was wanted in those seas then others could be spared.

  “Coulda got wind of a Frog ship come ter ruffle feathers like, those parts.” Doud had drawn up a tub to join the group. He always respected Renzi’s pronouncements for their profundity.

  Renzi shook his head. “No, wouldn’t be that, Ned. Bombay Marine will settle their account. Seems we have a mystery, shipmates.”

  Artemis made a fast passage south, through Biscay and on into sunnier seas. At one point they were reined in by an irascible captain of a passing seventy-four-gun ship-of-the-line, but under Admiralty orders they could not be touched, and once more spread canvas for their far destination.

  Kydd was surprised at how the immediacy and movement of his life on land froze so quickly, was packaged into a series of static images, then slipped away into the past, to become a collection of memory fossils. His immediacy was now the rhythm of sea life—the regular watch on deck, an occasional fluster of an “all hands” to take in sail for a squall, and the continual ebb and flow of daily events, each as predictable as the rising sun, but in sum a comforting background against which Kydd grew and matured as a seaman.

  His oaken complexion was renewed in the sun, and work aloft restored his upper body strength to the point at which he could have swarmed up a rope hand over hand without using his feet to grip.

  Renzi envied Kydd’s easy development, his agility aloft, his natural gifts as a sailor. Kydd’s splicing and pointing were meticulous, while his own was adequate but lacked the regularity, even technical beauty, of Kydd’s work. His own body tended to the spare, whipcord wiriness that went with his austere temperament, and where Kydd gloried in the dangers lurking aloft, Renzi was careful and sure in his movements, never taking uncalculated risks or making an unconsidered move. Kydd soon caught up and overtook him in these skills but, as Renzi reminded himself, his own objective was to serve a sentence, not to make a life’s calling.

  He recalled what had passed when they were tasked off to bowse down the gammoning around the bowsprit. Suspended on opposite sides, under the gratings and walkways above, they were as close to the exact point at which the stem cleaved the water as they could be. It was mesmerizing, seeing at such close quarters the cut-water dip slowly and deeply into the ocean, scattering rainbow jewels of water, pausing, then making an unhurried rise, as regular and comforting as the breathing of a child at a mother’s breast. It took an effort of will for them to finish the job and return.

  And at night, the startlingly bright moonpath of countless gleaming shards, which continually fractured and joined, danced and glittered in a spirited restlessness. The reliable winds at this latitude left little for the watch on deck to do, and they would stare at it for long periods. Under its influence they considered the mysteries of life, which the normal course of existence on land, with its ever-present distractions, would never have allowed. Time at sea had a different quality: it required that men move to its own rhythms, conforming to its own pace.

  “Night’s as black as ol’ Nick hisself,” said Doud, finishing hanking the fall of the weather fore-brace. Th
e usual trimming of sails at the beginning of the watch was complete now and they would probably be stood down. Only voices in the dark and passing shadows on the glimmering paleness of the decks were evidence of the existence of other beings. A low cry came from aft: “Watch on deck, stand down.”

  They would remain on deck ready, but they could make themselves as comfortable as the conditions would allow. Soft talk washed around Kydd; old times, old loves. Drowsily, he looked up at the sky. It was easy to be hypnotized by the regular shifting occlusion of sails and rigging across the star-field as the vessel rolled to the swell.

  “What’s down there?” he found himself saying.

  The talk trailed off. “Yer what?” said one voice.

  Kydd levered himself up while the thought took shape. “I mean, at the bottom o’ the sea—we’re only on th’ top, must be all kinds’a things down there.” His mind swam with images of sunken ships, skeletons of whales and the recollection of a diorama he had once seen of Davy Jones’s Locker. It seemed reasonable to expect the muddy seabed that their anchor gripped to extend indefinitely in all directions, coming up only for land. “How deep does it get?” he asked.

  A deeper voice answered, “Dunno. That is ter say, no one knows. Yer deep-sea lead is eighty, hunnerd fathom, an’ it gives ‘no bottom’ only a few leagues off Scilly After that, who knows? It’s as deep as it is.”

  Six hundred, maybe a thousand feet, and straight down. Kydd remembered the purity and crystal clarity of deep seawater in the daytime with the sun’s rays reaching down in moving shafts of light, and even then he had never seen the bottom.

  “Nighttime, that’s when yer thinks about it—what’s there movin’ about under our keel, mates, a rousin’ good question,” the voice declared.

  A buzz of animated conversation started.

  “Ship goes down with all hands in a blow, stands ter reason, they’re down there still.”