Artemis

by Julian Stockwin

  Captain Powlett hurried to greet his august visitors, making a fine leg with his gold-laced hat sweeping down. “Well pleased are we, Your Majesty, that you have deigned to welcome us. Pray accept a glass of Western Ocean punch.”

  Neptune was certainly an imperious sight—a mighty beard of tarred oakum, long, flowing wig, striped toga, a trident and flaring golden crown. The glass was immediately to hand, and after draining it in one, the King addressed the party in a deep, rich voice. “What ship?”

  “Artemis frigate, s’ please Your Majesty,” replied Powlett, in his usual worn shirt, but with his gold-laced cocked hat in honor of the occasion.

  “Whither bound?” demanded King Neptune.

  An expectant hush fell. “To the far Indee, the land of the peacock and elephant, rubies and gold,” answered Powlett.

  “What do ye there?” Neptune would answer to his shipmates later were he to pass up his chance.

  Powlett’s eyes glinted. “Nothing that would interest the puissant Sovereign of all the Seas!” he growled.

  Neptune’s wife adjusted her breasts. “Now, dear, we mustn’t be late for the mermaid’s dance,” she said, in a beautiful falsetto that only a singer’s voice like Doud’s could produce. In her long flowing hair of teased-out manila, cheeks thick with red ocher and petticoat of yellow bunting she drew admiring looks, which she played upon shamelessly. Coquettishly she fingered the King’s chain of office, a string of seashells, and the crowd roared.

  “Badger Bag!” Neptune thundered.

  His chamberlain stepped forward, an unmistakable hard figure with glittering black eyes under the fish scales and sacking. “Sire.”

  “Yon land toggies have no respec’ for my royal person!” Neptune gestured angrily at the grinning officers.

  Badger Bag reached into his large sack, but there was no need: the officers hurried to render elaborate obeisance to His Oceanic Majesty.

  “Is my court prepared?” Neptune demanded.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” said Powlett.

  “Then forward!”

  Flogged on by Badger Bag with a rope’s end of stout sargasso seaweed, and with the maximum of horseplay, his courtiers trundled the haughty Neptune aft to the main jeer bitts, where his grand throne of a cunningly sawn large cask took pride of place.

  “Where’s ’is sea?” Badger Bag demanded, outraged. Quickly a kid filled with seawater was brought, and Neptune sat on his throne with a theatrical sigh, able to keep his feet at the very least in his natural element. Western Ocean punch flowed freely—it would be a sad thing indeed if Artemis could not right royally entertain their regal guests.

  Neptune wiped his mouth after his third glass, dislodging his beard somewhat and revealing that his black complexion owed more to nature than artifice.

  “King Neptune is black?” an amused Rowley said to Badger Bag.

  “O’ course” was the reply. “’Is Majesty is in mournin’ fer his first wife—caught a mortal chill off the Newfie banks, sucklin’ their child. ’E’s minded ter blockade the Shetlands an’ force the mermaids ter suckle the next one.” For his temerity Rowley was struck roundly on the ear with a large fish drawn from the sack.

  “Avast!” bellowed Neptune. “Bring forth the pollywogs.”

  Badger Bag fumbled in his sack and extracted a parchment. “Midshipman Titmuss!” he thundered. The youth in question, a dreamy boy with golden curls, was set upon by his assistants, the bears, who hauled him forward.

  “Is this scrawny mortal worthy of entry to my realm?” Neptune demanded.

  “Stands accused of leavin’ his mama a-weepin’ on land while he sails orf over the briny deep,” Badger Bag said, “an’ seen ter take soft tommy when ’e could’ve supped on hardtack,” he continued remorselessly.

  The bears began capering immediately. “Guilty! Guilty!” they crowed, scampering about the deck.

  “Hold!” Neptune said. “In m’ mercy, he shall be admitted—but not in them there awful whiskers! Shave ’im!”

  The golden down could hardly be termed whiskers, but nevertheless a blindfold was clapped on and the youth frogmarched to the after end of the quarterdeck, where a huge canvas tub of seawater waited. He was guided to a chair on the edge of the tub. A bucket of water was dashed into his face, and the bears set to work with large wooden razors and carpenter’s paste mixed with rancid butter. The youth struggled and yelled in desperation, but it only resulted in his mouth being choked with more of the foaming paste. At the height of his struggles, the chair was tipped over and the victim tumbled into the water.

  Others were summoned and given summary justice, varying in their reactions from resignation to fighting like tigers, but all ending the same way, water flying everywhere and not least upon the bystanders.

  Neptune sat back enjoying his judgments, but suddenly he stood up and flourished his trident. “That man there!” he said, pointing at Lieutenant Parry. “He smiled!”

  Knowing looks were exchanged. The dour Parry was tight and grim in his dealings, humorless to a degree, but contempt of court could not be lightly dismissed—this would be interesting.

  “Therefore he must be sick!” The court fell about in laughter. “Summon my doctor!” An elderly bear, slightly the worse for wear and Western Ocean punch, swayed forward. “What have you ter cure ’is mullygrubs?” Neptune ordered.

  The bear blinked and then leered, pulling out a dark green bottle. “This’ll cure anythin’, sire.”

  The bears closed in. Parry drew himself up, his jaw hard. “Enough—hold your nonsense, you swabs.” To the bears, who had seen him enjoy the torments of others, this was an invitation. Parry looked despairingly at Powlett, who seemed suddenly interested in the condition of the mizzen staysail downhaul.

  “Sir!” he called, but it ended in a yelp, as he was borne to the deck by weight of numbers, and to the cheers and delight of the court was helped to liberal doses of “saline.”

  The jollity increased. Buckets of water, strategically placed in the rigging and operated by a twine trip-line, ensured that those looking to escape by keeping clear of the scrimmage received attention as well.

  From his hiding place in the forepeak, Kydd thought the world had gone mad. Sitting cramped on smelly sea stores in the stifling heat, he heard the roars and unknown thuds and rushes overhead. At least he felt safe where he was, a place kindly suggested by Doud: the only entrance was through a small hatch. When a thump of feet sounded above he waited for them to pass but the hatch was thrown open and four bears with evil grins looked down on him. What Kydd hadn’t reckoned on was the jigger tackle they had brought, which made easy meat of hauling out their victim.

  He flailed wildly as they hoisted him out, but his struggles were ineffective. He was blindfolded and manhandled on deck to the riotous applause of the court seated in the chair of justice. The dread tones of Badger Bag sonorously announced his misdeeds. “Did fail to wind up the middle watch, in course o’ which his shipmates did double tides.”

  “Guilty! Guilty!” slurred the gleeful bears.

  “How dare he appear before me li’ that!” The punch was having its effect on Neptune also. His wife now had baby Amphitrite to comfort, which she did vigorously, then dangled the odd creature from her harpoon.

  Needing no prompting the barber’s crew went into action. The shock of the seawater thrown in his face made Kydd open his mouth in protest. This was all they needed, and Kydd found himself choking on a revolting paste.

  “Hold!” called Neptune, barely heard by the helpless Kydd. “Case dismiss’d on account ’e’s a iggerant pollywog,” he ordered.

  Relieved, Kydd tried to remove his blindfold, but was stopped. “No, cully, this way.”

  He was guided to a plank spanning the water tub and ordered to cross. After some perilous swaying Kydd found himself inevitably plunging in. A generous tankard of punch was thrust at him as he surfaced, and the merriment transferred to the next victim, leaving Kydd rueful but relieved. He drank dee
ply, and noticed Renzi, also soaked and disheveled. They roared with laughter together.

  The rampageous saturnalia cleared the air, and it was a happy ship that caught the next morning’s breeze, when they resumed their southward plunge through deep blue seas and cloudless skies.

  The frigate made magnificent sailing, the southeasterly trade winds strong and sure, an exhilarating sail, day after sunlit day, tight to the wind with bowlines on courses and topsails. With six months’ sea endurance and a good amount of water from rainstorms, Artemis had no need to touch at the Cape. The only indication they had of reaching the southern tip of Africa was when, within a few days of each other, the southeasterlies had diminished, the chill Benguela current had turned the sea from blue to green, and the globe-encircling westerlies had taken them in hand.

  They entered the great Southern Ocean, and for nearly a week they foamed along before the wind, marveling at the massive undulating swells and the albatross that followed in their wake, barely moving, staying aloft day after day. When at last they altered course northward, the Master’s face cracked into a smile, and he and Powlett were seen to shake hands. They were in time to catch the last of the summer monsoon to speed them on to their destination.

  As they passed deeper into the Indian Ocean it seemed an anti-climax. Sighting Madagascar, a faint blue-gray smudge far away to larboard, they crossed the Line to the north once more, but this time under a full press of sail.

  It couldn’t last, however: some days from their destination, after a particularly unpleasant tropical storm, they emerged into different airs. The heavy humidity and sultry heat had been replaced by a definite coolness, and the sky was a pearly cast of uniform dull lightness. The wind had changed from the urging southwesterly to a light, breathy breeze—in their teeth from the northeast.

  Artemis braced up sharp, but it would not answer. She had a foul wind for Calcutta and must tack against the wind in long boards alternately, their rate of advance now cut by more than half. It was becoming a soul-deadening tedium.

  As they worked closer to their goal they glimpsed tantalizing promises of their fabled destination. The floating remains of palm trees, a pair of vultures soaring out from the Deccan, the bloated body of a water buffalo; all were exotica to marvel over. Nearer still, ships were sighted daily: stately Indiamen, the first of the winter monsoon trading season, putting to sea with precious Darjeeling tea; humbler traders with jute—and warlike vessels crammed with opium on their way to the far Orient. There were also Arab dhows, their sweeping diagonal sail and rickety hull looking curious to an Atlantic seaman, and there were other, even stranger coastal craft.

  It was enthralling—Kydd was excited by the sights and couldn’t wait to see his first truly foreign shore.

  “Heard th’ Master say we should raise land in a coupla days,” Doud said idly. The cool damp even reached down into the berth deck, and where it was allowed to remain mold grew and made objects slimy and rank.

  “An’ not before time,” Kydd said. It felt a lifetime since they had left England, under sail the entire time, watch by watch, the days passing in regular progression; days, weeks, months at sea, until he knew every part of the ship with an intimacy he had never thought possible. “Be good t’ know how things are at home,” he mused.

  Cundall laughed sharply. “Don’ be stoopid—only way they gonna have word here is with the noospapers we took aboard in Spithead.”

  Kydd resented Cundall’s tone, but he was the only one of the mess who had been to India before, and Kydd had questions for him.

  Renzi stirred. “Fascinating—in the months we’ve been at sea, anything could have happened. The war might even now be over, King Louis avenged. And yet, like ripples on a pond, we are our own news …”

  “So yer’ve been this way before, Cundall?” Petit said. It was curious, Kydd thought, that nobody called him anything else.

  “Yair, bin here once or twice,” he replied smugly.

  “Yer like it?” Petit persisted. Cundall’s pot went forward meaningfully. Petit filled it and listened.

  “Aye, it’s a rare enough place ter step ashore—more o’ them Injuns yer’ll ever dream ter see, thousands of ’em, an’ all dirt poor ’n’ poxy. Yer falls over ’em in the street, yer hears ’em yak away in this ’eathen talk—place is jus’ swarming with ’em.”

  Kydd took it in, but his mind was on the wonders of Calicut. “Thought it had these golden temples, an’ elephants, ’n’ heathen idols, an’ things,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, they has them as well, o’ course, but this I tell yer now, here the cuntkins are yours fer a coupla annas fer a short time—an’ they knows all about it, mates, nuthin’ they don’t know.” He winked. “An’ best o’ it is they’re all young—bantlings all, no more’n ten, twelve years, tight as yer’ll get, an’ all tricked out in this fancy long red ’n’ gold.” He licked his lips unconsciously, causing a wave of revulsion in Kydd.

  Cundall mistook the look and continued, “Don’t worry—they knows all th’ tricks, jus’ like th’ old ’uns.”

  The talk petered out, most of the men simply wanting to get ashore and see for themselves. Vaguely unsatisfied, Kydd got up and left. He reached the upper deck just as dusk settled in. Some where over the horizon was India, and very soon he would be the only one of his family to know an exotic shore.

  CHAPTER 6

  Two mornings later the foredeck was crowded with men when they raised land. Kydd watched as it took form over the horizon. This land rimming the northern reaches was low lying, in fact so low that not a single mountain or even hill disturbed its monotonous green flatness. As they drew nearer, Kydd’s eyes searched in vain for some evidence of the fabled East, but all that was in prospect was the vast estuary of the khaki-colored river up which they were headed and the green of endless vegetation.

  The great river was several miles across, but as its banks approached on either side Kydd had a closer view. Its promise still failed to materialize: the river was swarming with small craft, strange but decrepit, and the lush green just went on and on.

  At a wide bend in the river the order to moor ship was passed, and when they made it around they saw lines of vessels at anchor along the outer bank. This was as far as oceangoing vessels could venture.

  Artemis glided to a stop and the anchor splashed into the turbid water. Almost immediately she drifted downstream in the tumbling, muddy current, and when she came to her anchor the frigate snubbed to the cable sharply and swung to face unwaveringly upstream. After nearly two months of sea, and more than ten thousand sea miles, Artemis was finally at rest.

  Kydd joined the others aloft, furling the sails. To his exasperation, there was no sign whatsoever of anything that could remotely be termed fabulous. From this height he could see the tops of palm trees stretching unendingly away, the odd clearing here and there, while nearby the dun-colored tops of huts peeped above the sea of green. He could make out no elephants or palaces, still less any exotic girls.

  On deck a damp heat had descended on the stationary vessel, now so quiet that the restless whispering of the river’s passage past and the harsh crying of a bird was all that intruded. As if by magic river trading craft, garish colors on their canopies and peeling sides, appeared from nowhere making for the new-moored ship. The boarding nettings were quickly rigged and hung below the line of gunports, opened to the sullen airs. The craft lay off, waiting it out.

  Wiping his forehead, Kydd watched Renzi staring out. “Is this your East, Nicholas?” he asked ruefully.

  Renzi grinned. “Apparently the city lies more than a hundred miles beyond, up the Hooghly to its confluence with another river—that trip would set your Gosport boatman at a stand, I believe.” Scratching at his itching body, Renzi felt similarly cheated. Privately he was excited; he would see the native peacock, the golden domes of the Hindoo, and the naked holy man, but here?

  Kydd’s mind ran on more practical lines. “So we are to warp upstream a hundred miles? I
think not.”

  “Then what are we here for?” Renzi said, perplexed. “We have arrived and not arrived. This is vexatious in the extreme.”

  On the quarterdeck the Captain and a midshipman stood next to a small amount of baggage. A sudden flurry from the waiting craft followed the boatswain’s signal, and one was permitted to come alongside to pick up the officers.

  “Now there’s a thing,” Renzi said, looking intensely at the boat shoving off, its odd sail rising up the mast in rapid jerks.

  A sudden pealing of boatswain’s calls broke out. “All haaaands! All the hands! Hands to store ship!”

  * * *

  Hatches to open right down to the hold, yardarm stay tackles, parbuckles—all the preparations for storing ship. What was going on? Why the hurry? Kydd could see no point in it. Ships usually took the opportunity after a long voyage to refit and repair and, of course, sailors relaxed ashore, yet here they were preparing to lay in stores as though their lives depended on it. What did the Captain’s rapid departure mean? Parry’s scowling face on the quarter-deck gave no sign and by the time the first store-ships arrived, Kydd was none the wiser.

  These were flat barges fitted with long sweeps, creeping around the bend like water beetles. Kydd watched as they approached, not at all looking forward to laboring work in the clammy closeness. The barges secured alongside, several abreast, and gangplanks were placed over them to the ship’s side.

  “Hey, you—Kydd!” It was Gant, the tall boatswain’s mate. “Didn’t ya hear? Stand fast, topmen!” He grinned. “You swabs are gonna fettle the barky ready for sea agen.”

  Relieved, Kydd joined Renzi at the splicing, pointing and rereeving of lines, which were jobs requiring real seamanship skills, and left the rest of Artemis’s crew to the storing. It seemed that rumor had substance: they would put to sea before long. But it stood to reason that they would be given time ashore first.

  Long lines of gray-brown lascar stevedores patiently padded over the gangplanks bringing their heavy loads aboard. Kydd looked at them curiously—lean, impossibly stringy, there was not the slightest bit of fat on them. Their eyes showed no interest, no recognizable humanity he could relate to; the men simply plodded on in regular, economic movements.